I caught him tiptoeing across the far end of the blueberry field, just before he entered the woods. It was an opportunity I hadn’t really budgeted time for but couldn’t pass up.
I was thankful for my last-minute decision to throw on some camo, grab my shotgun, decoys and hunting pack before heading out the door an hour earlier to drop our youngest son, Emery, off with his grandparents for the day.
The morning’s strict agenda was structured around errands and other tasks, but I figured a quick check of the fields beyond their house couldn’t hurt. After all, there was a strong case to be made that in addition to a potential heart-pounding, adrenaline-filled turkey hunt, it was also a grocery shopping trip of sorts.
The field sloped on both sides, allowing me to sprint halfway up the opposite side, undetected by the tom. After finding a suitable maple tree just off the field’s edge to sit against, I quickly spiked my favorite early/mid-season decoy spread at 15 yards: a feeding hen with a jake just a few feet behind her, both angled toward me at 45 degrees.
A few loud cuts, and some deep yelps on my box call were answered immediately with a gobble from around 200 yards off. A minute later, while settling into my spot, a second gobble rumbled less than a hundred yards away from the opposite side of the rise in the field. A few more cuts and yelps were interrupted by a third gobble within 75 yards, confirming he was committed, and coming fast.
I sat motionless, staring down the vent rib of the old Remington 870 20-gauge toward the top of the rise beyond the decoys. His last gobble broke the silence, and rattled deep in my chest.
Seconds later, the tip of his fan slowly appeared on the horizon, silhouetted perfectly against the gray sky. When I saw his bright blue and white head, I clicked the gun’s safety off, then silently reminded myself to concentrate, breathe, stay in control, be patient and wait for the perfect shot.
The tom spied the decoys the moment he crested the rise, then angrily spit and drummed. Never leaving full strut, the tom locked onto the jake, beelined directly to him, then turned perfectly. It was over in an instant, and the bird laid motionless on the ground, pressed against the decoy.
Turkey hunting can be challenging, frustrating, taxing and fruitless one day, and frantic, exhilarating, adrenaline-filled, action-packed and successful the next.
For whatever reason, I just couldn’t connect with a bird last year, and it hurt for a couple of reasons. Not only had I begun to question my prowess as a hunter, but it also meant the spot reserved for turkey meat in our freezer remained vacant during the fall and winter.
So, as excited as I was to run over to my bird, check out his fan, beard, spurs and ponder how much he weighed, I was even happier to finally put wild turkey back on our menu.
For years, I was guilty as anyone of believing the only desirable and half-palatable meat on a turkey was the breast. It pains me to think of how many times I simply cut out the breast meat and threw away the rest of the bird.
Some time ago, I started taking the legs and thighs as well, which are fantastic eating if prepared properly. But as my love, admiration and respect for wild turkeys continues to grow, so does my sense of responsibility to utilize every bit of them that I can.
After a few quick pictures, and a trip to the game registration station, I accepted the fact that my errands and other chores needed to wait another day because it was time to get plucking.
Plucking a turkey is intimidating to most, including yours truly. It’s messy, a bit time-consuming, painstaking and not all that pleasant to be honest. This was my first attempt.
About halfway through the process, I couldn’t help but think about all the other things I really should be doing, and how much easier it would have been to just cut off the legs, breast and thighs so I could move on with my day.
But as the last few feathers slipped free, revealing a perfectly plucked bird, I felt an enormous sense of pride.
I love spurs, tail fans and beards as much as anyone. I’m also addicted to great photos with a beautiful bird after a successful hunt.
But I’ve finally reached a stage in my hunting career where the shine of such things is beginning to dull. These days, the real trophies for me are memories and meat.
That morning, with a little luck and some hard work, I made plenty of both.
