Finally, a Bird

It was down to the wire when Alex (better known as Sasha) took pity on me.  

On the last night of our three-day turkey camp, word had finally reached Sasha that I had never (as in not even once) shot a Turkey. Alex decided enough was enough.

It was obvious to me, immediately, that I had chosen right guy for the job.  Or rather, had been chosen by the right guy. Scouting that evening, Sasha had eyes on birds within 15 minutes.  10 minutes later, we had driven around to a hill above and behind them, on a farm owned by Sasha’s cousin. And less than 10 minutes later we were set up atop a triple stack of bales to glass the field below.  The hay was sweetly aromatic, and still warm from the sun. Sasha is an easy man to like; we chatted idly and easily as we watched.

I watch tomorrow’s gobbler from atop the bales

The view was wonderful, perched as we were on a hill, then raised again on the hay.  Behind us, fields spilled away into the distance, glowing orange as the sun dropped. In front of us, through our binoculars, we watched undetected as a large Tom hefted himself into a tree in the field below, directly across from Sasha’s chosen spot.  He gobbled frequently for nearly an hour, obviously looking for company. No takers, we settled in to wait out the sunset and creep out undetected.

We were not the only hunters abroad. At the base of the bales a red fox was pouncing for mice.  I silently cheered him on. Eventually, he succeeded, rising with a large mouse in his mouth and burying it near our perch.  It was a moment of odd communion. I hoped it was a lucky sign.

Early in the next morning’s hunt, it seemed as if luck were, indeed, on our side.  We heard gobbles: a good thing. They were nearby: also a good thing.  And then a group of coyotes kicked of a wretched howling in the next field over: not a good thing.  We waited. No more gobbles.

Bad news.

So we kept waiting.

Luckily, calling every 10 minutes or so we made contact again, the gobbler responding enthusiastically to our calls from the safety of the woods behind us.  He wasn’t coming out, though, and who could blame him?

More waiting.

And then, silence.

After a time, we decided to move our setup, which, of course, was when two toms decided to mosey, undetected, into the field.  Luckily we were in a blind, which masked our movement.  Mostly.  Sasha froze halfway through standing. “Oh shit”, he said. “Don’t move”, he said. “He’s staring right into my soul”, he said. So we stayed still for a while. Fortunately, in our blind, staying stock still eventually allayed suspicion.

But two hens had joined the party, dusting themselves merrily in the sun uphill and well out of in range from us. The gobblers strutted and trailed after the hens as they moved across our line of sight, left to right along the opposite hill top but out of gun range.

“If they go over that hill”, said Sasha in a whisper,” we’ll go up after them and pop up over the edge.” The birds crested the ridge. They slowly disappeared. No more waiting, we sprang into action, dumping gear and getting out of the blind as swiftly and silently as possible.

Going mobile when turkey hunting is a thrill.  No more vest, no calls, no sitting around, just boots camo and my shotgun. Walking in a half crouch up the rise, we dropped to the ground and Crawled on all fours as we reached the top of the hill.  We slowed to a stop.  With exaggerated care, Sasha peeked over the ridge. “They’re up there. Let’s rise up slowly, then take the shot.” Here we go.

I rose as smoothly as I could, surprised at how close the birds were . Gun gently shouldered, Tom in half strut, bead to base of neck. Stupidly, I asked: “shoot?”.  “Shoot!”

BLAM

And all hell broke loose. My turkey dropped, the other birds flapped and scattered, the second tom heaving himself into the air and making for the trees in the valley below.  “Shoot the other one!” I tracked him, capturing a vivid, slow-mo memory of the green iridescence of his cape as he flew. But I didn’t shoot, unsure of where Sasha was standing and wanting to make sure my bird didn’t have a Lazarus moment.  I let the second bird fly.

For a minute I refused to pick up the bird.  I simply stood in the grass and took in the sunny ridge, celebrating with Sasha (by, I believe, absurdly saying “YES, man” over and over). And it was obvious immediately what got me that bird.  Years of persistence, sure. But, more importantly; generosity. Sasha’s generosity in sharing his skill and his hunting territory with me, the generosity of the landowner I never met, the generosity of my new friend Marc Lapierre, who organized the weekend camp in the first place with the specific purpose of bringing people together.

Hunting, contrary to popular belief, is not a taking thing.  It is sustained by a network of both give and take, as is the natural world we had inserted itself into that morning. Proud like the fox from the night before, I hefted my bounty and made for home.