GETTING LOST AT URICH

It's a wonder there's any game in these woods at all bein's it's wicked wilderness so thick with brush you can't see past thirty yards..  

Big deer abound in river bottoms and its hillsides, often coming into the upper fields to feed at night, there at Urich Conservation Area. Flocks of turkey roost in the oaks and tall sycamore trees in the surrounding flood-prone bottoms that more resembles a swamp than a creek. We were after those birds.

A few years back in the fall, I guess my husband just wanted to show me around so he motioned me to stay close -- we didn't split up -- alright by me, I didn't want to wander by myself till I knew the area better. Too easy to get lost in those bottoms, gave me the willies.  We hiked down the steep, bare path winding into the creek basin, shotguns in hand, turkey hunting in the swamp during a dry spell. 

Obviously my husband had hunted this before; Ed knew the way, was surefooted, not slowing down. He used his shotgun as a swathe at the spiderwebs entwined with the lower spindly vines and tree branches. Nobody had disturbed the pathway for months. I was forced to hold onto a sapling for support a time or two. The path being a run-off ditch had moss-covered rocks and it got steep. My husband was already in the dry creek bed far below. With careful steps I made my way to join him while I scanned the wide holler, noticing everything was brown and dead-looking.

Those spiderwebs sparkled in the dappled sunlight. Only a few squirrels bounced about overhead. I caught a glimpse of a blue heron swiftly gliding over the tree tops in search of fish in the creek beyond our realm of sight. It flew silently. The ravine was quiet. It was as eerie as a haunted forest with all the twisted, fallen down trees scattered about from raging flood waters last spring. Huge piles of decaying debris lay on the bare dirt. Previous storms' torrential currents had thrown those tree trunks like pixie sticks. Flood water is a powerful force. The holler was downright creepy. I half expected the 'Headless Horseman to come charging out at us... 

Big Creek, Urich CA

I don't think my husband noticed. But if you've ever got turned around in swamps or hunting river bottoms, you know that feeling. Every tree looks the same so it's all too easy to lose your bearing.

 

Cell signal is unreliable, hence a GPS may be useless. It takes guts and keeping your wits about you to venture through such a quagmire of timber; tying a blaze orange tag to identify the route is essential there. Getting lost at night, you may wind up snuggled under a tree for shelter till the light of day enables your sight again.

It wasn't long walking in the rugged trenches that even my husband's inherent radar got turned back-asswards for a ways. I prayed he regained his bearing. I remained silent and he paid no mind that I knew we had gotten lost. We kept walking slowly with deliberation; he glanced about for sign of Big Creek. 

 

The dense forest canopy made it appear gloomy, darker compared to the hours before sunset in an open field. I was spooked and I couldn't hold my tongue another minute of wandering. I let him know it. To this day, he won't admit he was lost, if only for a second. Only one other spot, next to the Missouri River we've hunted will screw up your senses as much - makes the hair on my neck prickle. The woods rule.

No breeze. The ground was soft clay. The dry silt and piles of branches were decayed with moss. Everything was mushy, so aside from the crinkled swish of a few fallen leaves under our mud-pacs as we walked, the gloomy woods was still.  

Our purpose to find the creek changed abruptly. 
  
You know how it goes, searching for those "lost" whatchamacallits....  We all holler out, "found 'em!" and everyone stops looking underneath the piles of other lost accumulated stuff. Diff'rnt for turkey hunters. We don't holler. 

We both heard it. Hunters must have sharp hearing, able to decipher a turkey's tiny chirp beyond our range of sight. A distant "perp". Then a "cluck". Both experienced turkey hunters, we found 'em! A single "perp" --  a hen and the "cluck" was either a boss hen or a tom responding to the first. They were in a flock feeding up the hill. Soon it would be sunset and they'd fly to roost. A single nod was all we showed we were in sync to head our boots in that direction. 

Good hunting partners must be on the same page, develop a good rapport to need only match a signal what to do, where to go. Shoulder hoisting our guns, we had no time to dawdle, hustling our pace towards them birds, slip-sliding and crunching sticks on the way up. With that there was no intent to keep searching for Big Creek. (thank God...)

Nature led us to escape the ravine, an ascent towards where we'd heard them flocking to roost up. It looked to me that we'd made a circle by the way the afternoon sun shone through the forest. But with turkeys found I didn't care - - that instant my focus was like a cat on a mouse. I zeroed in!
  

That uphill climb was rugged, a thirty foot river bank, a bit treacherous. Struggling up the scraggly hill, using my shotgun as a staff, I heaved a sigh of relief to be out of the tangled bottoms as we finally neared the crest of the ravine. We knew the birds we searched for were close by as we came over the rise of the hill, stalking silently, intent to shoot in an instant if we busted a flock. 

But those birds are wily! Those fat torpedoes were already half in flight, half-scurrying through the brush. Dammit - - we both swore.  We had not so cautiously bumbled with guns in hand onto the plateau. Neither of us took time to criticize our fervor -- he ran towards three huge birds in one direction and I scrambled over logs and bushes in chase of the others. 


Spooked turkeys scatter in all directions to confuse a predator. Oh, you learn very quickly it's real obvious those darn boots don't keep up with a turkey fleeing for its life. At that moment it was comical - I stopped in my tracks laughing at the sight of us chasing fat waddling birds through the woods very nimbly for thunderchickens, in fact. I never had the chance to bring the 870 up to my face, running.

My husband loves 'pet names', he nicknames them 'turkles' for you folks who believe sportsmen don't have any sense of funny.  I love to laugh and our failure was very laughable...  Needless to say we didn't kill a turkey that day but it was a learning experience, to say the least.  Just goes to show that 'turkles' are usually a real challenge.  That's huntin'.