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The slowly rising sun threatened to shine as I pulled onto the end of the dirt road, but the cloud cover held the light back long enough to make the half mile walk to the setup. I slipped in quietly with enough time to take care trimming a couple of shooting lanes in the saplings separating the main tree line from the open field where the birds had been showing on every prior visit I’d made to the area. As I began to settle in, I noticed a small gap in the left corner of the saplings that could use a little bit of nipping, but decided against it as I felt I had done enough moving around for the morning, not wanting to flag my position. It wasn’t long before the songbirds sprang to life in the morning chorus I’ve grown accustomed to, learning to listen for what could be a cluck of a hen turkey and distinguishing the leaf turning of songbirds from the shuffling and scratching of turkeys around the cedars in the thicket behind me.
Glassing the field edges with my binoculars, I recognized a shiny black figure among the maze of tree trunks in the northwest corner. Soon the bird slipped out on the field edge and casually made her way across and down toward my position, feeding slowly and cautiously. As she approached to my right, I was able to see no beard and could hear her clucking softly in the breeze, growing with anxiety as she neared the eastern tree line, and then she was gone. I could hear the shuffling of feet several yards behind me in the woods and began to second guess my position, wondering if I may be sitting in front of any of the regular routes to the field, but I stayed put and patiently waited.
Nearly an hour had passed since the last sight or sound of movement and my bladder was getting the best of me, so I slowly rose, laid my bow across my tripod stool and stepped a few feet into thicker cover to tend to the matter. As I turned around to return to my post, I heard heavy shuffling of feet moving in my direction, no more than a few yards away. In a desperate slow motion dash to get to my bow, I miss-stepped and snapped a small twig unseen under foot in the thick grass, sending the clucking birds back into the thick cover. Wondering if I’d blown my opportunity for the morning, I decided to stay in position and wait out for at least another two hours before moving to a likely afternoon spot I’d found and seen birds in while out scouting the evening prior.
Fifteen to twenty minutes had gone past since my bladder had gotten me in trouble when I caught movement to my left. Three hens and a nice Tom slowly emerged from the trees and the hens slipped just to the left of my first groomed window. They slowed their progress and the Tom went into full strut just a few yards directly in front of the small gap I’d thought to trim before. Being a rookie, I thought maybe I could slowly raise my bow while the hens moved beyond the first window so that all I’d need to do is draw when the Tom came into clear view. After all, I didn’t want to run the risk of him busting me as I lifted the bow from my lap. Big mistake… As soon I got the bow up and lined up for pre-shot, the feeding hens caught a reflection of the lower limb and immediately went on the run back to the south, with my Tom in tow! I stood up and slipped out onto the field edge just in time to see them slip hastily into the tall grass across the road. I quickly made my way to the road and saw the Tom standing tall and still on a small peninsula a mere 80 yards from the roadside. If I didn’t think I knew better, I may have thought he was taunting in some fashion. However, knowing better would have told me to stay still when they fled and that maybe getting up and running to the road wasn’t such a bright idea, especially since I knew there were many more birds that liked this field.
After giving a little thought, I decided to pack out and head for the new spot that I’d found the day before to see if I could find a good spot to brush in for a while. When I got there, the woods were quiet with the exception of a few ducks talking it over in the creek behind the clearing that I wanted to hunt. I found two nice laid over cottonwoods, still growing green, along the high bank of the creek that offered sufficient back, front and left side cover, with not much of any cover to the right. This setup, with out adding anything (which I happen to like), would have my back to the water, facing the clearing, and ample windows to shoot to the left or out front. With my right side almost completely exposed, I didn’t expect to get any action whatsoever from that direction. Remembering what had transpired earlier that morning, I decided to make a small mud hole with a couple of ounces of water and paint the backs of my limbs ‘mud brown’. I sat quietly for an hour or so, having a little snack and a bit of water to drink and then I heard it- a loud ‘PLUNK’ in the water behind me. Knowing I had the best part of the ‘blind’ behind me, I slowly turned my head to see what was going on. As the creek bed and opposite bank came into view, I noticed a long log in the water and saw a sunning turtle dive into the water with another loud ‘PLUNK’. I was trying to figure out how they had seen me when I realized it wasn’t I that had alarmed them; rather it was the three turkeys working their way down the opposite bank. Two hens leading a tall, fat Jake came into clear view, and then disappeared behind a bunch of scrub brush and layovers. I could still hear the hens putting and then heard what sounded like rapid bursts of wind. My eyes pierced the brush and when I heard the wind bursts again, I could see sunlight reflecting off of what I recognized to be the variegated barring of turkey wing feathers and realized the birds were crossing the creek.
When I heard the last bird cross over, I saw the head of the first hen bobbing up through the brush and onto a clear trail that turned out to be about 45 yards away I’d not noticed before, but I could now see that the layout of the trail would lead the birds away from me; if I was going to get a shot on the Jake, it would have to be as soon as he stepped into the opening. I had my bow up and into position before the second hen appeared and as soon as I could see the Jake through the brush I drew back, touched anchor and began tracking his movement with my bow hand, smooth and exact. Two steps in the clear, I allowed my string fingers to relax and watched the perfect flight of the aluminum arrow to the unsuspecting bird, only to see it fall slightly short and kick up the dry, browned remnants of last years grass at his feet. The hens scattered a bit and the Jake simply hopped over the shaft at the sound of the impact, standing upright and cautiously gazing around to try to figure out what had just happened. My string hand slipped down beside me to retrieve my backup arrow, resting loosely on top of my quiver, and I was able to knock it without looking down, but as I raised to draw again, the Jake pinpointed the movement and quickly left the scene of the crime.
Somehow I knew the shot was longer than I was familiar with, but it wasn’t completely clear how long until I went to retrieve my arrow. Close inspection on the trail showed he had just barely escaped with his feet, but I learned a valuable lesson from the miss; be absolutely sure of and familiar with the distance before taking another long shot in the woods. Though I had missed the Jake cleanly, I still felt that I may have betrayed, or disrespected him in some manner for not being completely honest with myself in taking the shot. In the end, all I could do was smile at the fact that this had been my first real shot at an unsuspecting animal with the traditional bow and I missed him clean.
I was not upset about the miss, though I thought it should have connected, because everything felt so right; the alarm of turtles splashing into the creek, the undetected predator, watching every move of the complacent prey, the lift of the bow, draw of the string, silent arrow shaft on the shelf, the smooth release with the hum of a loosed string, the shimmer of light on the fletching as it quickly passed over the bright green grass growing beneath… for a matter of moments, the world stood still. I now know of the moment I’d read about when a traditional bow hunter realizes that a shot opportunity has actually materialized in front of him and I wouldn’t trade it for the satisfaction of completing the circle with a harvested animal.
That said, I’ll be back out as soon as the rain subsides!
Rory W.
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Great piece, Rory! Thanks for sharing.
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Excellent word work Roy! now get back out there and get us another story/
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The first is the now freshly trimmed ‘window’ where the strutter once stood safely. The rest are photos from some of my other ‘hideouts’. I try not to call them ‘blinds’ because I don’t spend much time throwing a few dead limbs or scrub here and there. I also fixed my limb issue on the bow by wrapping the limbs with some camo athletic bandage. Very nice how that stuff sticks to itself and is not too bulky. It added some noise reduction in the string/limb slap department as well.
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Yeah everything’s pretty green here- winter was kind of a joke. Thankfully though, at least tis year we’re having a normal kind of spring. Last year we were freezing one day and blistering hot the next. The limb wrap is working wonderfully, at least on the backyard range.:wink:
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Wexbow wrote: And come deer season it’ll be the turkeys that’ll be in front of you 😆
As our spring season is coming to an end in two weeks, I wonder if I’ll have to wait until fall for another shot at a turkey. Our deer archery and fall turkey seasons run together and last fall I had turkeys crawling all over me!
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