THE ITHACA GOBBLER
SPRING 1999
It was Friday well before dawn, the first week of the season. I took a vacation day to turkey hunt, hopeful to get a jump on other hunters who would undoubtedly intrude into that section of property, though it was privately owned. I loaded the '95 Ranger with my lunch and turkey vest loaded with calls, water and two ultra lightweight decoys stuffed in the back. My 20 gauge safely in its case, I tucked it and a box of shells behind the cab.
Most folks use a 12 gauge but I got a deal on a used, very nice Ithaca semi-auto 20 gauge pump shotgun. Its action was smooth and the solid walnut stock gleamed after a good rubdown. I was ecstatic to own my first real gun after lifelong borrowing to hunt. No men's own shotgun would fit me, being a short woman, so any loaner was appreciated but uncomfortable. I finally had a gun that fit me and was raring to go.
Driving the hour through sleeping small towns and winding narrow blacktop roads, I slowed into 4th gear to turn onto the last stretch of gravel roads that led to the 'Peachtree Orchard', aptly named because a line of peach trees were next to the boundary wire fence. Drank a final swig of warm coffee, I made a mental list in my haste to walk across the open pasture.
It was soon approaching daybreak -- my hair stood on end -- the gobble was just over the first hill. My heart raced as I quickly sat next to a downed tree and readied myself. I remembered the decoys folded inside my vest once I leaned on them. Nope. I didn't have time or that tom might see me if it came over the hill. I gathered my senses, got out my box call, struck several notes on the big 'locater' call for the gobbler beyond the hill. No reply. Leaning to see in any direction, I couldn't see. By then it was sunrise and I saw I was in a ditch, not in a good vantage point.
I opted to move. Within several minutes of maneuvering through fallen trees and crags of the creek, using my gun as a walking staff I hoisted myself out of the ditch. Already sweating, I stuffed my jacket into my pack.
The sun shown bright and I saw no brown dot amidst the green that signified a big tom. This pasture was huge with many single standing trees, nooks and little creek-run ditches. Remaining undercover I zig-zagged up the hill toward the fence line. It was an arduous walk but from that section of fence I would be able to see across many acres and the Hedge Apple trees were excellent cover for the remainder of my morning hunt.
Seeming to walk up the vast hill for hours, I crawled under the group of Hedge Apples. I welcomed a rest. I was very glad the trees were thornless... making myself comfortable in the soft grass, satisfied I chose this spot. Time for a break. I examined the little hidey-hole from the inside, it was possible the gobbler from that morning may show up again. I took a nap waiting to hear an unnerving gobble.
Later, I awoke to hear Bluejays fight and squirrels chatter. I ate my lunch and watched a pair of hawks soaring aloft in search of mice or a rabbit. All was otherwise quiet. I noted the time, only because Missouri law dictates turkey hunting closes at 1 p.m.... the clock was ticking.
I grabbed the gun and crawled out of the scrub brush that had been my little refuge; time to check out the hillside and investigate beyond the trees. I figured sometimes you can sneak up on them, Indian-style. I always feel tingly when doing the sneak 'n peak, as though my ancestors are guiding me, where to go, from their celestial hunting grounds. That is a most difficult feeling to explain to a man, unless he's a hunter who also senses his drive is not so learned as it is instinctive. Due to our sensitivity, I believe women have the tendency to be better hunters than men...
I crept along the brush, but I could not see without crossing the fence. Luckily it wan't barbed wire and its bottom wire was loose, likely from deer pushing upon it, so I squeezed under the fence with nary enough room for my pack, gun laid down first. I shook my head thinking how odd to build a fence below the hilltop. I paused to peek over the crest of the slope, its rise would hide me from a turkey's sight and just maybe I could see it first. My senses were tingling in hyper mode.
I gasped - it gobbled. A second gobble! I had never been up this hill -- damnit! I quickly scanned the narrow plateau - sit where?? I could not see them but their gobbles came from down the hill, past the bank of trees that I was next to once on that side of that rickety fence. Squatting low, I hit the little box 'yelp' call trying to cut them off. All I heard in reply was two little chirps -- that was enough -- it rattled me into action. I scooted 'coon-style into a tree half-fallen down from a thunderstorm, to hide under it, covering my legs with torn branches and dead leaves. I anchored my feet against a limb lodged on the ground; propped my knees up, ready to shoot. I steadied the 20 gauge on my knee as still as stone. My heart was pounding out of my chest! My finger clicked the safety OFF. I could not see or hear any more. I kept still with my shotgun resting on my knee, moving only my eyes to peer into the bright green buds of the bushes below the plateau.
Glanced at my watch, damn near time to stop; ignoring it I gripped the gun harder. He had not answered my last call -- I thought, where was that bird? I sat straining my ears for the slightest sound of rustling leaves and branches getting swiped by his ambling.
My eyes got big as my mouth dropped! His head popped into view -- he walked steadily up the hill with strength of a bull, heading straight towards me. I gripped the shotgun as well as my shaking hands could, and dug my boot heels into the solid hard dirt. The gobbler's bright red wattle and beard dangled as he got close enough I centered the bead on his head -- his gobble exploded again -- it seemed to look right at me. I pressed my cheek into the stock, my back into the tree and whispered, "God bless this bullet". My finger pressed hard on the trigger. It blasted in my ear!
A deafening flock of all the other hens and young jakes down the hill below the trees took off en masse like a troop of helicopters. I stood up amazed as I watched the sight of turkeys scatter in flight into the next section of timber.
And the big boy of 'em all lay flopping its huge wings and legs, making this ol' big tom mad at a fake jake call so it was his last gobble. I shot the big one! They are very unpredictable critters and I had gotten right into them only eighty yards away!
Well, it was then time to pack up my bird and head for home to clean it. My heart palpitations slowed, I collected my senses and gear so I began the long but triumphant trek back to the truck. Once home, an hour and a half later, that big brown bird topped twenty-one pounds.
However, regretfully back-in-the-day there weren't cell phones and I didn't get a picture as I do of everything nowadays. Suffice it to say, that bird fed my family for several meals. My kids love Mum's roast wild turkey.
Driving the hour through sleeping small towns and winding narrow blacktop roads, I slowed into 4th gear to turn onto the last stretch of gravel roads that led to the 'Peachtree Orchard', aptly named because a line of peach trees were next to the boundary wire fence. Drank a final swig of warm coffee, I made a mental list in my haste to walk across the open pasture.
It was soon approaching daybreak -- my hair stood on end -- the gobble was just over the first hill. My heart raced as I quickly sat next to a downed tree and readied myself. I remembered the decoys folded inside my vest once I leaned on them. Nope. I didn't have time or that tom might see me if it came over the hill. I gathered my senses, got out my box call, struck several notes on the big 'locater' call for the gobbler beyond the hill. No reply. Leaning to see in any direction, I couldn't see. By then it was sunrise and I saw I was in a ditch, not in a good vantage point.
I opted to move. Within several minutes of maneuvering through fallen trees and crags of the creek, using my gun as a walking staff I hoisted myself out of the ditch. Already sweating, I stuffed my jacket into my pack.
The sun shown bright and I saw no brown dot amidst the green that signified a big tom. This pasture was huge with many single standing trees, nooks and little creek-run ditches. Remaining undercover I zig-zagged up the hill toward the fence line. It was an arduous walk but from that section of fence I would be able to see across many acres and the Hedge Apple trees were excellent cover for the remainder of my morning hunt.
Seeming to walk up the vast hill for hours, I crawled under the group of Hedge Apples. I welcomed a rest. I was very glad the trees were thornless... making myself comfortable in the soft grass, satisfied I chose this spot. Time for a break. I examined the little hidey-hole from the inside, it was possible the gobbler from that morning may show up again. I took a nap waiting to hear an unnerving gobble.
Later, I awoke to hear Bluejays fight and squirrels chatter. I ate my lunch and watched a pair of hawks soaring aloft in search of mice or a rabbit. All was otherwise quiet. I noted the time, only because Missouri law dictates turkey hunting closes at 1 p.m.... the clock was ticking.
I grabbed the gun and crawled out of the scrub brush that had been my little refuge; time to check out the hillside and investigate beyond the trees. I figured sometimes you can sneak up on them, Indian-style. I always feel tingly when doing the sneak 'n peak, as though my ancestors are guiding me, where to go, from their celestial hunting grounds. That is a most difficult feeling to explain to a man, unless he's a hunter who also senses his drive is not so learned as it is instinctive. Due to our sensitivity, I believe women have the tendency to be better hunters than men...
I crept along the brush, but I could not see without crossing the fence. Luckily it wan't barbed wire and its bottom wire was loose, likely from deer pushing upon it, so I squeezed under the fence with nary enough room for my pack, gun laid down first. I shook my head thinking how odd to build a fence below the hilltop. I paused to peek over the crest of the slope, its rise would hide me from a turkey's sight and just maybe I could see it first. My senses were tingling in hyper mode.
I gasped - it gobbled. A second gobble! I had never been up this hill -- damnit! I quickly scanned the narrow plateau - sit where?? I could not see them but their gobbles came from down the hill, past the bank of trees that I was next to once on that side of that rickety fence. Squatting low, I hit the little box 'yelp' call trying to cut them off. All I heard in reply was two little chirps -- that was enough -- it rattled me into action. I scooted 'coon-style into a tree half-fallen down from a thunderstorm, to hide under it, covering my legs with torn branches and dead leaves. I anchored my feet against a limb lodged on the ground; propped my knees up, ready to shoot. I steadied the 20 gauge on my knee as still as stone. My heart was pounding out of my chest! My finger clicked the safety OFF. I could not see or hear any more. I kept still with my shotgun resting on my knee, moving only my eyes to peer into the bright green buds of the bushes below the plateau.
Glanced at my watch, damn near time to stop; ignoring it I gripped the gun harder. He had not answered my last call -- I thought, where was that bird? I sat straining my ears for the slightest sound of rustling leaves and branches getting swiped by his ambling.
My eyes got big as my mouth dropped! His head popped into view -- he walked steadily up the hill with strength of a bull, heading straight towards me. I gripped the shotgun as well as my shaking hands could, and dug my boot heels into the solid hard dirt. The gobbler's bright red wattle and beard dangled as he got close enough I centered the bead on his head -- his gobble exploded again -- it seemed to look right at me. I pressed my cheek into the stock, my back into the tree and whispered, "God bless this bullet". My finger pressed hard on the trigger. It blasted in my ear!A deafening flock of all the other hens and young jakes down the hill below the trees took off en masse like a troop of helicopters. I stood up amazed as I watched the sight of turkeys scatter in flight into the next section of timber.
And the big boy of 'em all lay flopping its huge wings and legs, making this ol' big tom mad at a fake jake call so it was his last gobble. I shot the big one! They are very unpredictable critters and I had gotten right into them only eighty yards away!
Well, it was then time to pack up my bird and head for home to clean it. My heart palpitations slowed, I collected my senses and gear so I began the long but triumphant trek back to the truck. Once home, an hour and a half later, that big brown bird topped twenty-one pounds.
However, regretfully back-in-the-day there weren't cell phones and I didn't get a picture as I do of everything nowadays. Suffice it to say, that bird fed my family for several meals. My kids love Mum's roast wild turkey.
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