He worked by day and toiled by night,
He gave up play and some delight,
Dry books he read, new things to learn
And forged ahead, success to earn,
He plodded on with faith and pluck
And when he won, men called it Luck.
– Anonymous
Men Called It Luck
This poem is defining for most of us, the few who do these DIY adventures. How many times have you tried to explain to the casual hunter or non-hunter what your experience was like and got some sort of reply inferring how “lucky” you were? For outdoorsmen like us, we make our own luck. No guides, no outfitters, and more likely than not, less than deep pockets. Most people just can’t fathom the amount of time, energy, and even creativity necessary to make these hunts possible, let alone successful. It’s what defines us. It’s what brings us together as writers, contributors, or readers of this website. It’s a common thread that we share.
Hatching The Plan
I called my friend Billy, whom I consider an authority on turkeys. He’s a custom call maker, and between himself, helping friends, and being involved in a ton of youth hunts, he’s had a hand in killing hundreds of birds. He knows them well and would be an undeniable asset (as well as great company) to have on the trip. We discussed my goal, briefly exchanged ideas, and soon a plan was hatched. It was off to Nebraska to pursue a true, non-hybrid Merriam.
Old Friends
Using some creativity and always believing in personal relationships, I soon had a specific location and lodging lined up. An old teenage friend of mine reached out to me on Facebook, and as luck would have it, he now lived within a few hours of our destination and was well networked throughout the area. We were excited to reconnect, and he was just as good of a guy as I remembered almost 20 years ago. He found us a farmhouse to rent for the length of the trip, and the locale couldn’t have been any better. Other than modern conveniences, the house had it all. We would want for nothing; after all, we were there to hunt.
Opening Day
Opening morning came, and I had picked an observation spot. If there were any turkeys in the area, I wanted to find out where exactly these birds were, where they were going, and why they were going there. As civil twilight broke, the first gobble of the morning stole my auditory virginity as I had now heard my first Merriam gobbler. The anticipation was visceral as to what daylight would bring. As early afternoon came and went, there was no sign of them, no response to my calls, but definitely no lack of excitement.
The Struggle
Like Groundhog Day, the mornings came and went in a loop of frustration. The routine was the same: hunt until noon, hike and scout the surrounding ground until 4, then hunt and try to roost these birds until sunset. Billy seemed to be getting more agitated by the behavior of the turkeys, and it was my sheer inexperience that salvaged my hope. He said to me, “Jay, something’s wrong with these things. They just aren’t acting right.” As if Mother Nature were giving us a 5-day entrance exam, we soon found out the reason.
After the morning hunt, we made our way through the pines and up that hill we’d become all too familiar with. Loading the truck, we were approached by a local landowner. Exchanging pleasantries and the usual surface-level small talk, he proceeded to try to sell us a hunt on his farm and informed us of the daily rate to hunt the flock of birds that inhabit his place due to his year-round baiting tactics. Billy and I looked at each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. I asked, “Well, sir, where about is your farm?” You guessed it. It was the neighboring farm. We had been hunting year-round baited turkeys for 5 days. Politely declining, we made our way back to the farmhouse to regroup.
Time For A Change
So now what? Quite frankly, we were pissed, as in season baiting is illegal. It was time to look elsewhere. Billy had 2 days left to hunt, and I had about another week. It was then that I think he reached his breaking point. With his 2 days left, he chose to get a day of rest and head out the following morning to meet up with another friend of his further east, where he was told the birds were hot. I honestly can’t say I blame him. Myself? It just wasn’t that simple. I came here with a goal, and the only acceptable consolation prize is knowing I could not have physically or mentally put in any more effort than I did.
I scoured the public land and narrowed it down to 3 spots. The first of which was a bowl putting me on the leeward side for any kind of westerly wind, with obvious roost trees in the creek bottom. I really liked this spot, but after 2 days of morning and evening hunts, it was clear the birds didn’t. Moving on to spot number two, I ended up on some high ground. Some quick scouting revealed some roost trees and a good bit of turkey droppings. I became cautiously optimistic.
A Bit Of Action
Settling in for my evening hunt, I wiped the sweat from my brow, remembering an old saying someone once told me: “If turkeys could smell, you’d never kill one”. This would surely be the case this day as the smell from inside my blind reminded me of a bad pine air freshener trying to cover up 3-week-old socks in an adolescent locker room. The sun slowly sank, and the soft yelps of a hen crept closer.
Through the sounds of a gentle breeze rustling the pines, I strained to hear the turkeys rummaging in the grass behind me. A sudden gobble jarred me from my seat, only to once again evade my setup. They eventually meandered off as they do, with again no visual of the ol’ Tom who startled me. Sunset came, so I spied through the rear window of my blind to confirm the coast was clear and tried to make a stealthy exit. If I had spooked anything on the way out, they hadn’t made it known. Immediately, I began to mentally prepare for my last day of the trip…one that I planned on being an all-day sit.
Final Day Of The Hunt
I rolled out of bed and turned on my only source of electronic entertainment. An old single-speaker alarm clock played a monotone country classic that reminded me of the background music in the diner scene of every ’80s slasher film. I purposely awoke an extra 30 minutes earlier to triple-check that I had everything. I loaded up my backpack, gathered the extra random things I would need to sit in a blind all day, and for some reason, painted my face extra black. I typically just do a couple of finger streaks to knock down the soft white of my face against a black background. Not this time. This time I went heavy on the black, reminding myself of the scene in Rambo where he’s hiding in the mud and you don’t see a thing until his eyes suddenly open. Instead of the local sheriff, it was a Merriam I was after.
Gobbles In The Fog
The heavy fog had soaked everything. Would it be business as usual or would things change for some reason? The wait for that first gobble was agonizing. Then it happened. One by one, they began to sound off. Somewhat separated, the gobbles were in various locations, which was a new occurrence and definitely in my favor. The bad thing? They were ALL on the other side of an impassable ravine. My hopes dashed for the morning. I settled back into my stool and tried to enjoy the awakening of the Nebraska woods. The sun rose, the fog lifted, and the birds silenced. I just pictured the day’s events slowly rolling by. Maybe tonight is the night.
My thoughts were interrupted by two gobbles that seemed closer than the rest. They weren’t far, but they were still across the ravine. There was something about the way they were gobbling that was different than the previous days. It was more frequent, more desperate. Maybe they were alone. I gave some soft yelps with my mouth call, and like I’d hoped, they cut me off. Billy had taught me that often times, less is more. Tease them. Leave them wanting more. So over a period of an hour and a half, they hammered out gobbles every 10 minutes. In that hour and a half, I answered them 3 times. And like the saying goes, the 3rd time was the charm.
I let out a small series of yelps, heard the unmistakable flap of wings, and across the ravine, they flew. I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed. There were two of them, now on my side, obviously worked up, but still out of sight. This is it. Trying to stay focused, I sifted through the mental checklist of what needed to happen next. Having the privilege of slinging one of these gorgeous birds over my shoulder would mean having every outdoorsman’s fairy tale ending of last day redemption.
Gametime
I waited. For an excruciating 10 minutes, I waited. A few soft clucks on the diaphragm, and the woods erupted. Almost simultaneously, I saw two redheads float above the gentle rise, heading straight for my decoys. As if they were a large crank bait, they wobbled back and forth like they were being reeled in too fast by some inexperienced fisherman. The two Toms headed straight toward my Jake decoy, where they proceeded to annihilate it. Taking turns jumping and spurring, they were clearly preoccupied enough that I was able to draw my bow. Trying to determine which one was the better bird, I made the conscious decision that both were Toms, and I’d take whichever presented the best shot. The bird on the right stopped facing directly away from me, and I released the arrow.
Finally, Success!
At only 12 steps, the arrow found its mark, and the bird toppled only 5 yards from the decoys. The other Tom ran and began to strut, maintaining his distance, never getting closer than 40 yards and eventually making his way along the ridge. It was done. All the predatory instincts, the calm, calculated decisions, fell by the wayside. I was a mess. Trembling from the adrenaline dump, I set down my bow and unzipped the back of my blind. My senses were so keen. I could hear gobblers in the distance and hens on the next ridge. I could smell the pines and feel the dampness. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment as I approached what had been my feathered nemesis for the last 2 weeks.
After carrying him into the open grass, I made some coffee and smiled while I sipped, knowing how “lucky” I was.
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