The outside temp read 28 degrees Friday morning at 5:05 when I turned on the kitchen light. Bo didn’t even uncurl from his bed; I was thinking smart dog.
I drew a glass of water, filled my palm from the meds dispenser, and tossed and washed down the morning recipe. I opted for some Under Armor long johns under a dark green Packers sweatshirt, covering it with some camouflage coveralls. I pocketed a Sweet and Salty granola bar and headed out to pull on my hunting boots, tucking the pants in before lacing up. I had planned on wearing a lighter camo jacket but decided on a bulkier insulated coat with a hood—glad I chose that. Later it would prove barely enough to keep out the wind. Outside, I pulled on a neck gaiter over my camo John Deere cap. I strapped on Olive my single shot .20 gauge—named for Popeye’s super skinny girlfriend Olive Oyl. I grabbed my turkey belt and cushion and headed up to the horse barn to saddle up Suzi, our four-wheeler. In the dark, I tripped over the extended grass shoot from the too nearby lawn tractor. The Suzuki quad fired right up. Half-way up our muddy ridge road I remembered I forgot turkey decoys back in the garage. Oh, well.
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After slip sliding away some, I motored through the gate at the top of the road turning off the headlight. Up top, the sky was beginning to transition from black to dark Brewers blue; there were no stars I could see. The eastern horizon was a pencil thin reddish line. I could just make out the hay and bean strips. I parked by what we call the Downed Barn, a fallen grain shed surrounded by a few trees. I could see the lights of Stoddard three miles away framed by the silhouette of the Minnesota bluffs more miles away. Now here’s where I usually park and sip coffee until turkey toms start the morning chorus announcing to the world they are up and available. To give myself more time to be able to sit longer I skipped coffee this morning, if you get my drift.
I heard a gobble to the south, so I headed that way on foot. By the time I had cleared the 400 hundred yards to the woods edge, gobblers had started their morning sonata. It was a perfect morning for the musicians and the second movement proved to be entertaining up and down the coulee. I picked a favorite spot plunking my cushion down by a wide old tree, dropping a knee on it to get set. I covered up—as much to keep warm as deceive tom turkeys. I fished a turkey shell out of my pocket, broke open Olive’s barrel, and loaded it into the breach. I set out two turkey calls within easy reach. It only took twenty minutes before the toms bombastic finale had commenced and faded.
I had heard no nearby gobblers. As it got lighter, I could see that things were just greening up in the woods. The prickly ash, wild raspberries, wild lilacs, and multiflora rose are just starting to leaf out. There were crows and blue jays cawing, robins hopping in the field, woodpeckers drumming, sandhill cranes adding some scratching strings, and geese honking overhead, but the meleagris gallopavo clan seemed to have transitioned into a final sonata with only a distant gobble or two. I decided to pick up a baton and direct myself, uh, that is I picked up a box call and made a quiet yelping with five strokes on the plunger. A tom answered from the Corner Woods a few seconds later! I got situated and waited. A few minutes later, I could make out a silhouette of a turkey in corn stubble coming my way. It gobbled. I could make out a good beard on it. It was too far out. I was surprised by another gobble, a deep rumbling gobble. A big tom was following the first. The first tom had started pecking through the soybean detritus. The second bird seemed to be sort of heading my way. This is where I cursed myself for not setting up a decoy. I had my shotgun up and pushed off the safety. The bird gobbled again. I aimed down the barrel. The tom stopped, stretched its neck high, and started looking around. I picked my spot and squeezed the trigger. The bird lifted off and followed its partner flying over the trees down into the coulee. I waited a bit, collecting my wits. How could I have missed that shot? I thought I had lined up the barrel groove and bead. Maybe not.
A few minutes later, I picked up some movement to my left, a young doe, apparently nonplussed by all the commotion, came gingerly along the field, stopping to give the lumpy creature in the brush a long look before high stepping it by. I was about to get up when I spotted another turkey coming from the direction of the toms. It proved to be a hen. It clucked as it searched for breakfast or maybe even my call. Chickadees were hopping through the branches around me by the time it had moved on. I finally urged my sleeping knees to move and scrambled to my feet. I walked out to where I thought the tom had been. There were no feathers or other signs that it had been there.
I was cold. There was frost on the grass around the fields as I walked out. A brisk breeze was making its way through the woods from the river valley. I decided to head in and peck through the kitchen for a cup of coffee and maybe a couple smokey links with toast for myself.
Until next time, get out — in a couple weeks I’ll be 72 and getting out there is not getting any easier. Memories like this make crawling out of bed and leaving a warm house in the dark worth it, turkey dinner or not. Enjoy.