The Armchair Outfitter

Every hunter has a game animal that is his or her nemesis. Hemingway had trouble with kudu; I have a problem with the wild turkey. This should not be confused with a problem I had with the 101-proof Wild Turkey in college. That’s a story for another day. No, I’m talking about the bird upon which our Pilgrim forefathers feasted. None of my Sicilian ancestors were among that original group, or if they were, their turkey hunting genes did not survive. Surveyors Lewis and Clark reported killing great numbers of the birds in their journals, so it is perhaps appropriate that for my first forays into turkey hunting years ago I was accompanied by my good friend and line-runner extraordinaire, Raimey.

We were hunting in the Bankhead National Forest / Black Warrior Wildlife Management Area in north Alabama. Our first setup of the morning was in some fairly rough terrain with steep ledges and rocky crags. We had tried an owl hoot call on the way in, attempting to no avail to make a turkey gobble and give away his roost tree. Just after sunrise, I was yelping when I heard the rustle of wings. My heart raced as a large, black-winged bird swooped low over my head and landed in some trees above and behind me. Unfortunately, I had stumbled onto a roost tree: a roost tree for buzzards. The smell confirmed this on closer inspection, and Raimey joked that if we didn’t do any good otherwise, there were buzzard eggs for the taking. These were a noxious green, and the baloney biscuit in my stomach flipped at the thought of what culinary properties they might possess.

That afternoon, I sat on a sunny hillside, fairly well concealed by some high weeds and immature pines. I had read that one should take a visual survey of the area before settling in so as to be able to notice anything out of place should old Tom turkey come easing in without so much as a gobble. I took a good look around and made myself comfortable. After an hour or so of alternating brief stints with the call and long periods of silence, I noticed something black just over my right shoulder. I was certain that hadn’t been there before. I ramped the calling down to quiet clucks and purrs hoping to seal the deal, but the new arrival didn’t budge. I sat quietly for a while, and then I adopted a more urgent, pleading tone. Nothing. No response whatsoever. I was prepared for this contingency, having read about gobblers who “hang up” and refuse to come any closer. I resolved to either make him come or run him out of the country, so I called as loudly as I could. When that produced no reaction, I started belly-crawling in desperation. At least I’d get a good look at him when he spooked, I reasoned. I was within 20 yards of the blackened pine stump when I realized my mistake. Raimey “soothed” my ego later by saying that even the best callers can’t get pine stumps to come in when they “hang up.”

Walking out that afternoon was the capper on an already ignominious day. We were strolling along laughing and talking when an older gentleman popped up from behind a ground blind not 15 yards away. He had his shotgun raised, and he was spluttering something unintelligible. Finally, after he lowered his piece, I understood him to say something like, “Thought you boys was turkeys on that ridge! Musta fell asleep.” I slipped around behind his camo netting while Raimey was engaged in conversation with him and noticed an empty liquor bottle on the ground. Hostilities having been for the moment averted, we made our apologies and beat a hasty retreat. Recounting the event later, Raimey who had been in the lead remarked that when he looked back at me, my 12 gauge had come from low ready to port arms. “What were you doing?” he asked. “I don’t know, getting ready to return fire, I guess,” was the best I could do for a response. Perhaps if the old geezer had loosed off, I should have done as Hemingway suggested and said, “Please cease firing, brother shooter and fellow sportsman. I am the animal that walks on two legs and pays income tax and there is no open season on us this year.”

I am now hunting in Tennessee with Cousin Tim, AKA Timbaland, and he has already killed a turkey this spring. It is worthy of note that he did not kill this turkey on opening day weekend when I went with him, but we heard some gobbles and saw some hens up close and personal. The turkey jinx continues unabated, but I remain hopeful. If nothing else, I shall observe and report.