Thanks Dad!

I usually write my blog first thing Monday morning. It's a great way to start the week. However, this week I'm writing ahead of time. Hopefully I finish before Monday, because on Monday morning I hope to be hunting turkeys.

I blame my dad for making me passionate about spring turkey hunting. Although he never shot a wild turkey or even hunted them, as far as I know, he gave me the tools that set me on a course for a lifetime of lost sleep, neglected chores, and a garden that gets planted late each year.  But even then, I hold no ill will towards my father.

Back when I was a kid, dad had  bought some rundown houses in Harrisburg, PA that he fixed up and rented out. Harrisburg is also the home of the world's greatest outdoor show, and so every year dad would end up at the outdoor show. Sometimes he'd take us along and we'd work on a house for a day or two and then spend a day at the show. There was nothing better. One year when I wasn't along, Dad bumped into some guy that was all into turkey hunting and selling turkey hunting stuff. Well if this guy was as good  at getting turkeys to gobble as he was at getting hunters to buy things, he must have been a pretty good turkey caller. Dad brought home a mouth diaphragm call, an instructional turkey calling tape and a book called Hunting The American Wild Turkey.

It didn't take long for me to figure out how to use the diaphragm. I never mastered it but I learned how to make a couple of clucks, purrs and squalls. And the first day of spring gobbler season I was off to the woods. I slipped into some big hemlocks above Slaubaugh Run. As the sky started to brighten, I squeaked out a couple of soft tree clucks. Now even to this day I consider myself to be a poor turkey caller. But one thing that I learned that morning was that it doesn't matter. I'm convinced that most turkey hunters can talk the talk better than most turkeys, and if the cadence is right, that's what matters. Gobblers don't care about how she sounds, they just want a girlfriend.

Well, across the crick and up on the other ridge, a turkey gobbled. My heart went pitter patter. Every time that I called he would gobble or double gobble. He would move along the ridge gobbling his head off. But he wouldn't come in my direction. After about an hour and a half of tense calling, the gobbler moved away from me. His gobbling grew fainter and eventually couldn't be heard. Later I learned that you can never call a turkey down a hill or across a creek. So that explained it. I was disappointed that I didn't get him but ecstatic from the experience. And ever since that day, when spring starts to make its appearance, I find myself getting this urge, this passion to get out there after them turkeys. I've also learned that you should never say never about what a gobbler will do, and what the majority thinks about turkey calling isn't always true. So I've been chasing after these birds for better than 35 years. I've gotten some and been bested by a lot more.

 And it's been even more exciting sharing it with the kids. This past weekend was the annual two days of youth turkey season. We called in a nice bird for Aiyana on Saturday morning. Then with Caleb the wind picked up and we called one in but didn't see it until it spooked and flew. We also got into a fun cutting match with a hen that got really close to us.

Sunday morning I took Blake. It was windy again and things didn't look good. The plan was that we would  go to church later so we would just hunt for a couple hours. The first spot we went to  was unproductive. We heard a whippoorwill and watched the sun rise, but no gobble. We went to another  spot. I called and heard a distant gobble. We messed with him a bit and he came in behind us. We couldn't see him because of the thick laurel and he either spotted us or just left or just got quiet. In the meantime two other gobblers started gobbling straight across a ravine from us. I remembered my first turkey encounter. "Blake, we probably can't call them down the bank and across the creek. We don't have enough time to go around and get up on the same ridge. Let's give it a try from here". I threw out a couple of yelps with my box-call and a couple of yelps with my wing-bone. We waited and left them gobble. I didn't think it would happen, but eventually they gobbled a little closer. I gave them a few notes on the wing-bone. They gobbled, double gobbled, and triple gobbled. After that it didn't take them too long. Blake and I were sitting by the same tree. His shoulder was touching my back. This wasn't his first turkey, but he was shaking like a leaf. And before long they were at 25 yds. Blake's .410 barked and the  bird went down. And judging by the look on his face, I'd say another young hunter is forever hooked.

Thanks Dad!