FIRST TURKEY HUNT AFTER SURGERY
Spring 2014
It had been six weeks after my mastectomy -- turkey season would open at sunrise, April 21st. Being layed up for pert'near two months, I was ready to roll out the door. I knew of a spot populated with large gobblers, so familiar with those fields I can walk in before day's light without a headlamp. (The best tactic not to alert roosting birds.) Spring was a welcome sight after deep snows and frigid cold. I dreamt of hunting turkey. But 2014 was not the norm after February 12th.
In the nighttime after dinner, my husband watched his hunting shows before work while I was online double checking the locations I could hunt. I plotted mileage to drive and yards to walk in for several set ups. Typically, my favorite area is a 3/4 mile walk. But being a favorite wasn't my top priority this spring due to regaining my strength, still low after surgery. I tried to plot for less strenuous plans: A, B and even C. I had no idea how it would all pan out. I had never missed a season since I began turkey hunting; I was excited, anxious but sometimes I try to plan too much. I decided to relax and just play it by ear.
Hurriedly, I bought my tags online and that night organized my gear. I showed Ed where I planned to go. Safety always first. He promised to have plenty of gas in the Jeep so I wouldn't have to stop for that along the way.
Waiting for Ed to pull in, almost nine o'clock, I felt urgent. I drove like Mario Andretti along the narrow blacktop, barely slowing the Jeep to slide around the tight curves on the way to Smithville Lake. Two toms fighting, running up the hill towards me two years ago were in my memory -- I itched to see more of that. I pulled into the gravel drive and my heart sank. Damn. A truck was already parked there. It figured.
I did a U'ey to head up the first gravel road I had passed. Big fields and timber and some creeks, only a few houses, I thought outloud, pulling into one of the drives. Scanning the field, it looked promising with timber at the bottom of the slope. The grass was wet from yesterday's rain; I was glad I wore waterproof boots. The eternal optimist, telling myself, 'let's see what's down there and just hope you don't bust any damn birds'.
Surveying the field as I briskly crossed it into the timber, I quickly set up my foldable hen decoy in the grass. I settled under a tree slightly wider than me, somewhat satisfied of this area's gobbler potential. Scanning past the field with binoculars, I searched through the trees for the slightest hint of a brown bird. Nothing. I was restless. In fact, I didn't like the view from where I sat under my tree at all. Then I heard a distant gobble behind me. Ahah! I answered it with my box call. A minute later, it gobbled again but it seemed farther away. I repeated my call. No response.
My impatience got the better of me -- I picked up my gun and hastily moved to a better tree, closer to the field edge. My nerves began to relax and I started to doze with the sun's warmth washing my face. But that meant I was in full view of any bird perched in its roost, so I slid myself in the grass around to the shady side of the tree, facing the timber. That was better -- I could see what was once behind me, any bird on the slope and a bird to my left on the slope out in the field.
I stroked the box call loud. A gobble!! Yes! It came from across the road over the crest of the slope, maybe 200 yards directly in front of me. I called again. A second reply. The first tom behind the woods evidently had hens with him, not gobbling any more. I pictured the tom in front, beyond the crest of the hill, trouble was it was across two fences and the road -- no turkey was likely to come waltzing in with such obstacles -- not worth me getting excited about. I settled back down, gun on my lap.
Even in the shade, the morning had gotten warm that I felt so groggy with sleep. I gave up on both gobblers coming in. After a few restful minutes I hoisted my body to stand up and in that instant a huge bruiser of a gobbler flew directly over my head like a dive bomber fighter jet so low I could see its red head! My head snapped to turn to watch it fly over. Its black shadow sailed through the tree tops and somewhere beyond to its grassy airport. Shocked and dismayed that the one bird I had dismissed had just torpedoed over my head, I swore. Turkeys will not jump a fence. I concluded that turkey had flown into the same line of trees at the Jeep, across the fences and seen me stand up when idget me thinking it was a no-go. I knew better. But it was gone. I furiously tucked the lone 'dec' into my vest, shouldered my gun and slowly trudged across the field to explore for another set up.
Plunged through the grass as it got deeper through a drainage ditch I tried to cross. It was difficult tromping in quicksandy mush. I was winded and needed to rest without a stump to sit on, dizzy and exhausted sliding in mud -- I lost my footing, clumsily stepped into a muddy old gopher hole. My boot instantly sank into ice cold water past my ankle. I fell headfirst into the wet grass as my shotgun flew off my shoulder. A spindly pinetree branch swiped my hat and glasses off as I fell, both stuck on the pine bough dangling like a feather.
My own dumb luck from a lifetime of clumsiness, I gained fast reflexes and even with that slip, kept me from catapulting into more mud. I snagged my glasses and stuck my hat in a pocket, angrily grabbed the shotgun by the strap stomped uphill toward the Jeep. I had to dry off. Very worn down, it was time for a lunch break.
It was a seemingly mountainous trek, across that one field, I reached the vehicle, my whole body shook with exhaustion. I collapsed into the passenger seat. I quickly pulled my wet socked foot from the boot, cranked the motor and heater to dry it off. Tired to the bone, I sipped warm coffee, savored every bite of a sandwich. I pushed the seat back and slept with the window cracked open and the motor running, the shotgun laid in the driver seat.
11ish, I woke a bit rested, relieved my boot and sock was dry. Finishing my coffee, I drove down the road. I had given it 'the old college try'; saw Mr. Thunderchicken even though he obviously saw me first, at least got some much needed exercise and good fresh air. Better luck next time, maybe the coming weekend with my husband. And Plan C.
All morning, my Irish good luck was evasive, still so exhausted I parked the Jeep in the drive next to a cattle field and watched the clouds roll by. The sun had warmed the wet grass; the cool spring breeze calmed my disappointment of the morning. It was gone just as that tom. I climbed atop the Jeep hood for a photo of the field, marveling at the budding lushness, a striking view in my eyes. Of course I also scanned the treeline for any sign of a gobbler that I could hunt but more out of habit -- I resigned that I was simply too worn out. I had learned my limit that day.
I walked around the bottom field with deer beds and trails etched throughout, the grass taller than me. I reached the tree I had sat under one year ago. Exhausted, out of breath; I was perturbed I had no stamina to continue. So worn and discouraged, I had that silly urge to cry, but that wouldn't help. I collapsed down in the dry leaves, soft grass under my hair, dropped my shotgun beside me.
My legs trembled. Weary. I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, dozed settled deep in the grass. My discouragement subsided -- restless, I stretched my legs to stand up -- tremendous effort to get up, carrying the gun was a strain for my chest -- gasping a breath against burning pain, I used the gun to hoist my body upright. I was weak and slothful making the very slow journey out of the valley, back to the Jeep. I had wanted to join Ed in the timber across the valley. Not happening. Impossible -- it's going to be a longer, harder road to recover than I was ever prepared for.
Rather than push harder, I walked as if still-hunting, taking my time to listen to the birds, trudged one step at a time up the long grassy slope taking photos to distract me from sheer tiredness, using my gun to steady my wobbly legs. The wind was cool on my face, the sun warm on my shoulders as hunting neared to a close for that day. Any other time I'd be pushing for turkey, but my mode resigned calmly into the need to quietly rest that day... enough frustration, time for Ms. Huntress to rest.
Being disabled, recuperating all began to sink in; evidently it would take many months to rebuild my strength, not in a single month or two. My doctor had tried to forewarn me of the challenges. Going hunting anyway just proved what a person can do with the heart to do it.
It's not a sad ending, however truthful what it was like to venture out turkey hunting so early after Waiting for Ed to pull in, almost nine o'clock, I felt urgent. I drove like Mario Andretti along the narrow blacktop, barely slowing the Jeep to slide around the tight curves on the way to Smithville Lake. Two toms fighting, running up the hill towards me two years ago were in my memory -- I itched to see more of that. I pulled into the gravel drive and my heart sank. Damn. A truck was already parked there. It figured.
I did a U'ey to head up the first gravel road I had passed. Big fields and timber and some creeks, only a few houses, I thought outloud, pulling into one of the drives. Scanning the field, it looked promising with timber at the bottom of the slope. The grass was wet from yesterday's rain; I was glad I wore waterproof boots. The eternal optimist, telling myself, 'let's see what's down there and just hope you don't bust any damn birds'.
Surveying the field as I briskly crossed it into the timber, I quickly set up my foldable hen decoy in the grass. I settled under a tree slightly wider than me, somewhat satisfied of this area's gobbler potential. Scanning past the field with binoculars, I searched through the trees for the slightest hint of a brown bird. Nothing. I was restless. In fact, I didn't like the view from where I sat under my tree at all. Then I heard a distant gobble behind me. Ahah! I answered it with my box call. A minute later, it gobbled again but it seemed farther away. I repeated my call. No response.
My impatience got the better of me -- I picked up my gun and hastily moved to a better tree, closer to the field edge. My nerves began to relax and I started to doze with the sun's warmth washing my face. But that meant I was in full view of any bird perched in its roost, so I slid myself in the grass around to the shady side of the tree, facing the timber. That was better -- I could see what was once behind me, any bird on the slope and a bird to my left on the slope out in the field.
I stroked the box call loud. A gobble!! Yes! It came from across the road over the crest of the slope, maybe 200 yards directly in front of me. I called again. A second reply. The first tom behind the woods evidently had hens with him, not gobbling any more. I pictured the tom in front, beyond the crest of the hill, trouble was it was across two fences and the road -- no turkey was likely to come waltzing in with such obstacles -- not worth me getting excited about. I settled back down, gun on my lap.
Even in the shade, the morning had gotten warm that I felt so groggy with sleep. I gave up on both gobblers coming in. After a few restful minutes I hoisted my body to stand up and in that instant a huge bruiser of a gobbler flew directly over my head like a dive bomber fighter jet so low I could see its red head! My head snapped to turn to watch it fly over. Its black shadow sailed through the tree tops and somewhere beyond to its grassy airport. Shocked and dismayed that the one bird I had dismissed had just torpedoed over my head, I swore. Turkeys will not jump a fence. I concluded that turkey had flown into the same line of trees at the Jeep, across the fences and seen me stand up when idget me thinking it was a no-go. I knew better. But it was gone. I furiously tucked the lone 'dec' into my vest, shouldered my gun and slowly trudged across the field to explore for another set up.
Plunged through the grass as it got deeper through a drainage ditch I tried to cross. It was difficult tromping in quicksandy mush. I was winded and needed to rest without a stump to sit on, dizzy and exhausted sliding in mud -- I lost my footing, clumsily stepped into a muddy old gopher hole. My boot instantly sank into ice cold water past my ankle. I fell headfirst into the wet grass as my shotgun flew off my shoulder. A spindly pinetree branch swiped my hat and glasses off as I fell, both stuck on the pine bough dangling like a feather.
My own dumb luck from a lifetime of clumsiness, I gained fast reflexes and even with that slip, kept me from catapulting into more mud. I snagged my glasses and stuck my hat in a pocket, angrily grabbed the shotgun by the strap stomped uphill toward the Jeep. I had to dry off. Very worn down, it was time for a lunch break.
It was a seemingly mountainous trek, across that one field, I reached the vehicle, my whole body shook with exhaustion. I collapsed into the passenger seat. I quickly pulled my wet socked foot from the boot, cranked the motor and heater to dry it off. Tired to the bone, I sipped warm coffee, savored every bite of a sandwich. I pushed the seat back and slept with the window cracked open and the motor running, the shotgun laid in the driver seat.
 |
| view from the Jeep |
All morning, my Irish good luck was evasive, still so exhausted I parked the Jeep in the drive next to a cattle field and watched the clouds roll by. The sun had warmed the wet grass; the cool spring breeze calmed my disappointment of the morning. It was gone just as that tom. I climbed atop the Jeep hood for a photo of the field, marveling at the budding lushness, a striking view in my eyes. Of course I also scanned the treeline for any sign of a gobbler that I could hunt but more out of habit -- I resigned that I was simply too worn out. I had learned my limit that day.
Later that season, Ed and I hunted a conservation area south of Kansas City. I didn't fall into a hole, but I returned to the vehicle early to rest, taking photos of spring.
My legs trembled. Weary. I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, dozed settled deep in the grass. My discouragement subsided -- restless, I stretched my legs to stand up -- tremendous effort to get up, carrying the gun was a strain for my chest -- gasping a breath against burning pain, I used the gun to hoist my body upright. I was weak and slothful making the very slow journey out of the valley, back to the Jeep. I had wanted to join Ed in the timber across the valley. Not happening. Impossible -- it's going to be a longer, harder road to recover than I was ever prepared for.
Rather than push harder, I walked as if still-hunting, taking my time to listen to the birds, trudged one step at a time up the long grassy slope taking photos to distract me from sheer tiredness, using my gun to steady my wobbly legs. The wind was cool on my face, the sun warm on my shoulders as hunting neared to a close for that day. Any other time I'd be pushing for turkey, but my mode resigned calmly into the need to quietly rest that day... enough frustration, time for Ms. Huntress to rest.
Being disabled, recuperating all began to sink in; evidently it would take many months to rebuild my strength, not in a single month or two. My doctor had tried to forewarn me of the challenges. Going hunting anyway just proved what a person can do with the heart to do it.
a mastectomy. I don't regret going, I'm a stubborn woman so I'd rather go and be unsuccessful than be tied to the house not goin' anywhere at all.