Thunder Bird
With sunshine and 60’s on the day before my turkey season, I was hoping the weather would hold for the next day’s hunt despite the forecast for heavy to severe thunderstorms. Well…it didn’t hold. Why did they have to be right this time? I was startled awake at 2:00 a.m. by a loud clap of thunder and heavy, wind-driven rains.
My alarm was set for 4:20 a.m. but the weather was no more inviting so I rolled over and went back to sleep. At 5:45 a.m. I arose to find that the wind had subsided somewhat and the rain was just a drizzle. Elated at this development, I immediately pronounced the conditions “huntable” and donned my camo rainsuit.
I slipped out the door to the woods where last evening I watched 3 toms and a harem of 6 hens head into the woods for their evening roost. Dawn was slow in coming due to the drizzle, which in fact may have actually been clouds at ground level. I set up along a small, protected food plot field and waited for action. Crows were cawing loudly and finally a tom shock-gobbled in response. Soon I heard at least 4 different gobblers calling for companionship. Problem was, the toms were on the other side of my property. Not a peep from the side I’d set up on. After listening to occasional gobbles for about 45 minutes I was aware that the drizzle had had it’s Wheaties and was turning into a full-fledged rain. Not only that but the heavenly bowling tournament started again with crashes of thunder punctuating the sheets of rain.
Each time the thunder boomed so did the toms. Tempted as I was by the consistent gobbles, I resisted the urge to move on them. I have learned a couple things in my dozen years of turkey hunting. Probably my biggest tactical error has been in moving too soon from a set-up. I steeled myself to hold out. Finally, when I could no longer resist their calls, I got up and crept out to the woods edge, en route to the talkative toms. Naturally, just as I reached the edge, I spotted six hens feeding across my little field about 75 yards away. I was fortunate indeed because these birds had not seen me so I skulked back into the cover and waited for developments. I was certain that these were the hens that last night were accompanied by three gallant toms. Well the toms were no-shows this morning. I waited another 15 minutes and not a gobble nor beard was observed. All the while I was listening to the chorus of gobbles at the back of my farm. My nerves could take no more so I risked the blunder and again crept out to the edge. No toms. No hens either. I ghosted through the rain into the plantation of Norway pines and used them as my travel corridor for an undetected approach to the still gobbling crew at the back of the farm.
Once I felt I was far enough back, I crawled out of the pines into the fenceline and spotted a tom. He gobbled and displayed but I could not see any other birds. He was about 125 yards away through some brush. I let out some plaintive yelps and clucks. He immediately gobbled in response. So did two other toms! I hadn’t been able to see them because of the brushy undergrowth between us but apparently that tom was not alone. He was content to answer my every call but would not approach. I began to get suspicious. I crawled further along the fenceline and spotted the cause for his reluctance. Several hens fed, oblivious to the toms’ overtures. It was a case of the proverbial “bird in the hand”. No way were those toms going to leave the hens they already had surrounded for a single “hen” (me) some distance away.
The rain kept up its onslaught. Bright, silvery flashes of lightning were followed several seconds later by expected but no less startling crashes of thunder. The toms bellowed their response to each crash. The hens were casually feeding away from me, taking the toms with them. I backpedaled from the treeline into the Norways again and paralleled their line of travel. I poked my head through the pines to take a bearing on them. They were continuing, true to course. I again clucked, which got a cursory glance from the toms but no more. They were concentrating on romancing their harem.
I waited until cover obscured their view and again peeled through the pines. My rainsuit was doing a nice job of keeping me dry despite the deluge. I monitored the flock’s progress by ear as the toms continued their gobble-fest. This time I went past them to a point well ahead of them but on their line of travel. Again I crawled through the rows of pines to a vantagepoint two rows from the edge. The hens were still feeding and walking on course. The toms were still acting like cowboys on a cattle drive. As they circled the hens on my side, I clucked to them. This time they reacted with more interest. It was as if they thought a hen had sneaked away from them and was getting away. They craned their necks to spot the escapee. They were little more than 75 yards away at this point. The hens kept feeding contentedly; the rains kept pelting down and the thunder kept booming. The bill of my cap had a steady drip, as did the end of my gun barrel. The toms were obviously distressed at the possible loss of a harem member and they stalked several yards towards me.
I slipped the safety off and leveled the barrel. They were less than 50 yards now. They stood shoulder to shoulder with heads high, like periscopes as they searched for the wayward hen. I realized that I’d need to wait for them to separate or I’d have a multiple casualty situation on my hands. I tried to evaluate the beards but all seemed like average, adult toms. I was content to harvest any of the three that volunteered. After several minutes of a “Mexican stand-off” one of them boldly stepped forward as the others turned away to check on the hen flock. That was his undoing. I judged the range to be around 40 yards and held on the base of his neck. The extra-full charge of #5 shot actually lifted him off his feet and body slammed him on his back! I jumped up, prepared for a follow-up shot and ran towards him. Two steps into my dash and I fell flat on my face after my feet became entangled in brambles. I quickly looked up to see if he’d regained his feet. He was still flat on his back, feet bicycling in the air. My shot was echoed by another blast of thunder as I walked up to claim my Thunder Bird. |
