Gobblapocalypse. 3/14/2020

Haustellate mouthparts pierce creamy white thighs as I relieve anxiousness in the dark. The time changed last weekend. I got here way too early, leaving me plenty of time to anticipate the ensuing hunt. Last weekend there were at least four gobblers in this cypress head. I called two of them within range but they vanished silently. My thermacell hisses an orange glow. I sit quietly with slate, diaphragm, and firearm laid out neatly in the grass. My brim is low, gloves are on, mask is up and hood is tight. I Motionlessly repel mosquitoes with all I have. Darkness gives way to silver light. Fog forms in the field I have front row seats to, dew materializes on foliage.

A gobble or two fires off from the cypress head. Not as many this week, and certainly less enthusiastic. A few minutes before fly down, I figure I will give a few light clucks, to let them know where I am. The slate is my confidence call. I have only recently taught myself the ways of the diaphragm. I bring striker to stone and exude a noise that sounds more like a question than a call. Panic sets in as I realize the exposed slate was not spared by the newly formed dew. I wipe it free of beaded moisture, searching for my lost piece of scotch-brite. I rub my striker on shirt sleeves. In desperation, I attempt to dry the slate on the busy thermacell. Nothing works.

The birds have flown down and are gobbling purely out of obligation. I am set up right in their kitchen- Or, maybe just outside their kitchen window. They start to trail off, mating calls become dispersed and distant. I forgo the moist slate and resort to the newly learned diaphragm. I am certain, that in turkey speak, my calling sounds like a deaf turkey at a funeral. I don't think I am saying anything inappropriate, but I felt my volume was misjudged. I convince myself to wait a while, calling periodically before chasing them.

After an hour or so, fidgets and self doubt can no longer be subdued. I stow everything in my vest and rise slowly, my head is stationary as pupils bounce wildly across the landscape. I am less than three careful steps to my west when black figures materialize from behind parthenium. I look through magnified glass at two strutters. About 120 yards. They haven't made a peep since 15 minutes after fly down.

I nuzzle back into my tree row and open the case to the diaphragm call once again. The call shuffles around in saliva as I think back to all of my practice in the truck. I focus and try and make the call match realism in both sound and volume. It actually sounds pretty good to me, but no answer. I scan the direction of the bird through my binos until it is time to call again, still nothing. I continue to scan and doubt my turkey hunting prowess, until I see a flame-red ballsack bobbing toward me. Casually stopping every so often to feed and lackadaisically half strut. I slide binos down and ready my gun, shouldered with barrel on boot toe.

He continues this pattern into 80 yards, to 60, to 40. He starts to graze a little more than strut as he feeds his way into the tree row, putting him well within range but completely out of view. I nervously shift weight and ass cheeks to ready myself for him to breach the right side. Minutes of labored breathing go by. He gently feeds back into view, out of the tree row but back to the left hand side, at 20 yards. He is oblivious to my presence- But weary. No more strutting.

Every time he drops his head to feed, I slowly and deliberately readjust my weight and shotgun like a stick-bug in the wind. 15 yards now. His feeding becomes less frequent. He starts to “fake feed” like a deer. He Scans, picks a few morsels, then snatches his head up to catch any predatory movement.

His instincts are correct. I can hear him pecking gravel and bugs, I hear alien toes baring his weight over dry grass. I raise my barrel, and draw a bead on his phantom head at 12 yards. He raises up to check for predators one last time.

The Brother's Gobb. 3/22/2020

I have my younger brother’s company on the dark walk that proceeds the long drive. I hunt alone most of the time. Our work schedules are vastly different, leaving only a few sporadic mornings to get into turkey woods. Seven seasons ago, I called in his first ever bird, along with my third. We watched the quarter mile long display of bravado from our modest hut of twigs and palmetto, hearts pounding and eyes wide. The two companions took their sweet time, showing off feather and color to the lone hen decoy. My brother dropped the boss at 15 yards and I promptly took out his deceitful crony. After dust and feathers settled the annual addiction took hold of me for good.

Here we sit, once again sharing a thermacell and a little misery. I have a few more beards on the wall, but my brother has not killed a bird since. I haven't been to this patch of ground since deer season, and I’m not sure where they are roosting, but I know where they should be. I am over-excited to have company this weekend, but mostly to spend some rare time in the woods with my brother. As the horizon’s glow intensifies mosquitoes dissipate. I check my watch anxiously and wait for the relief of the first gobble.

It finally comes, a little further away than anticipated. I call from the edge our sun-drenched meadow, as bees zip through sun rays and across bloom-rich air, epitomizing spring. But no more gobbles. We commence the protocol of creep, call, creep, until my binoculars are scanning the spongy green floodplain they flew down into. Nothing- we haven't heard anything for close to an hour.

We cross the floodplain cautiously, uneasy and exposed. I can tell my brother thinks the hunt is over. I forgo the calling in order to expedite the creeping. An old mowed road separates oak hammock from citrus, where I suspect they were roosted. Each few steps are punctuated with binoculars in all directions. I glimpse a black lump further down the road, we both dive into shoulder brush before I can be sure its a turkey.

I call a few times with slate, then with diaphragm. Nothing. Doubt creeps into both of our heads as the minutes pass. Eyes long to see a hot white head bobbing down the road, pausing only to display impossibly colored black feathers. I creep out of the brush, inch by inch, until I can see down the road, there is still a turkey there, but I can’t look long enough to determine the sex. I settle back in behind my brother, scuff up the slate and place the diaphragm on my tongue. The two calls yelp Simultaneously. A newfound trick I decided to save for just such an occasion.

All at once we both know the sex of the bird as a gobble races down the road and dissipates into oaks. My binoculars pop up like a nervous periscope behind my brother, until I can see the white head, reality mirroring minds eye.

“Do you see him?” I squeak.

With a nod of confirmation I settle in to enjoy the show. He walks in confidently from 120 yards, stopping every 10 steps for the obligatory half strut. He limps into 60 yards, then stops at 50 yards. He has a swath of flesh and feathers dangling from his breast, dragging the ground. Somethings not right. He either expected to have seen a few hens by now, or he busted us. Despite the sun in his eyes and a hairy backdrop. He peels off deliberately.

“Shoot him.” I whisper from my brothers shoulder like a small red devil.

My brother read my mind as well as the bird’s, he raises the barrel and rolls him at 55 yards. A rather risky distance, we both rush in to secure the bird.

We indulge in the cocktail of adrenaline, disbelief and admiration. Telling each other the story back as if the other wasn't there. Upon further investigation we find that he has a baseball-sized hole of exposed tissue on his breast, surely from fighting. The meat resembles tree bark, scabby and olive drab. The flesh and feathers still drag the ground that once covered the battle wound. Maybe he saw us, or maybe this old warrior just new when something wasn't right.

Luckily the majority of the meat was salvageable. My brother and I filled the long drive home with giddy recollections and anecdotes. I'm proud of myself for calling a stubborn bird in, and for not giving up too early. I'm proud of my brother for falling right back into the woods after a hiatus, making a damn good shot and quick work of converting animal into meat. I bask in a high that feels exactly the same as if I would have killed a bird.

Opening Day. 3/7/2020

I drive in a little too far without headlights. I park the truck a little further out than needed. I got here a little earlier than necessary. Peace of mind comes with not being in a rush for once, I begin the meditation of a silent walk in among darkness. Headlamps are shunned and eyes adjust.

At the close of deer season, each year I am excited for spring turkey. The pressure of trying to get a deer for the freezer leaves me selfish and stingy with hunting opportunities and meat. Turkey hunting is refreshing when compared to silent and wary deer. A horny gobbler can become so brazen he is borderline intimidating. Spitting and staring. They know something is not right with this wad of camouflage, but after a few weary seconds, air sacs re-inflate and snoods drip upon masculine breast. They disregard fear to fight and fuck like adolescent men. Their spring bravado leads a hunter from thick cover and hairy swamps to lonely dirt roads and groomed meadows.

I have been comfortable in the dark silence for 20 minutes now, reclining under my valencia tree. I figure these turkeys to inhabit a cypress head that creates a seam along a wandering irrigation canal between grapefruit and orange. I have a fifty-fifty chance of guessing exact fly-down locations. The sun begins to scrub away the last cold morning of Florida spring. Orange light and three simultaneous gobbles race across crisp air, From the cypress head as predicted. Answered from behind me by a mouthy lone gobbler. The chorus and refrain continues for several minutes from perches, then furthered from a well mowed stage and a cypress back drop.

I talk with slate meekly. Before I know it two gobblers are screaming at me, from just behind a ditch with a 10ft girth and a 3ft berm. I shoulder my gun and try to imagine where red heads might crest over. After a few minutes the gobbler’s intensity slows to a stop as they wander off.

Over an hour has passed, avian dialog has seized. Internal dialog has been bargained with, suppressed, and bet against. I eventually decide to slowly stalk the direction they trailed off. With each passing tree row creeps in a slow rhythm. As I crest each row, I observe the length of it for signs of life. I make grand plans for the mile-long skirt around the outer canals, to head off the rafter. If I can get between them and the state land quietly, I might have a chance. I crest another end tree carefully, only to notice a mass of erect feathers, shimmering, variegated and taut.

I duck with my back to orange foliage like I am reloading in a fire fight. The silent strutter is 60 yards down the row. Pupils crest the outermost leaves of the tree and he becomes focused in view, the heating sun burns pinholes through his thick fan. A display of white veins and marabou shield his head. I hunch up against the end tree and frantically fumble for striker and slate. If I see him from here, he will be close. Dry wood scrapes rock gently for a modest yelp. I set my pen on the ground and grab my ready sword. I know he wont gobble. He is either coming in or not. I just have to be ready. I have know idea how much time passes, surely hours.

I eventually convince myself to move, under the condition that I first yelp again. For the distant chance of a shock gobble, or a new gobble. Nothing. In stealth, I tuck slate and striker away. Before I can stand up, I hear it-- Drumming. No noise is more synonymous with good things to come. A wild turkey’s drumming is fetishized by a small and dedicated fraternity.

I flick off the safety and eyes dart to every blue hole in the thick limb, searching for movement. Finally they lock on to a white head as it crests the edge of foliage and immediately fades to pink. Bravado gives way to nerves. An engorged head raises up with concern 12 yards away, in unison with a 12 gauge barrel. His snood loses flaccidity and I have more time than I envisioned. His neck goes limp before his first step in the opposite direction, thanks to a healthy does of number five lead. He drops rather motionlessly. I secure his head with my heel. The dinosaur commences obligated death rattles. Prehistoric talons unknowingly rip at rubber boots. Once subsided, spurs are secured and hoisted out.

A ritual of appreciation and admiring commences before memories and meat are claimed.

Two birds per season is not enough.

Sportsmen's Dilemma. 4/19/2019

Maybe I wont need my thermacell this morning- never mind, I do. Last time I was here I never heard a gobble, even with hens crawling all over. Its windy today, one of the last cold fronts of the season will push through this afternoon. And I have to work. Drive. I am lucky to hunt this little block, politeness and good manners won over the old curmudgeon. I waited until a few minutes after sunrise to start calling. After a while hope starts to fade. Until my ears instinctively perk up, only to be unsure of what I heard. A few moments later there is no doubt. A gobble. Mosquitoes seem to vanish. My mind jumps back and forth between excitement and uncertainty.

Hes coming in.

Is he further away now?

Maybe he is facing the other direction.

Uncertainty gradually dissipates until two gobblers are hammering just outside the barbed wire property line, still out of view. My heart pounds in my throat. My eyes dance along cedars frantically looking for movement just as they evolved for. I remember to calm myself and prop the gun barrel on my boot toe in anticipation. I know they will come in.

A horny blue-white head slips under barbed wire and through cedars. Then another. Here they come. I gently ease off the safety. The stock already shouldered, steadied by the support of this half dead navel tree. Another red head slips under the fence, then another. Another. Another. Fowl body language and moods change as the flock starts feeding, hard. Uncertainty creeps back in, inversely proportional to gobbling and strutting. The curmudgeon did mention that his son in law wanted to put a feeder out here...

God dammit.

I know I could probably pick one of the gobblers off at about 45 yards with a good rest. But those shots always seem to go bad. And its illegal. It doesn't feel right. The carpet of bobbing heads get their fill of cracked corn and sweep back towards the property line. They slip back through the cedars, one by one.

I barter with myself, If I can call the boss back in I will take him. Not a peep. I rise from my fruit wood recliner and scan surroundings. Morning light now illuminates the three black legs. Perfect angles separate them from natural surroundings. Another few steps and the bass pro shops logo comes into view. Sitting across from a sad burlap hideout, tattered in the wind.

God dammit.

I convince myself that I did the right thing as trudge through sand back to the truck, to begin my 9 hour work day on the road. My self made creed: Mammals are for meat and birds are for fun. Gobblers under feeders are not fun. My mind goes to certain friends and acquaintances who will tell me I should have shot them both. But I stand on my laurels. I want them strutting, spitting, and at 10 yards.

And that's ok.