Out of the Woods

By Mike Osterhout

A hundred days

My sister’s kid Wade and my old man (his grandpa) are tooling around suburban CT in Gramp’s old Jeep, on some mission to the store, when Wade removes his headphones and suddenly becomes animated. “100 days until turkey season,” Wade excitedly reports like he’s just spotted Jesus riding a white horse on the front lawn of one of the large houses that sprawl across the former farmscape. “You know the number of days?” Gramp asks, surprised at the kid’s level of enthusiasm. “I can’t wait!” Wade gazes out the window, a look verging on the euphoric passes across the nine year old’s face. There’s still a foot of snow on the ground and if Jesus were riding that horse he’d be mighty cold, yet there is a sense that the days are lengthening. “100 days,” Gramp mimics “I can’t wait either.”

Since I don’t have kids and none of my brothers’ kids have any interest in hunting, Wade is the first to join his uncles and grandfather hunting. Last year was his first year turkey hunting. It was like reliving my hunts with my old man. “Wade, pick up your barrel. Wade, don’t walk so close to your uncle. Wade, watch your step. Wade, if I have to tell you again not to walk so close to your uncle. Get your gun outta the dirt. Sit up straight. Break your bread.” Gramp was on a roll. Wade, seeming to pay little attention to his grandfather’s hen pecking, nonetheless followed his instructions, and was all ears when a tom finally opened up. Even Gramp shut up.

There’s an old pump house in the woods where I always stop and listen for a gobble before proceeding down the path. Birds tend to roost on both sides of the path and if you are too bold entering the area, even in the dark, you run the risk of spooking a tom off the roost. Gramp, Wade and I waited for a second gobble hoping to pinpoint the bird. “Can I call?” Wade asked. Hearing Wade’s overly enthusiastic calls back at the house on his box call, Gramp whispered for him to stay quiet. The kid’s heart was definitely in it, albeit a little loud. I leaned close to Wade and told him to wait. On the third gobble we moved.

I’ve learned over the years that calling too early to a roosted gobbler is a big mistake. If the terrain provides for a decent approach I always try to get as close to a roosted bird as I dare. If you call too eagerly and from too great a distance, chances are another hen or hunter will intercept your bird even if you have him all fired up and heading for your calls. You have to play a chess game of approach and retreat. We were half way to the spot I wanted to set up when another bird opened up, this time much closer. Then the woods exploded with sound. I motioned Wade and my old man to stop. The birds were just over a rise and from the sound had already hit the ground. Quietly we moved back. I positioned Dad and his student in front of a large oak and drew back to call.

As the sun rose behind them, three toms in full strut came into view on the crest of the rise. Silhouetted against the dawn the gobblers gave us quite a show, floating like giant feathered beach balls, turning effortlessly, searching for a hen, relaxing strut to gobble, dragging their wing tips in the leaves, and remaining just out of range of Wade’s 20 gauge. I called enough to keep their interest, hoping that they would cross the stone wall before a real hen showed up. We were pinned down, no chance to move without the toms seeing us. The stone wall also formed the property line of the neighboring farm. Our only chance was to lure the birds across that wall.

Twenty minutes into this stand-off, Wade’s barrel was drooping south. The most hardcore ridgerunner has a hard time staying still on a hung-up bird. Wade was starting to show the strain and the birds were showing no sign of cooperating. In fact they were drifting down the ridge. I turned up the volume and hoped for the best. I wanted to show off for the kid. After all, I was supposed to be the guide. Nobody told the turkeys.

We sat still for maybe 15 minutes without hearing a gobble, after the birds disappeared down the ridge. I “ps-s-st”-ed to Gramp and the boy and as Wade relaxed and Dad pulled himself to his feet on a maple sapling—a shot rang out—close—just down the ridge. Another hunter was in a much better position than we were. This hunter was where these turkeys wanted to go on this particular morning. No amount of sweet talk or rubber decoy was going to dissuade those birds from hugging that ridge line. Either way they faced shotguns. From the turkey’s point of view it wasn’t much of a choice.

From our point of view we had the rest of the morning to find those toms. The sun came up hot and scary. By 11:00 a.m. it must have been 90 degrees. By 11:30 we’d had it. We never heard or saw another turkey the rest of the morning. Wade was beat. Gramp was beat. I was beaten. I would’ve loved to call a big old gobbler in front of Wade’s 20 gauge while his grandfather beamed with pride and joy, but it wasn’t meant to be, Wade took his share of abuse from me and his grandfather and came up smiling.

If the boy keeps hunting he’ll be one of the best, for now he’s good company and when he’s around I hardly get yelled at for dragging my barrel in the dirt.