4 minute read
BACK-40 NOTEBOOK
■ Brian Lovett~Whitetail News Senior Editor
PINE RIDGE RENDEZVOUS
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You’re never really alone in the outdoors. That even holds true when hunting one of the country’s most remote landscapes.
We often seek wild places alone, hoping the journey provides the kind of solitary reflection only a day in the woods can provide. Sometimes, however, we can’t avoid encounters with other folks.
That’s not necessarily bad. Actually, chatting briefly with other hunters and land managers is usually enjoyable. And maybe it makes you realize that you’re never truly alone in the outdoors.
Still, I think back to that spring afternoon and wonder how it happened.
During early May years ago, I met up with buddies Wade and Bird Dog, and we traveled to Manderson-White Horse Creek, South Dakota, to chase turkeys at the vast Pine Ridge Reservation. Our host, Jeff, gave us a quick tour of our quarters and then showed us the countryside. After a brief lunch, Jeff suggested that we grab our gear for a late-afternoon/ evening hunt.
Angling his mud-coated rental car up a long ridge, Jeff waved his finger out the window at pine-studded points and seemingly endless prairie, emphasizing again and again that we had tens of thousands of contiguous acres to hunt that afternoon.
“You won’t see another soul,” he said. “Just don’t get lost.”
And with that, he dropped Wade at a small crossing and drove what seemed like several miles before letting me out atop an open bluff. We’d meet back up after dark somewhere along the access road.
Full of optimism and anxious to stretch my legs, I set out through the timbered hills, stopping now and again to call and listen. And after about an hour, a gobble floated back on the prairie breeze, probably a few hundred yards to the southwest. I scrambled down a gulley, ascended the next hill and called again, hearing another gobble and excited hen yelping in response. The turkeys were probably two hollows away, but not knowing the terrain and aware of how far Merriam’s sometimes travel to a call, I decided to set up there.
The next half-hour brought intermittent gobbling, but the birds eventually began to drift away. Abandoning my setup, I slipped into a hollow and climbed the next rise. The gobbler responded to my calling but seemed even farther. Not knowing what else to do, I gave chase, descending into another bottom and hoofing up a high, rocky hill. Again, the gobbler responded to my yelping but was apparently walking away.
Falling in behind a departing turkey rarely works, and I knew I had to get ahead of the birds if I’d have any chance of killing one. So, I cut back to the east, found a long ridge near the access road and hot-footed it south, hoping to cut off the birds. Out of breath, I stopped briefly to call and get a fix on the turkeys. Sure enough, the gobbler responded almost directly to the west. With one more move, I might get in good position.
That’s when the gunshot rang out.
I can be obtuse at times, but I realized that hunt was finished. And not knowing who had shot, I didn’t want to stick around. So, I walked back north, hoping to get on another turkey and waiting for nightfall.
I hadn’t walked far when a figure emerged from the timber, hoisting a big gobbler over one shoulder. The figure then stopped and waved. I halfheartedly waved back and suddenly found recognition.
It was Wade. After starting miles apart on a vast landscape of several thousand contiguous acres, where we had zero chance of encountering another human, we’d converged on the same turkey, and Wade had killed it.
Soon, we met and compared notes. Wade had heard the turkey at about the time I had, and had walked north to cut it off while I was traveling south to attempt the same maneuver. But Wade had slipped into good position, and the birds walked right down his gun barrel, ending the deal.
At first, I was miffed, which was silly. The improbable hunt had been a great introduction to Pine Ridge, and a good friend had experienced success. Further, we had quite a story about almost bumping into each other in the wide-open Western landscape.
That night, Wade’s air mattress went flat, forcing him to sleep on the hard floor. He laughingly accused me of doing it, seeking revenge for killing the gobbler. I hadn’t — honestly — but he wasn’t convinced. He still isn’t.
No matter. The next morning, we filled our remaining five tags, took pictures and were actually on the road home by noon. The chance rendezvous the previous evening became a footnote to a great trip and a tale we spin often when we get together nowadays.
Tens of thousands of contiguous acres. I still shake my head. And every time I hear a distant shot while turkey hunting, I half expect to see Wade emerge from the timber minutes later, grinning and holding a big longbeard.
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