Charter Member Professional Outdoor Media Association
As we wade through these unprecedented times of trouble, a daily sameness has developed courtesy of the things we can no longer do. Penned up, hemmed in, or locked down – whatever one calls it, we are all living it. However, those of us living in rural America have the means to escape the madness of solitary existence, because our land offers the get-away we all crave. There is always another chore to cross off the list. And, then there’s hunting.
With a backpack full of gear and enough coffee to float a boat, and my trusty shotgun slung over my shoulder, I began the walk in darkness with a full bevy of stars overhead. The yellow-orange sliver of moon to the east stopped me in my tracks – sort of a smelling-of-roses moment that I had to take in and appreciate. If this was confinement, it was good.
In the darkness I stepped off 28 yards and poked my lone hen decoy into the soft earth. The tight confines of my portable blind would provide an open window to a world unaffected by the hysteria that we’ve all come to know in one way or the other.
A hard frost had descended upon the sprouting legume vegetation of the field before me and the welcome comfort of the propane heater and hot coffee melted the crispy beginning in short order. The annoying sounds of jets flying overhead and the typical din of highway traffic were non-existent; only the melodious yodeling of myriad robins whistling their favorite springtime tunes could be heard.
The large blind allowed for a tripod and camera to be my sidekicks and the remaining gear was positioned strategically within reach. I made mental notes of certain trees – measured from the blind with a rangefinder – as limits for any ethical shots.
It didn’t take long for the action to heat up. A single hen came from the woods, noticed the decoy and strolled past. Then another followed and finally another hen entered the destination field, and this one was content to hunt and peck in the vicinity. Oh, yeah. A live decoy!
Without a sound an adult gobbler debuted and focused his attention on the single hen. Fanned out, puffed up and strutting back and forth, the energetic male used every trick in the book to gain a response from a potential mate – all to no avail, as the unimpressed hen vanished into cover. The minute she left, the gobbler’s attention was entirely directed to my rubber trickster.
I recognized the young, adult bird from scouting episodes because of a certain style of its beard hanging to one side and the one-inch spurs it was sporting. Being opening day, I would let this guy continue his involuntary dance routine to his heart’s desire in hopes that he’d survive for another season.
I even messed with his brain a bit by scratching out a few hen calls when he wasn’t too close to me just to elicit a few gobbles. Although it wouldn’t usually be wise to run the risk of detection, I didn’t care. And, he didn’t get it.
The bird never really figured out that decoy and hung around me for quite a while. But, when he strolled by my hideout a mere 10 feet away, we made eye contact. With that, the young gobbler did the double-time step right out of view.
Soon thereafter, four jakes (one year-old males) got up enough nerve to court the rubber princess and were eventually numb to its lack of reciprocation. When they finally left my presence, I hiked away in the early afternoon.
