The Armchair Outfitter

(ed. note – As one of our readers commented that we have been short on wisdom of late, here’s a “Papa Doble.” Google those terms for references to the potent and now famous cocktail of the same name. It ain’t no foo-foo umbrella drink; it’s the he-man woman hater variant of the daiquiri.)

“I have had a marlin sound four hundred yards straight down, all the rod under water over the side, bent double with that weight going down, down, down, watching the line go, putting on all pressure possible on the reel to check him, him going down and down until you are sure every inch of line will go. Suddenly he stops sounding and you straighten up, get onto your feet, get the butt in the socket and work him up slowly, finally you have the double line on the reel and think he is coming to gaff and then the line begins to rip out as he hooks up and heads off to sea just under the surface to come out in ten long, clean jumps. This after an hour and a half of fight.”

- Ernest Hemingway, “Marlin off the Morro: A Cuban Letter,” Esquire, Autumn 1933

“To see that happen, to feel that fish in his rod, to feel that power and that great rush, to be a connected part of it and then to dominate it and master it and bring that fish to gaff, alone and with no one else touching the rod, reel or leader, is something worth waiting many days for, sun and all, and as said, while you wait there is plenty of time to think. A good part of the things you think about are not put into a magazine printed on shiny paper and designed to go through the mails. Some they can put you in jail for if you write and others are simply no one’s business but a great part of the time you think about fish.”

- Ernest Hemingway, “Out in the Stream: A Cuban Letter,” Esquire, August 1934

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.

Patterning your shotgun at a known range with the load and choke constriction you intend to use in the field is important to your success in wingshooting, but is especially critical when it comes to turkey hunting. Smaller, tighter patterns are best for turkey hunting, as you aim the shotgun and fire at a stationary target much as you would with a rifle. Some type of sighting system is helpful to ensure that your loads are printing roughly to point of aim, and you will need a bench or a steady rest.

I recently patterned my 12 gauge 870 with three different turkey loads in preparation for an opening day trip to Tennessee. Note the fiber optic open sights and my homemade tomato stake shooting sticks. I have shot full-house turkey loads off a bench rest before, and I don’t intend to repeat the experience.

Here is the target, an 8 inch circle at 40 yards. I chose 40 yards because that is about the maximum distance at which I would consider taking a shot at a gobbler. That circle looks awfully small, doesn’t it?

In fact, the dot of the front sight subtends the entire circle at that range. I don’t believe one needs a lot of precision in aiming for turkeys, just a point of reference, but it would be important in using this setup on a bird to aim for the wattles rather than the head. One could easily shoot over the bird entirely if aiming at the head completely obscured by the dot.

The first load I tested was a Federal Premium Turkey Load in 3″ magnum with 2 ounces of copper plated #4 shot. I chose the #4 shot for the increased knockdown power, although by some accounts, #4s do not pattern as well as the smaller shot sizes. I was using a Lohman Long Shot extended turkey choke, and I thought the result was satisfactory.

The next load was a PMC 3″ magnum stoked with 2 ounces of buffered, nickel plated #4s, and the first pattern suffered by comparison.

I really liked the way this load put several pellets right down the pipe clicca qui. The splattered orange stuff is just cool. There are more holes around the periphery in this picture, but I was using the same backing board for each shot.

The final load I considered was an old 3″ Remington Duplex loaded with 1 7/8 ounces of #4 and #6. This one looks awesome in spite of the slightly reduced payload, but remember that some of those holes are from the #6 shot.

A rough count revealed 66 pellets in the black for the Federal load, 76 for the PMC, and a whopping 99 for the Remington. I pronounced the gun and choke combination a turkey killer with either of the three loads, but I opted for the PMC owing to the roundness of the pattern and the heavier hitting #4s.