Missouri spring turkey season is finally over and I am, once again, left with unfilled tags, unfulfilled dreams and a longbow that will probably rot away before it ever gets to take part in a successful gobbler hunt; at least as long as I own it. I am tired, broke and most of all, frustrated. It seems that no matter how well prepared I am, or how ideal the conditions are, something ALWAYS goes wrong when it comes time to pull back that bow string and seal the deal. And it’s not just with archery tackle that things don’t work out. Shotguns, atlatls, IEDs; you pick a weapon that is legal to use in a state’s spring turkey season and I bet I can tell you about a time I was using it and the bird walked away no worse for the wear. As a good friend of mine, John Pruitt, often says, “A lesser man would have succumbed to the pressure by now.” Me? I’m still going through the motions of my daily routine, but I’m mighty damn miserable as I go about doing it.

After a week of feeling sorry for myself, my empathetic wife, Leah, suggested that I go out and do something to take my mind off my troubles. I think her exact words were, “Suck it up, Tiffany, and get out of my house!” or something to that effect. In any event, I decided to take her advice and go visit another old friend of mine, Ferd Weber, and get his take on my case of turkey hunting angst. Mr. Weber, as you may know, is a moonshiner of some renown in south-central Missouri, and a legend in those parts when it comes to hunting and woodcraft. He has forgotten more about killing food and making whiskey than most of us will ever learn, and his skill in those areas is almost equaled by his knowledge of particle physics, of which he is a self-taught expert. This unique blend of homespun savvy and cutting-edge science gives Ferd an outlook that is fresh and unfiltered in this age of choreographed media, and I always seek his counsel when I am faced with a particularly perplexing problem. What follows is the exchange I had with Mr. Weber on a rainy afternoon in late May as we sampled the latest batch of his “snakebite medicine.”

DH: Wheeew! That is some mighty tasty hooch you have here, Ferd! Kind of makes a man want to go out and find himself a snake to mess with, just so he can get bit and have an excuse to drink this stuff.

Ferd: Well, son, I’m tickled that you like it. To tell you the truth, I actually had to add a dab of turpentine to this run so’s it wouldn’t be as pleasin’ to the palate as normal. It seems that folks liked the regular recipe so much that they was doin’ just what you said about them snakes. I got a call from the Missouri Department of Conservation the other day that said people was a combin’ the countryside to find them pison ones and pervoking the little devils to bite. Then they’d sit back with a jug of my tonic and work hard at getting’ theirselves well. I told the caller that this sounded to me more like a mental health issue than a wildlife one. The feller just laughed and said that the only reason they was involved was because this reptile harassment was a messin’ with the breedin’ season or sum such foolishness. Anyhow, the agent asked me if I could do anything and I told him that I’d dial my next batch down a notch or two on the Taste-O-Meter to see if that would curtail folks from interferin’ in the snake sex.

DH: Snake sex; now that’s a phrase you don’t often hear in everyday conversation.

Ferd: Yeah, well around here, you just never know what topic we might jaw about. And speakin’ of topics, I can tell by yer set that somethin’ is a eatin’ at you, boy. What is it that’s on yer mind?

DH: (Sigh) Ferd, you know that turkey season just ended and I didn’t kill anything again this year. And, well, it’s tearing me up inside! I do everything I’m supposed to but, for one reason or another, I just cannot seem to get a bird! So I thought I’d come over here and pick your brain for a while to see if you could help me out. Right now, I’d take any advice you have.

Ferd: Turkeys? Is that all it is? Hellfire, son, I thought yer mule had died or somethin’! Heh, heh! It’s good to know it ain’t nothin’ serious. So you want advice on turkey huntin’, huh? Well, I can give that to you in one word; Don’t.

DH: Don’t? What do you mean by that?

Ferd: I mean, Don’t! Don’t start turkey huntin’ in the first place and you won’t have all this achin’ in yer innards. Turkeys is the spawn of Satan, I tell you, and chasin’ after them blasted birds will just lead you down a dark path to despair. It’s a filthy habit that’s bin the ruination of more than one man, fer sure! I can tell you that from personal experience.

DH: Wow, Ferd, I never knew you felt so strongly about this subject. How come I’ve never heard you say anything about this before?

Ferd: Because my daddy lernt me a long time ago to keep my mouth shut about a matter if I don’t have nothin’ good to say about it.

DH: You mean you don’t care much for turkeys in general?

Ferd: No, I like turkeys fine right! In fact, I never met one yet that I didn’t want to wade off in a skillet of hot grease. It’s the huntin’ part I don’t much cotton to. It’s just too frustrating. Turkeys is a lot like them trout fish that folks is always palaverin’ about. Trouts are a fickle lot. You cain’t just go out and catch a mess of ’em. First you got to check the water temperature to see if it’s just right. Then you got to figger out what bugs are a birthin’ at that time so’s you know what to throw at ’em. And then you got to see if you got a plug in yer tacklebox that looks like one of them bugs and if you don’t then you gotta make one. By the time a feller gets done studying on all the things he needs to study just to get a trout interested, he’s either starved hisself to death or got plum out of the notion of fishin’ altogether. To me, spring gobblers are just trout with feathers.

DH: Well, I’d have to say that is the first time I’ve ever heard that comparison. So if turkey hunting is such an evil activity to take part in, why do you suppose so many people do it?

Ferd: Because them people is weak-minded and was sold a pig in a poke by snake oil hucksters. Dang it, boy, it ain’t even a real season! Like Valentine’s Day, it was conjured out of thin air by sum fancy pants marketing firm. Listen up. Several years back, the sportin’ goods stores noticed that they was not doing much tradin’ during the months between the close of bow season and the start of summer fishin’. And since it goes against any merchant’s nature to let a dollar rest in yer pocket, they hired sum slick, east coast outfit to increase revenue. Well them marketing boys figgered out that us hunters get kinda addled during that time due to inactivity and become “highly suggestible”. We ain’t shot a bow or skint a deer in a coon’s age and our minds can be talked into most anything. And what do you think they talked us into? Why, turkey huntin’, of course! You don’t believe me? Then why is it that around February 15th, yer mailbox is jammed plum full of brand new colorful turkey huntin’ catalogs? You make the mistake of eyeballin’ just one of them purty pictures and you are hooked! You practically slobber on yerself as you roll yer big, bloodshot eyes across pages of doodads that practically guarantee you that Ol’ Tom will fall in yer lap and foller you home. And before you know it, you’ve sold yer last milk cow and booked a trip to Ol’ Mexico to hunt them birds they claim is turkeys but don’t even sound like one!

DH: Oh, you mean the ocellated turkey?

Ferd: Ocellated, laminated; what difference does it make? My point is spring turkey huntin’ is a sport that growed from a bad seed and pisons everything it touches. It’s all built on a pack of lies designed to do one thing; separate you from yer hard earned cash. Here’s another example to prove what I’m a tellin’ you. Right now, how many turkey calls do you recollect you own?

DH: I don’t know, Ferd. It’s hard to say. If I were to guess I’d say around 25 to 30 counting mouth, box, and slate calls.

Ferd: Uh huh, and them was mostly bought someplace, right?

DH: Yeah, I’d say most of them were bought somewhere.

Ferd: Well that just shows you I’m right because it is a solid gold fact that male wild turkeys DO NOT come to you when yer a callin’ to ’em! Oh sure, one may saunter over yer direction whilst yer a sawin’ away on that box call but it ain’t because you lured him there. Don’t believe me? Just do the math. How many times do you think the average hunter calls to a gobbler over the course of a season? Ten times, a hunnerd times, a thousand?

DH: Oh, I’d say a hundred or so.

Ferd: Alright, and of that hunnerd times a callin’, how many times did a gobbler actually show up?

DH: Well, if most hunters are like me, I’d figure maybe once or twice.

Ferd: So two percent of the time, you can call a tom in. In statistics, they would label that result as negligible. Hell, boy, you have just a good a chance at callin’ a gobbler in if you was to be singin’ “Hello, Dolly” at the top of yer lungs. Or better yet, just being quiet altogether. Yet you plunked down a lot of Momma’s egg money to buy somethin’ that don’t do no good anyhow. You, sir, was hoodwinked and the cipherin’ I just did proves it!

DH: Okay, Ferd, I see what you’re saying and a lot of it has a weird sort of logic to it. But I still enjoy hunting those birds even if they make me so dang mad that I can’t see straight half the time. Maybe next year will be the year I finally get lucky. Like you say, do the math. I’ve been unsuccessful for so long that, statistically, I should be due to kill a spring tom.

Ferd: That may be true. But if you do, I don’t want to hear about it.

DH: Whoa! That kind of surprises me, Ferd. I thought you enjoyed hearing my hunting stories; especially the ones where I brought home some game.

Ferd: Well, most of the time I do. But turkeys is in a special category all their own and gentlemen turkey hunters and, uh, reformed turkey hunters have an unspoken rule about them. If you have any sort of success in the turkey woods, you just keep it to yerself. Otherwise, it’s like rubbin’ salt in a wound. A feller who ain’t even heard a gobble don’t give a tinker’s damn about how many longbeards you called in that morning. All he wants to know is when does he get to try his hand at them birds? Nossir, unless yer tale of good fortune is follered by an invite fer me to join you the next time out, just keep yer mouth shut. Same goes fer findin’ morel mushrooms; I don’t want to hear about that neither. Now if you get et on by a bear or catch pison ivory whilst a answerin’ the call of nature; I’d give a lissen to that adventure. I just don’t want to hear nothin’ about no dead turkeys.

DH: Okay, Ferd, you’ve once again given me a whole new perspective on a subject I thought I knew. I’d best get back to the house now and see if Leah has simmered down any.

Ferd: Well, it’s always good to see you, son. Take sum of this here medicine with you and see if that don’t calm the missus a bit. And grab one of them copperheads out of the box by the door on yer way out. You may need it. Come back anytime!