Father Knows Best
Editor Note: This e-mail describing a turkey hunt with his son Peyton came in from friend Tom Hart. We’re running it with very little editing just to maintain the actual feel of their hunt near Wisconsin Dells. -Dick Ellis
Last weekend I was hunting with my oldest, Peyton. We were hunting in the morning at the farm where you hunted from sunrise until 11:30 am. After a lunch break and nap, I thought we should try our 80 acre property. I had received a tip from the farmer who had been seeing groups of birds during the day near our road.
I discussed the plan with 13 year-old Peyton who agreed with the plan. Just before leaving Peyton suggested a different spot but in the same general area. He asked if he should sit approximately 200 yards away to my east within sight and voice contact on the edge of the same road. He asked if it was a "good spot." I told him any spot on our land could be a good spot. Always wanting to feel independent with his hunting, he said you go to your spot and I will try mine.
We headed to our spots and were set up by 1:30 pm. The afternoon hunt started slow without much moving in the warm spring day. We weren't calling at all because the birds were pretty pressured at this point from area properties where hunting pressure is more intense than ours.
At 4 pm, a pileated woodpecker ripped into one of our dying oak trees. I sat there shaking my head in disgust as the pounding continued. (Those trees were to be harvested by a logger over the winter but he was delayed due to the brutal cold and didn’t get to our property.) Just as the woodpecker stopped, a Tom thundered from the top of the ridge to my west about a hundred yards away. Peyton texted me that he too heard the Tom. I sat silent waiting for the bird to pop out of the woods near a clover plot on our road. About a minute later, he gobbled again, but I could tell he had moved south and I basically wrote him off.
Ten minutes later, I assume the same bird was back on the ridge to my west and ripped another gobble. I was back in the game. Three hours later, (really a minute but it seemed like forever) the Tom showed himself. Creeping through the edge of the woods at a snail’s pace, He sat down, rested a bit in the shade, dusted himself, got up pecked around a little, strutted briefly, and gobbled some more. In about five minutes he hadn't moved. With a diaphragm call in my mouth, I asked myself if I should try and coax him over. I opted to just wait as I have shot more birds without calling than calling in the last five years.
At this point I could feel my phone vibrating several times. I knew Peyton was looking for an update. With the bird in view and the gun in my hands, he would have to wait.
The Tom finally started moving in my direction. He would take a few steps, look around, peck, gobble a few times, and take a few more steps. He had closed the distance to 40 yards where I am confident in my shooting but I would prefer them closer. Preferably 30 yards or less. He closed another five yards and was standing straight up just looking.
Thoughts raced through my mind. What's he looking at? Does he see me? Is he nervous? I'm sure he was just scanning the road and the plot looking for hens, but the same stuff runs through my mind when the birds move so slowly.
The gun had been up and the sights were on his waddles for quite some time. I clicked the safety off and decided to end whatever thoughts this bird was having.
Hearing the gun report, Peyton knew he made the wrong decision by going to "his spot." After tagging the bird, we met up for a few photographs and we headed back to clean him. The 2-year old weighed in at 23 pounds with a 9.5" beard.
Time for church. I didn’t proof this.
Tom