By Ben Smith:
Well, turkey has come and gone just like that. And for the first time ever, I don’t have to say wait until next year. And let me tell you, that feels really good. However, now that I’ve tasted victory, both figuratively and literally, I’ve got a new phrase for the end of turkey season: I can’t wait for next year. I actually hunted less this year than last, but I think I learned more from finally having success than I ever did from failure. That’s a giant switch for me because I’m usually beating the drum for failure being the world’s best teacher. That still holds true to some degree, but if you never have any success it’s pretty hard to figure out which part you’re failing at.
Killing a bird the first week of the season took the edge off. I had the ability to relax for pretty much the rest of the season. Of course, most real turkey hunters that I know would only be fueled to get back out there for more after the first one. But after forty years in the wilderness, getting that early bird out of the way was more of a relief than a driving factor. I’m sure my family was happy about it too because it helped curb my obsession for being in the woods and away from home. I didn’t hunt one single time after bagging my bird until the last weekend of the season. At times I wanted to, but I also didn’t feel the need to put more stress on my relationship with my family. Contentment is an unusual feeling, but nice.
All of that said, I decided to try strike turkey gold one more time the last weekend of the season. My good friend, and fellow Southern Drawl podcast member, Weston, joined me at my camp along with his son, Weylon. If you follow SD at all you already know Weylon is a stud of a hunter to be so young. In his ten or eleven years on this earth, he’s probably killed more cool stuff than I could in three lifetimes. He’s a machine just like his dad. However, Weylon found himself in the unusual position of having not tagged out a bird yet this year. We were hoping to remedy that on the last trip of the spring.
We arrived at the camp on Friday afternoon, and the weather absolutely sucked. A steady rain poured on us the whole way up and kept us from having a true evening hunt. The only good thing about that meant we’d cook dinner early and get to bed at a decent time. Now, when I go to my camp I bring the bare necessities. I will survive on peanut butter and Vienna sausages for a week if I have to. Weston and Weylon do it a little different and I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same. That first night, Weston cooked elk fajitas (courtesy of the elk Weylon killed last fall) in the skillet on my Coleman stove. It was perhaps the greatest deer camp meal that I’ve ever eaten. The only concern I had after the feast was whether I’d be able to get out of bed the next morning after eating so much.
We woke up early Saturday morning to a chill in the air. A cold front was pushing through on the back end of the rain, but not quite cold enough to shut the birds up. We decided to split up to try and cover as much property as we could. Almost immediately after getting into the woods, I had two different birds gobbling in the near distance. The closest didn’t sound like he was on our property, so I decided to set up on the other one. Almost as soon as I reached the area I thought he’d go, he gobbled even further away. I stood there a little frustrated thinking I’d made the right call when out of nowhere a third bird gobbled not 75 yards from where I was standing.
I set up, called, and immediately got a response. I couldn’t believe it. After all of these years of not killing a bird I was about to be two for two on the season. There’s no way this bird wasn’t coming. Well, I was wrong. He gobbled for thirty minutes without ever moving closer to me, then silence for a while. After about ten minutes of nothing, he gobbled again but further away this time. I called, he responded, and I waited some more. His final gobble came from what felt like another time zone and I threw in the towel. Back to reality.
Weston and Weylon heard a couple of birds but couldn’t pull them their way. We spent the rest of the day doing a little scouting before it was time for another forced feeding. The second night was the second best meal I’ve ever had at the deer camp. We grilled Red Snapper fillets over an open flame. Now, I’m absolutely ruined and there’s no way I can go back to PB&J sandwiches at the camp. I’ll be accepting applications for “camp chef” for next season if anyone is interested.
Our final hunt, and the last morning of the season, started with a bang. This time we went together back to where I heard the birds the morning before. Weston hopped off out of the passenger side of my side by side when we reached the edge of a cutover and immediately jumped back in. The look on his face was that of pure shock. His eyes were wide and his gaze told me something bad was up. I kind of laughed and said, “You see a snake?” His response freaked me out. “Yeah, it bit me,” he said. We were relieved when we checked his boot and it didn’t get through to his leg. I walked around the side by side to find the culprit, a pretty good sized cottonmouth. So, like any good redneck would, I beat him to death with a stick and our hunt resumed.
We did pretty much everything we could all morning to get Weylon on a bird, but just couldn’t seal the deal. We heard a few, but none wanted much to do with us. I guess that’s just the way it goes sometimes. Heck, until this year that’s the way it’s always gone for me. The good news is that the monkey is off my back now. I am officially a turkey killer…and I can’t wait until next year.
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