Читать книгу The Christian Outdoorsman - Steven George Coy - Страница 5

The dawn was slow in awakening over the 8200 foot mountain that rose above us to the east.

It was 6 a.m. Mountain Standard Time on opening day of the 2001 Spring Turkey Season in SW Colorado. We were right on schedule.

Jedekiah was still wrestling into his final phases of camouflage at the back of our vehicle when the tempo of the hunt instantly swung into high gear. A gobbler sounded off the roost less than 100 yards southwest of us.

There is nothing quite like the excitement a gobbler elicits in a turkey hunter when he announces his dominion and presence as dawn barely brightens the eastern horizon.

This was mountain Merriam hunting at its finest. But even with 30 years of spring turkey hunting under my belt—from Illinois to the Rocky Mountains—I was about to experience something I had never yet experienced. It was something a man could only hope for when taking his youngest son on his first licensed spring hunt.

Jedekiah had been on many previous turkey hunts—probably more than he can remember. Spring turkey hunts in the Black Hills of northeastern Wyoming were a family tradition for many years with his mom, dad, and older brother. But the early teen years brought other interests and a few distractions. Now, at age 19, he decided it was time to taste the hunt again, this time with his own license to kill.

We jammed #4 shotgun shells into our Remington 12 gauge shotguns as we headed south into the oak-brush. We set up about a hundred yards east of where we figured the gobbler and his hens were coming off the roost. I yelped softly three times. The gobbler quickly sounded in return.

It was a moment of decision. Turkey eyes could be searching our location inside of two minutes, maybe less. I was uncomfortable with our setup. Across a clearing less than fifteen yards away was a mature stand of ponderosa pine where the turkeys had roosted on a west- facing slope overlooking a creek bottom. It was a situation where they could possibly spot us and disappear back into the pines and oak brush before we could see them in the early dawn light.

I remembered where I had called in and killed a mature gobbler just one year ago. It was a flat area that was a perfect setup for seeing a bird before he saw you. And it was not more than two hundred yards north of us. I grabbed my son’s arm and we retreated into the brush, then picked our way softly through the oaks circling back to the north. Five minutes later we were settling into position. We hoped the birds had not seen or heard us and slipped over the ridge.

I set my son in front of and leaning against a small tree. I moved quietly to his left, planning to stay within whispering range. Before I settled into position, the gobbler sounded off again. He was still within a hundred yards, possibly moving our way with his hens and prob- ably feeding on the fresh, green sprigs of spring and the remaining acorns from last fall’s crop.

I softly called back. He gobbled again. I knew they were heading our way. It was time to play the waiting game. When a gobbler is comfort- able with his hens, they will almost always seek out company. I’ve learned not to call too much when you seem to be holding the right cards in your hand. If we played this correctly, we could soon see the fruit of our pursuit.

Minutes passed. We could hear the hens purring and yelping softly. It was the sounds of a contented

flock, doing what they do every morning after they fly off the roost safely and begin their buffet pickin’ on the forest floor. The gobbler would sound off every once in a while, as if to remind his hens and everyone else in the territory who was boss and who was in control.

Finally a turkey walked out of the oaks to the left. I was lying on my belly with my shotgun in position. I had her covered. There was another bird behind her - a second hen follow- ing closely behind the lead bird. They were walking right in front of us from left to right, no more than ten or twelve paces away.

I was ready for the gobbler to step out next. This one was for Jedekiah. Three weeks earlier I had said to him, “Hey son, how would you like to go turkey hunting with me this year and see if I can’t call in a gobbler for you.” His response was, “Sounds good to me.”

So there was no question in my mind who was going to squeeze off the first shot if a gobbler stepped into view. The lead hen was now barely nine yards in front of us.

Suddenly another bird walked out following the two hens—it was another hen. Where was the gobbler? He had to be coming. A fourth hen walked out, then a fifth. Five turkeys were now walking single file in front of us. The gobbler had to be coming soon.

A sixth turkey walked into view—another hen.

Then it happened. Here came the gobbler, in full strut. What a sight! But he was not alone. Right behind him strutted another mature gobbler. A double dose! Wow!

I whispered to Jedekiah, “Take the one on the right.” I hoped he heard me. I couldn’t speak any louder. One hen already had her head up, cocking an ear toward us. She had heard something that wasn’t right, but she didn’t know what. Again I repeated myself in a hushed whisper, “Take the one on the right”.

The bead of my shotgun now tracked the neck of the second gobbler. I waited. I would not shoot until I heard the blast of my son’s shotgun. It was all or none. Seconds passed. I knew Jedekiah was on the lead bird, but he must have been waiting for a clear shot.

Finally he fired. I didn’t wait to see the results. I squeezed on the second bird a split second later. When the dust had settled, so to speak, two mature gobblers were down for the count, kicking and flapping their wings in expiration. Their gobbling days were over.

Probably more than 25 gobblers have fallen to my gun over the years. But never have I experienced the thrill of downing two birds at the same time with a hunting partner. And to do it with my son on his first licensed spring gobbler hunt was definitely a blessing of the Lord.

I looked over to Jedekiah. He had not moved. He slowly spoke, somewhat in disbelief, “This is too easy.” Then he looked over to me and said, “You spoil me, dad.” Well, a dad loves to spoil his children with good gifts, but I knew who was the real Giver of this beautiful gift.

We walked over to the downed birds and looked them over, admiring their beauty. One had a beard of 8 and one-half inches. The other beard was about the same length except for two strands that extended a full 10 inches. We finally picked them up by their legs and walked back to my belly bag that held our camera. I gave thanks to the Lord for his goodness and provision.

As we finished our inspection of the birds, we heard a gobbler sound off back near where we had parked our vehicle. When he gobbled the second or third time, I whispered, “Let’s see if we can call him in.”

Well, this bird was hot to trot. My theory is that he was also with the flock, maybe coming in behind the two gobblers we had bagged. Now, he was mad and hot and looking for his ladies. He quickly returned a gobble or double-gobble each time I yelped.

We knelt with our birds between us. We were dressed in full camo, but we were basically in the open. I knew it was safer now to remain motionless where we were rather than try to move into cover. We would wait and see just how close this ol’ boss would come.

As he approached us through the oak-brush, we could now hear him drumming. He was very close. Finally we saw him in full strut. Since our tags were now filled and we were not afraid of spooking him prematurely, I would yelp just to see him stretch his neck in full gobble, often times double-gobbling. This tom was about as hot as they get.

He walked slowly by us within ten yards - struttin’, drummin’, gobblin’, and seemingly mad as a hornet that he could not spot one of his hens. What a show. This display went on for at least five minutes as he circled our position, hammering out his orders all the way. He proceeded to make a half circle around us, and finally faded away to the west, gobblin’ as he went, still looking for his hens. I’m sure he found them before the morning was over.

It was now 7 a.m. What an outstanding turkey hunt we had just experienced. The sun had not yet risen over the mountaintop. It was a beautiful spring morning—especially for a dad to be out with his son.

We weren’t sure we wanted to go home yet, so we returned the birds to our vehicle and then just walked and talked and listened to the sounds of the outdoors awakening. A couple more gobblers were heard in the distance. We were relishing the spring morning and the experience we had just shared.

Indeed, we had been blessed—blessed with a Double Dose of Mountain Merriams.

SGCoy 12/2001

A teenage grin over the thrill of a Double Dose of Mountain Merriams