First turkey: The hunt at dawn

It was so early, even the birds were still snoring.

I parked my truck beside the hay barn and shut off the lights and the engine. I remained in the truck for a couple of minutes to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The moon had set hours before, and besides the yard light far behind me, the stars provided the only illumination. I would not be using a flashlight.

I stepped from the truck and opened the gun case. The 105-year-old L.C. Smith 12-gauge was cool to the touch.  I eased the locking lever to the right and opened the shotgun, removed the twin snap caps, placed them back in the case and retrieved my day pack. Closing the door quietly, I turned. It was time.

The old saying, “In springtime, a young man’s fancy turns to love” might be slightly altered for those of us chronologically advanced. Perhaps, “In the springtime, an old man’s fancy turns to turkey hunting” would be more appropriate.

My first turkey hunt came about as the result of an invitation from my cousin, The Old Guide. At the time, his ranch was the favorite feeding ground for several flocks of Merriam turkeys and his instructions to me were simple: Arrive very early, use the northeast blind — and don’t shoot any of his horses.

Seemed simple enough.

I reached the blind just as the first hint of dawn appeared on the summit of the Swan Range. Settling in, I opened my day pack and located my shotgun shells, four Heavy-Field Load No. 5 shot. Two I loaded into my double-barreled shotgun, two I secured in my shirt pocket just in case.

Next I broke out the thermos and poured a short cup of coffee and drank it in two swallows. The scalding coffee helped to warm me up. Have you ever noticed how it is always colder just before dawn, especially when you are swaddled in cotton camouflage?

All around me, the woods were just waking.

Various bird calls flitted back and forth across the pasture. As it grew brighter, new voices were added. Somewhere far back in the trees, a turkey gobbled.

To the west, a Chinese rooster threw back his beak and cackled his challenge. It was immediately answered by a rival somewhere to the east and for a few minutes the two birds filled the morning with their obnoxious profanity and bravado.

A new sound was added, and I recognized it as the drumming of a ruffed grouse. I could visualize him displaying his finery, his tail feathers fanned out, and his crest erect. I imagined him as a carnival barker: “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Step right up, ladies!  Don’t be shy! Come, be amazed! You have never before witnessed a finer specimen! Don’t let this opportunity pass you by!”

The turkey gobbled again, but this time it was accompanied by the flapping of wings. They were leaving the roosting tree. Once on the ground they would soon be moving, I hoped, toward me. I screwed the cup back on the thermos and replaced it in the day pack.

Next I used my range finder to pick out landmarks at no more than 25 yards surrounding the blind. The day before I had patterned my shotgun with the hunting load I would be using.

The targets were paper plates with caricatures of turkey heads drawn on them. Twenty-five yards was the maximum range that I felt I could guarantee a sure kill, limited, as I was, by the ammunition I had to use due to the gun’s age.

The sun peeked over the mountains and the bright light revealed patches of light fog. The fresh green of spring stood out in contrast to flat tones of last year’s grass laying about where it had been pressed down by the snow

The tom’s gobbling continued intermittently. They were definitely on the move. The other sounds of the woods were ignored as I tried to predict the turkey’s course. I strained my ears to listen and my eyes to see. I looked deep into the trees, but saw nothing. The calls seemed to be ranging farther and farther to the west. Had I made too much noise in the dark, warning them?

A troop of 13 stepped into the open several hundred yards to the west of the blind. Three toms, a couple of jakes and a harem of hens crossed into the pasture with the horses. My hopes sank as I watched the toms taking turns strutting about. The largest one seemed to swell to three times his normal size when his tail spread into a magnificent display framing him. A moment later, his gobble shook the trees.

The other two toms joined in the display, but they did so silently.

I was so fascinated by the show that I failed to notice two jakes running by the blind until they were 30 yards past me. At that moment, a turkey gobbled just inside the trees directly ahead of me. Out stepped a beautiful tom, also dressed in his finest. He was accompanied by three discreet wives following at a respectful distance. He twisted and turned and strutted like a model on the runway in a fashion show.

I waited as he inched toward the big rock, one of my landmarks. His girlfriends, tired of all his bragging and hungry after a long night roosting in the trees, scampered past him, spread out, and began to peck at the ground. My heart rate increased, and I could feel my face flush, a sure sign that my blood pressure was rising. Still, he took his own sweet time.

Closer! Closer! I eased the twin barrels through the narrow opening and had just placed my finger on the front trigger when a movement to my left caught my attention. One of the hens was watching me. She squawked a warning and tore out of there as fast as her legs would go.

The tom shrank back to normal size at her call and spun around to follow her in retreat; that’s when the bead of my shotgun settled on his head and the shotgun recoiled into my shoulder.

The blind was filled with the smell of burned nitrates and the report rang in my ears. I recovered from the recoil, moved my finger to the back trigger and leaned forward. The three hens were just disappearing into the shadows but the tom lay where he fell. A few tiny feathers drifted back and forth on the invisible air currents until they settled on the earth; still, I remained ready to follow up with a second shot, but there was no need. The hunt was over.

I unloaded my shotgun, saving the spent hull, and exited the blind. His beard was seven inches long, no trophy to anyone but me but a respectable first bird. I posed him with the shotgun and snapped a few pictures. Next I cut out the dates on my tag and taped it to his leg just above the spur. I shouldered my pack, picked up the shotgun and slung the bird over my right shoulder. Then I started for the ranch house.

Seven-fifteen, with any luck, I might be able to con my cousin into inviting me to breakfast.

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For the first-time turkey hunter, I have one suggestion: Know your gun.

Take your shotgun out with a variety of ammo loads and pattern it. Place targets at various known distances and shoot at them. Study the shot pattern. Which gives you enough density coupled with heavy enough shot to ensure a clean kill?

I pattern my shotguns at 10, 20, 25, 30, 35 and 40 yards.  None of my shotguns shoots a tight enough pattern for me to take a 40-yard shot at a tom.

As far as suitable shotgun gauge, I have harvested turkeys with both 12- and 20-gauge shotguns and never had a problem with either. My L.C. Smith 12-gauge has fixed chokes and shoots only 2 3/4-inch shells. I was advised to never shoot Magnum shells in it, which is why I use Heavy Field Loads. My double-barrel 20-gauge does use 3-inch Magnum shells, but the chokes are Improved Cylinder and Modified. Again, this restricts the range.

If you are looking to purchase a shotgun, the Remington 870 Express is a reasonably priced option. With interchangeable chokes and capable of handling 3-inch Magnum loads, the 870 can provide the appropriate medicine for turkeys and upland game birds as well as waterfowl. See your local dealers if you have any questions.

As most turkeys in the valley are found on private land, be sure you ask permission before hunting. Good luck!

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