Spring Is Turkey Time

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It takes a cool shot, plenty of legwork, and a
seductive call to bring in a tom

The day was just about spent, the darkening haze in the eastern horizon taking body as the cool night air turned the high altitude moisture into a solid bank of clouds. The western skies, bright orange outlining a thin line of clouds, promised a good day tomorrow.

Just ahead, ghosting through the gathering dusk, my hunting companion, Connie Guenther, eased to a stop alongside a towering oak. For a few minutes we listened to the soft rustling sounds of evening as the forest settled down around us. Somewhere off to the east, where night had already laid claim to the woods, a hoot owl spoke. After a few moments, another owl, further away yet, responded. We were spring turkey hunting in the rolling hill country of Cattaraugus County in western New York. It was the first full week in May and spring gobblers only hunting was in full swing. Several gobblers had talked to us that morning, but none had been rash enough to get within shotgun range. Now we were scouting the ridges at dusk, hoping to get a line on a roosting gobbler or two for the next morning's hunt. At each ridgeline. we'd stop and listen. Then Connie would skillfully rattle the carefully chalked wooden turkey caller. As the rubberband-restrained paddle rasped rapidly back and forth across the sounding chamber, it produced a perfect gobble obble obble obble!

The call echoed out across the hills, but nothing answered. Guenther knew there
were several good gob-blers in these particular woods because he'd found their
sign while out scouting the territory the previous week.
The food was here beech, birch, maple, and hemlock so the turkeys probably wouldn't
stray too far. It was,however, a lot of country to cover in search of a long legged, country
covering torn turkey. Successful ridge

Gobblers go to roost around sunset. On their way in, they often gobble, and once on the roost they usually gobble. Perhaps they're telling their friends what a great spot they're in, or perhaps they're just saying "good night" to the world. Often at dusk, a gobbler will speak up when he hears a hoot owl call. Sometimes he'll answer a slammed car door, or even a dog's bark. Guenther has even
heard one gobble after gun shot. And, of course, they'll often answer each other's roosting gobble.
That knowledge was what had us out on the ridges in the evening. We were hoping that a talkative bird would tip us off to his roost for the morning's hunt. By the time we'd hustled up the fifth ridge, we were pretty bushed. It had been a tough day. After a few moments, Connie coaxed a perfect gobble out of his wooden box. Almost immediately it was answered. From the sound, the bird was perhaps 500 yards away in a heavily wooded area along the side of a long ravine. We looked at each other. Connie winked and nodded to head back the way we'd come in. We had him spotted. Tomorrow morning, early, we'd be back.
Gunning for a spring turkey in New York is one of the toughest as well as one of the shortest duration hunting sports I know. Where else is your daily gunning restricted to approximately six hours from sunrise to noon? What other sports call for wind sprints up and down mountain sides every thirty minutes or so?
From a game management standpoint, the sunrise to noon daily hunting hours make good sense. By
the time early May rolls around,most of the available hen turkeys have already mated and are on their
nests brooding their eggs. The morning hunting hours protect the hens, which don't usually leave their nests to feed until around midday.
The gobblers have carried out their biological chores by now and are now fair game for the hunters.
However, with only six hours of hunting, there is no such thing as a leisurely stroll through the woods for
a hunter who wants to bag a turkey.The name of the game is get up and get moving.
The night before the season opened, Connie Guenther had put a big gobbler to bed in a roost tree. It
was right in the middle of a large, dark stand of pines. The next morning, Monday, and opening day,
Connie settled down a few hundred yards from the roost tree to wait for the 6 a.m. sunrise. About 5:45, the old turkey let loose with a dawn-busting gobble, announcing to the world that he was about to depart for breakfast. Off in the distance, the lonely call of a hoot owl answered the turkey'gobble. There was nothing Guenther could do except wait. The turkey could be a mile away by sunrise. There was no sound to indicate the bird had flown out, but there was every chance that he had. All the turkey had to do was spread his wings and glide of no noisy wingbeat to give him away.
Six o'clock finally came. Shivering in the predawn cold, Guenther coaxed a superseductive series of
yelps out of his mahogany caller. A mere thirty seconds later, maybe 300 yards away, came the rattling, gobbling reply of a mature torn. That old bird was still around! guenther froze, waiting for the bird to zero in on the call and parade right over. Guenther moved only his eyeballs, carefully searching the shadowed edges of the bush for the gobbler. One shadow, darker than the rest, detached itself from a bush and slipped stealthily across a little clearing, perhaps 30 yards away. As the turkey hit the opening, its beard
was clearly visible. Guenther swept the shotgun to his shoulder and touched off. Down went the turkey on the first shot. Dirt flew, feathers flew, and then suddenly, the turkey was up again! With a running start,
pushed into the air (perhaps by Guenther's quickly following second and third shots) the turkey boomed
up and out of sight before Guenther had time to realize what he'd done wrong. In the excitement of the moment, Guenther sheepishly admitted later, he'd shot at the gobbler's body, not the head.
Any old torn turkey is really tough to kill and this had been a big one. His beard, easily 10 inches long and jutting rakishly forward, had been clearly outlined in the dawn's first light. That size beard put him in the 20-pound class, Connie figured. Apparently he was well stung, but not permanently damaged.
Guenther let the turkey rest Monday evening and all Tuesday while he went hunting elsewhere. But Tuesday night Guenther was back to check. Surprisingly, the gobbler answered Tuesday night. Before dawn Wednesday, Guenther was back ready to try again, this time in a new location on the other side of the roost tree. The gobbler followed the same script. He gobbled, glided out to his nearby feeding spot, and answered Guenther's opening yelp.
This time, however, the gobbler didn't come right in. He checked things out thoroughly. The peppering
he'd taken two days earlier probably still smarted.
Guenther had his first glimpse at the bird 50 yards out, crossing a bank, hidden almost completely by
covering brush. The bird was circling, coming around from behind this time. Unfortunately, his line of travel was bringing him right in behind Guenther. Connie could hear the bird closing in, dry leaves crack-
ling under his weight. When he was sure the turkey couldn't see him, Guenther turned slowly, swinging his
gun with him, easing into position. The more he turned, the more the stalking turkey kept just ahead, still
circling. The angle was terrible, but Guenther figured he'd better take a lousy shot than take none at all.
He fired and missed completely. The bird cleared out, wings slightly parted, scooting across the forest floor,
running for dear life.

Connie was disgusted. He looked back to where he'd last seen the bird and gaped. Inexplicably, at 80 yards or so far out of range the bird had stopped. He'd never seen Connie. Apparently the deafening thunder of the shot had reached his ears but none of the shot. Connie couldn't figure out why the bird wasn't gone.
What have I got to lose? Guenther thought to himself, easing a couple of hen clucks out of the caller.
The torn suddenly fluffed up, his head and neck flushed bright red. Gobble obble obble ohble! came the
immediate reply.
Another cluck from Guenther. Another reply from the turkey. The gobbler moved up to within 50 yards
and started parading around in acircle, strutting and showing off all his finery. Guenther realized the
proud old bird was coming no closer. The gobbler wanted that "hen" to display a little more interest and a
little less of those startling noises.
Guenther obliged. Backing carefully out of his hiding place, he ducked down the slope, running swiftly to the far side of the hill. Once he was out of range of the gobbler, Connie moved back up the opposite side, settling down 100 yards behind the big tom.
Well hidden again, Guenlher gave out three soft yelps. In the old boy came, wings dragging, head red as a beet in the rays of the rising sun. This time there was no mistake. At 35 yards, Guenther aimed right for
the head and his first shot tumbled the turkey for good.
The tom's beard measured 10 \/2 inches long and he weighed in at 21 pounds. He was a fine mature bird. perhaps 4 years old. Guenther checked him over for damage from his Monday shooting spree. All he
could find, before or after plucking, was one No. 6 pellet embedded in a wingbone, not broken, and a frac-
tured flight feather. Neither shot a disabling one. All the other pellets, if any had reached the bird, had been turned or absorbed in the heavy outer feathers. he did find one other pellet in the head that the bird had carried around with him for some time. The gobbler's skull had been fractured by the shot and it had completely recalcified. He may have had a dandy headache, but he'd survived, we estimated, for at least a year afterwards. This all reinforced my idea that the torn turkey is a tough bird to stop.
But all of this action was earlier in the week. Now it was Friday morning and time to locate the roosting gobbler we'd heard the evening before. It was still dark as we slipped over the hill and down into the ravine just below where we'd put the tom turkey to bed the night before. Connie had made a mental note of the lay of the land and had a pretty good idea of where he wanted us to stake out. It was an old root basin, just big enough for us to hunker down in with only the top of our camouflage hoods showing.

We were in position just as a gray dawn was lighting up the eastern sky. It was 6 a.m. but not quite light
enough to shoot in our shadowed valley, so we held tight. The turkey wasn't waiting for us, though. He broke the morning apart with a hearty call. announcing to the world that he was about to venture forth. connie had no choice but to respond with several soft. seductive hen yelps. Right back came another
lusty gobble, followed by the heavy sound of wings. For a minute we thought he was leaving. Suddenly,
barely 40 yards to our right, a loud thump and a scattering of leaves announced that our bird had decided to come right in for a little before breakfast lovemaking. It was a standoff. He couldn't see us and we couldn't see him. Since it looked as though we had him hooked, Connie figured to let the turkey guess where we were until the light picked up just a little more.

Then we heard another gobble, this time a little further away. The tom had lost his way! Connie gave him a hint, clucking softly on the box. Silence. Suddenly. I saw Connie's shrouded head turn slowly to the right. Carefully, I looked, too. Although it was getting much lighter, I still couldn't see a thing. But I could hear the soft measured step of something quietly stalking us from the right. Turkey? Hungry predator?
Connie coaxed three dulcet yelps from the chalked box and I saw a miracle take place before my eyes.
Not 30 yards away. what I thought was a small tree stump suddenly began to swell up to almost twice its original size wings apart, tips dragging on the ground, fan spread, and head an almost iridescent bright red in the rising daylight. Sure enough it was a fat torn turkey. He moved parallel to us and behind a maple. My shotgun was at my shoulder. He was out in the open again, coaxed by two more soft yelps from Connie.
I remembered to aim at the head and touched off the I2-gauge.
The turkey disappeared at the sound of the shotgun blast, hut we found him at the base of the old
maple, his fan slowly closing. I remember that the tirst rays of the morning sun played bright magic
with his iridescent plumage.

It was a third-year torn, about 15 pounds and a nice plump bird that I knew would be a welcome addition to the pantry.
As we walked out of the woods, I could only look back with pleasure at the excitement of the hunt and
with respect for the fine young men who had worked so tirelessly in the field for so many years to restore this great game bird to the forests of New York. It was a pleasant thought to have, knowing that in each year to come it could only get better. The End.

FIELD & STREAM MARCH 1977