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.

Bowen Bucks. 1/18/2020

I hunted this little block of citrus wood and sugar sand last weekend. It seems like deer are starting to rut in this part of Florida. On my walk in, a barley visible white rump pranced in front of me, stopping momentarily as I scrambled to get a better view from my scope. I could see the crease of the shoulder clearly but could not make out any horns, obscured by a gloomy skyline. I didn't shoot. It probably wasn’t legal shooting light. Maybe not even a legal buck.

To head him off, I scurried around a small cypress head full of Virginia creeper and decades of trash. Trying to prolong the encounter in an effort to gain more light. He never showed. The rest of the morning i sit. High hopes trailing off like a twilight buck. My heart jumps momentarily as cows saunter over useless barbed wire and through the grove. Sandhill cranes catch my eye, A body that resembles a gray deer and the mannerisms of a turkey cross-wire the predatory brain. I kick myself for being a law abiding citizen a few hours earlier. It was probably a buck. I saw his neck. I have seen very few does on camera.

I killed a nice buck out here last season. To show the grower my appreciation I gave him some venison. He asked to see a picture, of course I obliged. He is not much of a hunter, but apparently his son-in-law is. Now this 35 acre block is adorned with a network of trail cameras, a ladder stand, a feeder, a few mineral licks and some kind of scrape dripper machine. Not to mention some guy in a yellow shirt who keeps deleting my trail camera pictures.

I put in some time last season. Many hours driving and sitting. I killed that buck without any bass-pro attractants. Just time and luck. I took my camera down and wiped it clean of grubby fingers. Ah, the politics of private land hunting. Last year I learned the deer where almost completely nocturnal. A few cold snaps prompted them to start rutting, occasionally passing through the grove around first light late in the season. I think I will stick to my plan and let the deer drain his feeder every night. Judging by the tracks they don't seem to interested in it anyway.

So far this season i have a lot of windshield and scouting time into deer season. A few public land hunts and several grove hunts have resulted in no dead deer. Every season, I scramble to get any legal deer into the freezer. As beautiful and adrenaline inducing as they may be, I don't care about killing a giant buck too much. I am sure that the lust will grow with time, but right now I just need a legal buck that's made of venison.

I sit under this old navel tree just as I did last year, In protest of the stand and feeder on the other edge of the block. The world is blue in moonlight and the first sliver of sun. Thermacell mist gives a foggy picture of my scent trail.

Before I can settle in a buck breaches the cedars and steps into view. He stares at my profile through a dead citrus tree. I see horns, but we both need a better look. Rifle is steadied by calm breath and pepper tree limb. He hesitates, but takes another step to get a better look at this lump of camouflage.

A shot echoes down citrus rows and floods all corners of surrounding pasture. Behind the muzzle flash i see a quick kick and the buck run off. I hear a chord of barbwire, followed shortly by a snap of tree limbs and the rustle of dead leaves. I pray the latter was him crashing.

I mark the small helping of pink mashed potatoes with my rifle rest shoved into sand. I have been waiting for this all season, but there is no joy or celebration. Mind and body alternate between excitement and anxiousness, the inevitable inner dialog begins.

Don't get excited until you find him.

He’s dead you heard the crash.

What if blood dries up and you never find him?

You shot him at 40 yards he couldn't have gone far.

What if your scope was off?

Schizophrenia carries on for 45 minutes exactly. I follow the blood trail up to the fence- almost. I circumnavigate the trail camera security system and slip through loose barbed wire. After a few minutes of walking around like a shore bird I pick the trail back up. I lay my hat down to mark the few drops of blood. Hands on knees I systematically search every blade and leaf for red. conscious of every step as not to contaminate evidence. Given the choice I would have a deer drop in his tracks every time for obvious reasons. But God damn it, trailing blood is exhilarating. Stakes are high. A freezer of venison - or the worst feeling in the world. I am not finding a lot of blood, but each spec brings me closer. Schizophrenia continues.

What if it drys up?

At least know he was right here.

By each drop I lay my hat. Search for the next drop, and repeat. I find a bigger splotch of blood. Another, and another. Each smear brings me closer to a small stand of 12 oaks jutting from open pasture. I stare down at red goop about 15 yards from it. I remember the crunch of leaves and what I presumed to be his final crash. My eyes leave red to scan the modest hammock- there he is. My heart wells with relief and excitement, thwarted by urgency to get back across the fence.

A small six point with a large body. The entry wound is right about where I thought it would be. A damn tough buck. He ran about 65 yards after a double lung shot. Swathes peeled from his coat by the barbed wire. Antler in hand, I drag dead weight to where I can get the truck. On the walk back to the front gate I smile and notice the unruly cows have torn down the feeder.

For some reason I put enormous pressure on myself to scrounge up at least one deer for the freezer each season. Between public land pressure and private land politics it is never a sure thing. The long drive home is full of mixed emotions and Led Zeppelin I. Accomplishment. Relief. Excitement. Dazed and Confused. I am high. I killed a deer. I can finally get on with my life. Hell, maybe I'll even go to the next baby shower without bitching.

Well, maybe i look for one with bigger horns.

Close Encounters. 12/06/2019

The last three trips out here, I have yet to lay eyes on a deer. All three morning hunts, the latest of which resulted in two downed hogs. partially for meat and partially to further gain good graces from the land owner. I am offered a spark of hope by the irrigation manager, who claims to have seen a buck after shutting off a pump one afternoon last week.

There are no trees on this property, other than citrus. Which are not well suited for a tree stand. Most folks who hunt citrus groves do so from a truck. As I did for many years. I plan to hunt the afternoon this time. I set up on the far end of the grove along the barbed wire border. I get there early to walk the fence line and examine each wallowed out crossing. Looking for the freshest and most used trail. There is a dozen or more down the hole stretch, coupling ranch and grove for game. Between the lack of rain and the over abundance of hogs it is hard make sense of anything. Too far for a rifle shot from end to end.

After overly excessive deliberation, I settle in on the grassy dike. I figure the most likely crossings are in range from my nest. The furthest crossing is quite a poke for anything less than a perfect shot. The closest, is a little close for comfort. About 20 yards in front of me. a definitive edge of pine and palmetto scrub runs right into the fence, continued by a raw dirt path, under the fence and across the dike. I nuzzle my left side to the over grown fence line. Slumped over a rifle wedged into my Brazilian pepper tree limb. To my right I can see clear down a tree row. Directly behind me, I have a view of the opposite border of the grove. Although I don't anticipate much traffic behind me.

Once my over-analyzing is done I can settle in and breathe in the scene. The rut is on the down trend. Its hot. Even as a native Floridian today does not scream deer hunting. I have never claimed to be a great deer hunter. I consider myself to still be learning. I find it hard to hunt deer in groves. There's not much to rub on, and an infinite amount of potential licking branch for scrapes. My past few seasons hunting has more or less come down to intercepting deer in parcels I have permission to hunt. Examine crossings, estimate the time of day they are around, and wait. At times it seems impossible that I will happen to be there when a deer passes through. And even less likely that it will be a buck.

90 minutes left of legal shooting light.

A handful of cows and a barred owl announce their presence. Beauty berry shadows grow, furthering my concealment. A loud shriek gives away the position of a large pack of hogs. trampling through the citrus. I try to keep my eyes looking down the dike, but its hard not to watch these morbidly unmajestic creatures. They eventually cross onto the ranch. I make note of the time, just in case the fear of no venison this year manifests into reality.

45 minutes left of legal shooting light.

I have a bad habit of living for the next trip, or the next shot. Even if I bump a deer, my mind will immediately start decoding changes, planning for the next endeavor. With the added fuel of knowing how close I came to success. Maybe this is a blessing, always having something to look forward to. Sometimes I feel it stifles me from living in the moment and giving everything I have to the day at hand. The only fear worse than having a deer blow and run off would be to unknowingly bump a deer. Learning nothing from an unknown mistake.

30 minutes left of legal shooting light.

Crunching saw palmettos rattle my cochlea and rip me from the redundant inner dialog about an amateur’s virtues of deer hunting. It’s close. It’s probably the hogs from earlier I remind myself. Trying to sooth my racing heart. With a still head I stare through the overgrown barbed wire, eyes darting from blowing spiderweb to wriggling grass seed, in search of any movement. Begging fate for it to be a buck. The setting sun breathes cool on my sweaty palms. After a few minutes, intensity subsides, and the palmetto crunching trails off.

10 minutes left of legal shooting light.

The shifting of weight from knee to hip to ankle becomes more frequent. Back muscles burn. Thoughts wander consistently to standing straight up and stretching arms behind my head. I force myself to sit for the last 10 minutes. As I always do. Hope is lost. The mosquitoes are not, Keenly aware of my knuckles and any other protruding skin.

In between wining of insects I detect a gentle sweeping of the broomsedge. I slowly turn my head until the white necks and snouts of two young bucks jump out at me. A tall six point is followed by a spike, about 35 yards away. Marching fearlessly through the ranch grass and toward the grove. Right at the fence line I sit. Right at me, more specifically.

My shaking hands manage to dial my scope down to 3x, and shoulder my limb propped rifle into shooting position. If he jumps the fence, I will be ready. I have no choice but to remain completely still. He reaches the fence with the spike in tow a few yards behind.

He stops and stares through my soul at eight yards. bobbing his head back and forth, with alternating feet. Man and beast’s eyes are wide with fear. He tilts back his modest rack to lift his nose. I know it’s over. A quick blow and both ungulates prance out 40 yards to watch me. An easy shot, if they weren't on the neighbor’s property. My heart rate returns to normal as I begin mentally cussing my choice of location.

But hey, there's always next time.