Turkey Gobblers Turkey Hunters & W

What’s the difference? by Lee Hoots

hen I was a kid, an old turkey-necked pal of my dad’s named Joe talked about hunting wild turkey gobblers. He often ponti cated about just who, exactly, was the real turkey in such scenarios. Is it the bird or the hunter? is takes some thought to understand, and after many years of hunting gobblers I admit I still don’t know the answer.

In the beginning, a younger me had no clue what the hell he was talking about. I had only been turkey hunting once at that time, having seen a gobbler but never taken a shot because that tom seemed much too far away for me to hit such a small target—that being the head, which is the size of a man’s st. ose st-sized targets almost never stopped bobbing around, or at least they didn’t when I became determined to bag a bunch of turkeys half a life ago. Such a pipe dream never appeared—well, maybe it came in ts and starts.

My rst wild turkey hunt took place when I was barely old enough to drive, a time when I was still proud of my shiny new driver’s license. I bought a simple caller and headed for the hills. Although I spent hours calling, there was no response. Eventually, I saw a bird feeding on the ground at some distance. Since the turkey was out of range, I decided to stalk.

It worked for deer, after all. Quietly, I began my approach through the trees. As I gained distance, so did the bird. is continued as the afternoon light faded, and I was disappointed when the tom took to the trees and disappeared, no closer to me than it had been hours ago. Later that night, when I told my dad about this, he laughed. “You can’t stalk turkeys, son. You need to learn how to use your caller.” Little did I realize that hard lesson marked the rst of what was to become many unsuccessful hunts.

Over several dry years of hunting, old man Joe’s clever insight about wild turkey hunting haunted me. One time I headed out to be a successful wild turkey slayer on private ground, where I “sorta had permission” so long as I didn’t jump the barbed wire fence. Unknown to me, the rancher on the opposite side patrolled his land each and every day, and on this cool morning, just as I saw the red head of a gobbler bobbing away along the barbed fencing, a shot rang out. Some other hunter shot my bird somewhere down the fence line—another opportunity gone! ree or four years later, still wild turkey-less, I made my way to Oregon along with my friend, Andy, who had successfully called in gobblers in several states each year. His past success made me con dent. On opening day, we sat out of sight under a tall tree in a downpour, listening to the rain fall and the birds ying down from the wet roosts behind us, hoping they would come our way. Two gobblers walked on Andy’s side and he bagged the biggest bird with the longest rope, while I sat in the rain, wondering just who was the turkey on that day. So far, I was zero for zero on turkey hunting. e following day found the birds, the land and me no drier, but I soldiered on. We spent the day scouting and calling to no avail. Even Andy couldn’t call one in. Tired, wet and cold, we decided to pack up. As we began the long trek toward our vehicle, we spotted a tom walking slowly near some bushes ahead of us. Andy had already unloaded his gun, so I took a quick shot. Ah, success, I thought, but I was brought down by the fact the tom wasn’t called in or coaxed into range with a turkey caller. It was soaked, small and bedraggled, and I’m pretty sure it had been as miserable as I was. I felt like a turkey for shooting it. Was that even a fair hunt? My conscience nagged, and I resolved to do better the next time. Would there be a next time?

A very tall cowboy with an equally tall truck soon came to the fence with a shiny Colt tucked in a holster on his hip and proceeded to share with me a few nasty words no one could dream up in ve seconds. Even though I was on public land, his attitude and that big gun greatly encouraged me to leave the area. I eventually found some other public ground, but still hadn’t bagged a gobbler.

Refusing to give up, I purchased all the top-grade slate and box callers I could nd, which only cost me about 300 bucks, and cheap at the price. I quickly learned how to use them,or so I thought,and eventually could get responses from toms perched in trees. Still, I struggled to bring a bird into range. Perhaps, I began to reason, the local wild turkey community had gotten too wily. Certain I had hit on the problem, I decided it was time to start hunting in other states.

I chose Texas because every hunter knows “Texas is ush with gobblers.” Why not take a try in the Lone Star State, I thought, where gobblers can be shot on any ranch a hunter can access. I soon found that birds were just as hard to call o the roost in Texas as they were in any other state, and maybe more so. Unfortunately, nobody reminded me about the rattlers under every clump of brush. I found it di cult to zero in on those bobbing heads while watching where I put my feet and listening for the telltale warning buzz of an aggravated rattler.

Once comfortably seated, I relaxed and began calling, and after an hour or so, I had a tom down and moving my way. Just as I took aim, my hunting partner yelled “snake!” I jumped up to see where the snake was while the turkey made a fast getaway. Now that really couldn’t be blamed on Texas, I told myself, and on the way back to my home state I determined I would, in all fairness, give Texas another try. But rst, I would buy a pair of high-quality snake boots.

On the rst morning of my second hunt in Texas, I was ecstatic when I successfully called a tom o its roost, but as soon as it hit the ground it ran out of range in the opposite direction. at same day, my sinus began to bother me, mostly due to bunking in an old dusty line shack made to accommodate two men at best. ere were four of us, the air conditioner only gave me an infection, and the out tter drank all the cold beer (note to self: bring your own beer). Near the end of that hunt, I switched from a shotgun to a ri e, shot a wild hog, and gave up on calling altogether. On the last day in Texas, I decided turkey hunting was for the birds and cowboys, and thoughts of giving up ran through my bird brain.

For several years after the Texas experience, I didn’t hunt wild turkeys and nearly gave it up altogether, but persistent thoughts of hunting these clever birds kept recurring like a bad dream. My rational brain told me to give it up, but no, I could not give in, and besides, those expensive callers lying in a box in my garage caused humiliation every time I saw them. So nally, when an opportunity to hunt gobblers in Florida came along, I snatched it up. e hunting locale was a swampy environment with a mossy canopy and thick growth. Even though it was wet, it was an amazingly beautiful area with all kinds of birds and plenty of wild turkeys. e hair stood up on the back of my head when I was told it was also a known alligator haunt, so I developed a safety routine—call, check 360 degrees for gators, call, check 360 degrees for gators, call...Even with this slow process, I nally got a response from a tom. e vegetation was so heavy I couldn’t see the bird, but I could hear it gobbling as it approached. Quickly I raised my gun and shot, checked 360 degrees for gators, ran toward the bird, checked 360 degrees for gators, and grabbed my prize. I haven’t hunted turkeys in Florida since then.

After the Florida experience, I decided to go back and hunt gobblers in California. It’s true the birds there may be wily, but there are no alligators in the Golden State. All that 360-degree checking could give a man whiplash. Once again, I was with a buddy and headed for the central California foothills. Sure, the area had rattlesnakes, but I stood them o in Texas and I could do the same here. I was sure of it.

On opening day, we parked our pickup on public land along with a few other early bird hunters. When we stepped out of the truck, I eyed the other arrivals, happy to see nobody was packing a Colt. My buddy and I started uphill toward the tree line, eager to start calling in the big gobblers. A party of four moved uphill some distance away from us and, before long, we heard them shooting. Meanwhile, we were calling but getting no response.

After two hours we packed it up and headed for the truck. As we made our way down the hill, we saw the party of four leaving with three beautiful birds dangling over their shoulders. I gave them a thumbs up and told them to watch out for gators. at was the last time I hunted turkey in California.

In the United States the wild turkey population is estimated to be roughly 7,000,000. e birds very nearly became extinct and were brought back from the brink in what is regarded as a major conservation success. Today, the devils live in every state except Alaska. e estimated population in California is 240,000 birds, so why are they so darn hard to nd? Florida’s wild turkey population is estimated at as many as 700,000 birds, but why they choose to live in a swamp where both alligators and pythons eat them is hard to explain. And I shudder to think that Benjamin Franklin wanted to name the wild turkey our national bird.

I haven’t hunted turkey in years, but I still think about it, and those callers in my garage continue to haunt me. I’m not planning to hunt turkey again, but once in a great while I get the callers out and practice, even though there are no turkeys in my garage. My wife sometimes says there is one in the house. Maybe it’s time to give away the callers to some other turkey. S

Lee Hoots has been a hunter since his dad rst took him along at the age of seven. He favors big game, but also enjoys bird hunting and shing. Lee’s rst writing experience was with Western Outdoor News in California, during his time in college. A former editor of Guns & Ammo, Lee was also an editor for Peterson’s Hunting and, most recently editor-in-chief at Wolfe Publishing.