16ga.com ~ View topic - 2014 Spring Turkey: All Topics and Questions Considered

Member Joined: 25 Jun 2008 Posts: 1863 Location: Wisconsin

I was thinking about my suggestion to Mr. Gil, and I realized that it was contrary to my preferred low-key approach to hunting gobblers. If I have the time, I normally like to ease my way into killing a bird. I'll take opportunity when it strikes, but I never count on it. That's a proper attitude for hunting a private stretch of land on which you don't expect competition, or at least if you share it with others you can trust them to tell you the truth about their exploits to help the next hunter connect. I think that is Gil's situation, and I think he's long enough in the tooth to see and use a low impact approach to killing a bird and already appreciates the difference.

Low impact means unobtrusive; it means not getting made out as human in the very spot that a turkey expects to see you, where you've been calling from at the base of some big tree. It means not getting busted, not wounding a bird with a chancy shot that could have been put off to another day, perhaps even in another place. Low impact is designed to lend the least hand in educating a bird to the point that he is too wise to kill. The best benefit of low impact hunting is that you'll have oodles of close contact with turkeys and will learn a lot about them. The second best thing about low impact hunting is that it will usually, but not always, give you a better shot at killing the boss gobbler, that beast of a whipping boy that the other gobblers give way in terms of prime strutting grounds and hens serviced.

The suggestion I made to Mr. Gil was pretty aggressive, the opposite end of the spectrum from low impact turkey hunting. That is a hard pill to swallow when you realize you have to do something as drastic as busting a flock in order to get a chance at that gobbler, but as long as those engines are running, hearing will be tough, and there’s enough to go wrong already without being able to hear like you want to. An alternative is to wait until a day the crews don’t work. I’ve been known to find the crew boss and ask so I could make my plans.

I’ve said in earlier discussion that I mostly hunt public land, and have been doing so for the last ten or so years. I hunt hard and aggressive on public land because I can never convince myself that if I don’t kill that gobbler that someone else will try, succeed, or educate him to the point that it takes me a week to kill him. When I hunt the public lands off the Savannah River, I see a great deal of hunters both local and from many states away because the hunting is great and access can be had by land and water; if they aren’t gobbling at sunrise, catch a mess of crappie until one opens up.

I was running and gunning before the phrase was coined, and the first time I heard it I smiled because it’s such an accurate portrayal of how I go about it when you don’t hear one at first light. I make a point to know lots of good spots in the same general area so if I strike out at dawn I have a chance to find a lonely one somewhere else.

Hens are the birds that decide where a breeding flock goes and don’t go. Gobblers that roost with hens are some of the most difficult birds to kill. Boss Gobblers are usually old enough to know where the hens like to go when they fly down and they roost near those areas without concern about where the hens roost. They have the brawn to go with their type A personalities and other gobblers that speak in their domain usually get a whipping for doing so. Low key works well for killing old birds. They are the worst case scenario, the toughest to kill, and are the whitetail equivalent of a twelve point buck. Now back to Mr. Gil.

Gil’s bird is roosting with hens and the logging equipment noise is making it difficult to hunt. Another low key strategy would be to use a variety of calls to figure out what the dominant hen is most opposed to hearing and using it to call her in range after you find out what direction they generally go after fly down. Finding out what call makes her angry is a low key good woodsmanship tactic, using it to call in a flock of birds is aggressive because there is likely a chance of getting busted before you can kill the gobbler. If the hens identify you with the sound of that call and you don’t get a shot, you have to switch calls and hope they don’t recognize your method another day. I keep my bead on the gobbler’s head and pull the trigger when he stretches his head skyward. I’ve killed birds that were 20+ yards away because a challenging hen stepped so close she saw me blink or heard me blow gnats and putted, pulling him out of strut to see what the problem is.

Just as a reminder when you are about to shoot, if you can wait until his head is sideways before you pull the trigger, you make luck by giving yourself a larger target. A good analogy is whether or not you wait for a clay bird to show you its belly to give you a larger target versus shooting it when its horizontally flat, but if he is in the process of making haste and he’s is range, by all means pull the trigger as long as the path is clear and the lead is proper. One of my grandpas used to say that “the time to kill a turkey is when you see him”, but he was a market hunter and a trapper who farmed. He also had five daughters, son poor and help scarce, so he most often shot heavier loads for longer ranges so his suggestion does not apply to modern application. But the analogy is accurate if you add “when he’s in range”, provided your estimates are plus or minus about 10%, not a large margin of error. I've never been one to marvel at a bird that provides me a shot, watching him strut or fight or other behavior that fascinates me to this day. Too much can go wrong, take the first shot you get and don't worry whether or not the camera is focused or some other such silly cause for concern other than safety.

If I get a chance to listen for one, I’ll report back. More stories and comments are encouraged.

Reno

My opening day lasted only 45 minutes. Set up on the edge of a just planted corn field a little after 6 am. Set out a single hen. Heard lots of gobbling, called a few times, poured a cup of coffee and just sat back and relaxed. Here he came about 75 yds away. That new Zink Avian Breeder Hen really works. Stevens 311A 16 ga, 25 yds, Rem High Brass #4 Lead
[URL=http://s6.photobucket.com/user/Woodsrunner219/media/Turkey_4-12-14.jpg.html]

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Wonderful
Thank you for sharing
Mike

Young bird, old gun:

Member Joined: 25 Jun 2008 Posts: 1863 Location: Wisconsin

I love hunting turkeys, and after hunting those birds for over forty years and in a wide variety of places, I’ve decided that my favorite place is in the higher elevations of the Appalachians in its southern range. I remember it taking me two full seasons to finally kill one of those gobblers and how enamored I was with the thrill of overcoming a new learning curve. I had found a challenge fit for someone who had killed or guide-killed over three hundred turkeys in the flatlands. I was hooked again like a love sick puppy.

I’ve been gone from the south for over ten years, and in the back of my mind I thought of those mountains and hollows that harbored the wiliest toms I had ever hunted. This year I got the chance to pay them a visit again. I slipped off south with my two sons to visit relatives, and maybe, just maybe, slip out a morning or two to visit my feathered friends. Our trip back north from Alabama crossed the river into Georgia and on to the hills north of Cleveland east of the Cohutta Wilderness, and that’s as close to giving away my briar patch as I’m going to get.

The weather was cold but clear, and the morning I wanted to slip out was below freezing at daybreak. I knew the birds would be screaming, but my relatives plan my time to the hour when I visit, and I had to comfort myself with the tales from my friends in the neighborhood. I decided to go the following morning and decided exactly where I would start. There is a saddle between two knobs that’s only forty feet less elevation than the tallest, and the hollows off each side are long and deep. I was sure I’d hear a bird there and the old excitement was back.

I borrowed a vehicle from my brother because the roads into the forest had reduced maintenance schedules due to budget cuts and I wanted to make sure I could go where I wanted without mishap. I set off before light and made the first three miles before the pavement turned to gravel. It was a double dark morning and my headlights picked up familiar landmarks as I threaded my way further into the hills. I had a ways to go and it wasn’t long before I was talking to myself, out loud, questioning my memory of the switchbacks and pullouts of past hunts until finally I got to where I would park the car. I was excited until I got out of the car and the wind blew my hat off. I realized then and there that I had a serious problem; if a bird gobbled there was a real chance that I wouldn’t hear him. I only had this morning to hunt.

Daylight was coming, the trees were swaying, and I had a sit down with myself about my options, trying to summon the wisdom of over a thousand mornings in order to have the confidence in a change of plan. I had to relocate, and fast, to a place that would give me a chance to hear a bird, but where? I jogged my aging brain and decided that the best spot was five miles of bad road behind me. The spot I had in mind was a sheltered cove with a mile of valley below me and a mountain behind me that blocked the wind. I had killed birds there years ago and was happy to see that the forest had not been logged when I got there in time for listening.

This is public land and turkey hunters are thick in these woods, but it being Thursday I had a feeling I would have the place to myself. I parked the car and walked up the road to a listening spot and waited. I had on enough clothes for listening but knew I would have to peel out of several layers if I had to climb; I was currently at 3,600 ft. elevation.

I waited until I heard a crow call across the valley, waited five minutes, and called myself. Nothing, trying to pace myself, I waited another five minutes and did a long barred owl hail. That got a response from another owl up the mountain behind me, but nothing in the valley below. I gave the valley the “who cooks for you” and heard an owl hail call back. I waited again, then used my cow-calling pipes to pour a hail call down into the valley and got a response; one lone gobble. I was soaring!, patting myself on the back for playing the cards I had in tough conditions in woods I hadn’t trekked in ten years had put me in the game. I also had some reservation that the location of the bird may not be accurate due to the issues in my ear that does not allow me to triangulate well, but I went after him anyway.

I got back to the car to drive the mile of logging road down to where the gobbler was, and noticed that the road was in foul shape. The forest service was no longer maintaining the road and the ditches were running with water. I imagined getting half way down and finding a washout and getting myself in a pickle. My knees were only charged to half strength and I knew the mile hike to the bird would tax me past my stamina, so I turned on the interior light to look for a 4x4 button in case the car was so equipped. It was, I engaged the front axle, and off down the mountain I went.

I had killed a sleepy time gobbler in this spot about fifteen years ago and was pretty confident that I could find my way out again if I climbed to get above where I thought the bird was. When I got there the woods looked much different than I remembered. I used google earth on my phone to lay a point on the map and set off towards a bench on the gobbler side of the ridge between two nobs. My plan was to call to the bird on the bench and ease my way uphill to a saddle with the roll of the hill between me and the bird should he show up on the bench, not find me, and gobble. I would then soft yelp and leaf scratch the bird up the hill to my killing spot.

I was a little over a mile from where I had heard the bird gobble an hour before when I pulled out my street-walking mouth call, Sally the Sl#t, and did a few soft yelps just in case he was closer than I thought. Nothing. I waited ten minutes and cranked up the volume with five rising yelps. A minute later I added five more yelps and ended with some cutt-yelps. Nothing. It was time to move to the killing spot up the hill which was about a hundred yards away just in case that sneaky feathered lizard was approaching on the sly and caught me unawares.

I got up the hill and found a good tree to set up against. It was a wide old red oak and twenty yards opposite the crest of the ridge from the area above the calling spot above the hollow I thought he was in, so he’d be in gun range when he topped it to get a look at Sally. If you ever get the opportunity, watching the tip of a full fan slowly materialize into a mountain gobbler right in front of you, with a valley behind him and a view of ten plus miles, it’s a critic’s choice of experiences for turkey hunters.

I settled in, got my old Lynch box out and set it aside, and got as comfortable as I needed to. In my estimation, based upon where I thought the bird was, I didn’t have to worry about being seen when he showed up at the calling spot on the other side of the ridge. At this point I could be in my cricket whites having toddy in a lounge chair because I was comfortably out of sight of where he expected me to be so I could move about and adjust my creaky bones during the butt numbing wait. I often stand and lean into a tree for more comfort until I have to buckle down sitting in painful poses. I was somewhere else when the bird would come calling and walking up a small ridge to meet a feeding hen of ill repute was perfectly natural turkey behavior. I was as ready as ever and feeling good about my chances.

I’m an hour and a half into my plan and hadn’t heard a gobble since the bird I am after did so at daybreak, and only when I shocked one out of him; he hadn’t gobbled on his own yet and many such mornings had taught me that he could have a harem of hens without a need to gobble up more. It’s tough to hunt a turkey when you don’t first hear or see one. I rarely have the patience. But here I was an hour and a half after first hearing the bird and still hopeful I could make him dance. He could have seen me already, been shot at in this heavily hunted location, called up hens to his tree, or sailed after another hen farther down the valley. Doubts can get in the way of a turkey hunter but I can assure you that many birds have been killed by optimistic hunters who spend enough time in the woods to learn turkey behavior and give old man luck just a little more time to make his appearance. Confidence is important too, there’s often a lot of empty waiting time in turkey hunting, sitting there, trying not to move, and waiting on a gobble or a bird to show up. I’ve put the plan into action and it’s time to let it work, it’s what my gut tells me is the best way to get this bird in range.

Twenty more minutes pass, and I hear a gobble over the crest that sounds like it’s below the calling spot, but the confidence in my hearing is not so good and for all I know he’s standing near the tree I called from, wondering where in the ding-dong Sally has gotten off to. I waited a minute and let four yelps slip out of that old box, and leaf scratched in the cadence that hens use to feed. I’m pumped, incredulous that things are going my way as I make the final adjustments by sitting down, getting my knees up and perching my meat gun on top and moving my head down on the stock in pointing stance.

He gobbles again just over the crest and that’s when things just fall apart. I have positioned myself at the base of the tree quartering right because I’m a right handed shooter and I can more easily shoot across my body, giving me more range of motion to swing the barrel for the final alignment and trigger pull. My eyes are up, scanning, gun pointed right shoulder over left knee and left of center when he steps out from behind a tree forty degrees right of aim. I’m pinned; the tree is on my side of the crest and half way to it, making the range an estimate of thirty feet, close, way to close. He spins like a top, but he’s so close that I’m scared that he’ll hear me move when I swing my barrel, and once again I’m elated when he steps back behind the tree and I swing the barrel to intercept him on the other side.

The next time I saw the bird he was forty yards up the ridge to my right; he had used the tree to drop back over the crest and circle up the hill, still looking for Sally. I didn’t move a muscle and watched him walk up the hill in plain view. I knew he would see me swing and I would be tossing small shot over sixty yards even if his head managed to stay in sight.

Two hours in the clouds. Deep, possum-grinning satisfaction that I accomplished my objective to get the bird in range so I had a chance to kill him, frustration at the inability to overcome my latest disability so I could have heard him walk to 10 paces, in dry leaves, and swung my barrel to where he would appear, .410 range away. My hearing has become quite a challenge, and I marked that box as the reason I didn’t eat that bird. That’s excuse enough, yeah; I think I’ll stick with that.

What a glorious morning that I’ll always remember. Reno

Great story Reno. You'll remember him walking away in the open longer than if you'd killed him at ten yards. Well done

Yeah baby. Youth season in PA this weekend then 4 long weekends at my place in NY in May. First weekend in May is the Lobster hunt 3 of my buddies hunt the first half of the week in Maine then come to my Place in NY with 2 coolers of Lobsters. We eat steamed Lobster the first night then kill a turkey and stuff him with Lobster stuffing the 2nd night by the 3rd night we have caught some Lakers and Landlocked Salmon they to are broiled with Lobster stuffing. The 2nd weekend is Mothers day I take my wife and Kids and we hunt and fish for 3 days. By the 3rd weekend the birds are really primed and usually very lonely. The 4th weekend is back north with the kids. We usually kill about 6 birds a year and I am the guide and caller don't care if I ever shoot another one personally. The story's like 2 pipes are the one's I remember and cherish the most. The gate bird is a good example roosted behind my cabin up the road at my 2nd log road gate. He roosted right over the log road and 50 yards from a public dirt road. 200 yards back the log road was a large swamp so he only had about 30 acres of nice hardwoods to strut and court. He would answer every call you sent to him and would quickly close up on you. If he approached in the open or on the log road he would stop and strut at the 60 yard mark decoy's or not. If you put a shooter out front 50 yards he would circle through a rock gully or depression and end up between you. He had an uncanny ability to be were ever you could not shoot or could not see him. I had him at 10 yards 2 or 3 times when I couldn't see him or shoot him. I watched him strut 10 yards directly behind my shooter on multiple occasions. He would never throw in the towel and quit would gobble to you all morning any time you were in the area. The first season he was there I walked past him and ignored him 9 out of 10 times and hunted birds farther back through the property he had me whooped and trained to ignore him. I always thought some road hunter would shoot him he used to strut on the dirt road and a couple of cars a morning would travel that road. I had opportunities a couple of times to shoot off the limb I set up under him a couple of times he would hit the ground strut and drum out of site then move off. One morning on the way back to camp at 11:30 I fired him up and called him right up to 20 yards strutting with the decoy it was 12:15 when he arrived and walked away unscathed it was after shooting time. He could tell time and had a hell of a sense of humor screwing with us. By the end of the 2nd season I hadn't heard him since the 2nd week of the season figured he finally got gunned down by a road hunter. The last evening of my final weekend of the year he started gobbling at 7:30 pm wile sitting on my back porch enjoying a few cold ones. I could hear the desperation in his gobbles that evening. I figured what the hell I give him a go in the AM. I circled around the back of him that early morning and he started gobbling 1/2 hour before the sky lighten up. I set up Billy the Kid and Selma my 2 trusted avian X decoys on the log road on a little oak knoll that was a preferred travel route to a big clover plot I have. I stayed quiet until he flew down 45 min after light when he gobbled on the ground I beat my hat on my leg and did a little jump down cackle them gobbled on the box call. I put the call down and put the gun on my knee 3 minutes later I heard him drumming up the log road he came in all his glory strutting and running in strut he did 2 circles around Billy the kid then fanned for Selma after what seemed like hours(10 minutes) he walked up to me against the big oak tipped his hat and traveled on down the log road to the clover plot. I decided it was a lot better to have him guarding the gate than hanging on the wall. Hope I find another bad bird this spring that has the smarts to keep his feathers for a few years.

Yesterday, 22lbs.-10 1/2 in. beard -1 in. spurs. Would post photo. but haven't figured out the photo bucket lately. No foliage yet, so used the 12 ga. 3 in with flight control wads 2 ozs. # 5 , 45 steps . He turned to leave and putted, so it was time.

Griff

Member Joined: 25 Jun 2008 Posts: 1863 Location: Wisconsin

Griff, if the picture includes you in it, please ask Skeettx for assistance, I haven't seen you in years.

Reno

Stack16
Well assist with photos if that is your wish.

Do you currently have them on
www.photobucket.com
?

Mike

No, not on photobucket, but I think I can get them on an e-mail, if you care to go that route.

Griff

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After my padna was a no- show this morning I didn't have the motivation to hunt until I stepped out on the porch to let the dogs out and heard gobbling in their standard spot, so after inhaling a bowl of Cheerios, I drank a cup of coffee while changing clothes, and headed out the back door. It's a 300 yard walk across an open field to a finger of woods on a ridge that intersects another ridge that's wooded on the back side of it and open field on the other. That intersection of ridges seems to be the heart of their general hangout. I was able to slip in below the ridge and set up thanks to a foggy morning, even though it was well past sunup. He answered my little slate scratching with some enthusiasm, but wasn't moving off his spot. After a good span of time, he seemed to be moving away, then shut up altogether. My plan was to make a big circle around him, sitting at some spots along the way in case his path intersected mine, or another bird showed up from a different direction, though I had heard no other candidates. After about two hours of I guess what you might call low impact running and gunning, I had called from 5 different spots in my mile circle and had not heard or seen one bird. I had one last spot to stop before I had completely circled the spot I had last heard him gobble,but it offered no real place to hide other than the shade of a blackberry thicket and some grass about a foot tall. I got on one knee and scratched on my call. Looking up the field road bordering the wooded ridge, he steps out 200 yards in front of me. He hadn't moved 50 yards all morning and hadn't gobbled in two hours! As soon as he stepped out on the road, I knew he had seen me , but couldn't tell what I was. Thankfully, I had my fan stuffed in my vest, so I opened it up and held it in front of me to try to shield me as I eased down into what little cover there was. I clucked a little with one hand and held the fan up with the other, sometimes pushing it out of the shadow so he'd be sure and see it. He pretty much came straight to me, slowly at first, stopping to peck a little, then walking closer. By the time he'd closed half the distance, he'd convinced himself that I was another Tom, and became more animated, stopping to fan and strut , but steady coming. I managed to lay down by then and propped the fan up in the grass in front of me with bad intentions easing up behind it. At forty yards he looked as big as a house, so I waited til he showed me a profile and poured it to him. I would have sworn he was 25-30 yards! All I had leading off was a 2 3/4 load of #6 pheasant load. It rocked him pretty good, knocking him backwards, but he looked like joe Frazier getting up off the mat, and he pitched off the road and down into the thickly wooded hollow he went! The rest of it might remind one of Jeremiah Johnson running pellmell down the hill after a Blackfeet .I was able to get a shot off as he zigzagged through the saplings, but it seemed to have little effect, so the chase continued . He must have been hurt pretty bad because he decided to try to hide instead of run and his day ended pretty quickly with the last round in the magazine, and I was able to tenderly wedge his head under my boot until I knew all of his reptile reflexes had run out of ATP. [/img]