By Glen Wunderlich Outdoor Columnist Member Professional Outdoor Media Association
Giving up turkey hunting’s opening day this early season to call for a good friend was followed up with another calling session for another relative newcomer opening weekend. This time, however, I made the trek to the hideout on my own; with the final week of the season dawning, I was the gunner – and, caller.
I expected to be rewarded with yet another unique adventure afield, because that’s how it always has been and always will be; knowing the details, however, that’s another matter, but that’s the beauty of any outdoor experience.
This hunt began to get interesting shortly after setting my lone hen decoy in front of my blind some 24 yards out front. Two birds appeared at the edge of their destination field and began a double-time approach, as they spotted my tricky, inanimate accomplice. A closer look revealed a scrawny 6-inch beard on one. An even closer look told me it was a hen. Yep, a bearded hen.
I knew such a phenomenon occurred in nature but I didn’t know much else about the legal bird. It was an easy call to hold off, because odd as it may have been, it just didn’t seem to be much of a trophy. The body was typical hen sized: small. And, what if I was killing a potential brood raiser? (Research indicates about 10 percent of adult hens sport beards, some have spurs, and generally produce normal broods). I did good.
As the morning progressed, circus girl and her friend were quite content with their surroundings – enough so to set up camp about 10 feet in front of me. Nothing’s better than live decoys; but, nothing’s worse than having them close enough to spot any potential movement. Yet, I didn’t want to scare them off.
Then things got weirder, as 3 crows descended into the legume plot. Intent on a hearty breakfast of worms, they kept their distance from the odd couple near my blind. I knew I was totally boxed in and would never be able to move a muscle, as the three amigos proceeded to within 12 yards paralleling my set up.
It seemed like an hour before the coast had cleared, and try as I might to coax in a lone gobbler, he never showed. By 11 am the temperature was approaching 80 degrees, I was out of drink, and had had enough.
My next opportunity would be Friday, May 1st. This time, my friend, Doug Schaberg attended the morning serenade of songbirds along the brisk march to the blind for what I hoped would be thrill enough to hook Doug into the pursuit of ol’ Tom. You see, Doug tried turkey hunting a couple of times and never caught the disease. All of that was about to change forever!
Atop a distant hill two hens paraded away from us; as is often the case, 2 adult toms followed from a distance. I worked the magic wand of my H.S. Strut slate call and actually got the bachelors to change plans and turn around. They stretched their necks like accordions and gobbled for effect, but were not in position to locate my decoy. Eventually, the pair lost interest and departed.
Less than a hour later, an unmistakable gobble seemed to be sent directly to me so I sounded the love response. As I strained to get a view, the twin longbeards materialized about 125 yards away directly in line with my plastic partner. A stout load of 6 shot powered by Winchester, dropped the 10.25-inch-bearded tom at 35 yards. Doing so signaled the end of my season, but Doug’s turkey hunting career may well have just begun in earnest.
