By Glen Wunderlich Outdoor Columnist Member Professional Outdoor Media Association
In real estate lingo, three words of wisdom apply to value: location, location, location. When it comes to hunting turkeys, no truer words were ever spoken. Extra-full chokes in big-bore barrels, innovative calling devices, camouflage clothing, face paint, magnum loads, concealment, decoys and any other trick one may employ to bust a bird mean nothing, if the turkeys dance the two-step in the next county.
Speculating why gobblers were not roosting where they had been for years made for good conversation but did little to satisfy my penchant for glazed drumsticks. Within our controlled environment, we even tried moving the portable blind; however, that proved as fruitful as moving the boat around in Lake Huron, when the goal was to land a tarpon. I wanted to believe that a gobbler would come looking for love, but time was running out in this late season.
Finally, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. No, it wasn’t ol’ Tom, but none other than neighbor John Buck, who I spotted walking across my home’s lawn. It turned out that John was looking for me to discuss business. Once we got the details ironed out, I asked him if anyone was hunting the turkeys on his land, which I had been observing in drive-by mode for several months. It was as if John had read my mind and when he offered the opportunity, I reacted in typical child-like delight, as his eyebrows jumped in response.
Never having the opportunity to hunt his land, I surveyed the situation from the road, purposely avoiding any chance at spooking anything while scouting for a hideout the evening before. A lone hickory tree surrounded by knee-high weeds in the newly planted field would be my backdrop. My plan was to call a bird within range from the field’s edge.
The rainy weather being predicted overnight for my new “opening day” compelled me to set up a portable chair blind in the 5-am darkness about 30 yards from my lone hen decoy. Attached to my Mossberg’s barrel was an innovative gadget called the V-Pod, by Hunter’s Specialties. The telescoping monopod with bipod feet attaches to the barrel, while a holster holds the gun’s stock hands-free at the ready. All of this allows the muzzle to be pointed to the target while calling. It was just the ticket.
My call for the trickery was a special one, too. I met inventor Jim Moss last year in St. Louis, Missouri at an outdoor media event and he explained how he used an oscilloscope to measure sound waves of his new Ring Zone ceramic call marketed by Hunter’s Specialties. He then opened a brand new package, took out a felt marker, signed the friction surface, and handed it to me. It was the only call chosen for this day.
Still dark, the gobbling commenced. So did the thrill, as the hairs on the back of my neck involuntarily responded. They kept it up; I smiled.
At first light I could make out movement on the ground 150 yards east of my ambush site. It was so dark, I couldn’t be sure they were even turkeys, let alone if a gobbler was one of the two in sight. The Ring Zone call established someone was interested, as a hearty gobble broke the silence of the misty, still air. I filled the heavy, moisture-laden air with notes of love and the two birds began their fateful stroll.
At 100 yards I could see that one bird’s beard was decidedly longer than the other’s and his dominance kept his subordinate pal behind him. The big fella was on a mission and his stretched out neck pointed the direction to my deceitful decoy. My heart pounded, while the slow-motion approach was now greeted with purposeful silence from the blind – that is, until the magnum load of 5s interrupted the solitude of the peaceful paradise. I realized ol’ Tom was no lightweight, as I changed carrying positions several times while departing the field. And, my digital scale confirmed what I had already suspected: A hefty 21.13 pounds of feathers, breast meat and drumsticks. The beard measured just over 10 inches and ruler indicated a bit over 1-inch spurs – enough to minimally qualify as an entry into Commemorative Bucks of Michigan’s record book, if I choose to make it official. (Commemorative Bucks compiles records for not only bucks, but turkeys, too.)
Unlike fish, however, I can keep the evidence and still enjoy a wild-game dinner. And, that’s just what I’ll do.
