As I pen this column, I just returned to my office after a morning turkey hunt, and I am five days into our five-week spring gobbler season.
If you are looking for a grab-and-grin image of a hunter holding his prized trophy and 500-700 words of delicate prose about how he gobbled on the roost, answered my tree yelping, flew down, and proceeded to gobble all the way to my lap — stop reading. I will disappoint you greatly as an outdoor writer, seasoned turkey hunter and someone who is afflicted by the call of a wild turkey.
But if you enjoy reading about how a game bird makes an accomplished hunter a fool, multiple times mind you, then prop your feet up and enjoy.
The tom turkey has roosted for the night in the same general area all week. The setting is a spine ridge, about 40 yards wide, high atop a large piece of hunting ground above the Gauley River.
The ridge is the highest point around, with a knoll in the middle of the ridge. Three steep hollows break from the ridge, with two heading toward the river and one heading in the opposite direction.
In short, he has three options to start his day in this big country. I have started my mornings three times on the ridge, and twice I gambled and started below the ridge.
He likes to gobble in the predawn minutes when the world is waking up. In fact, he often gobbles before the owls hoot or the songbirds begin their sunrise celebration by singing as loudly as possible. Locating him at first light is no problem.
Just as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the forest floor below him and he can see well enough to land safely on the ground, he flies down.
Therein lies my problem: he pitches down to different locations every morning. If I set up south of him, he flies north. If I set up east of him, he flies west. Why and how he knows where I am, I haven’t the foggiest.
This morning, I set up before dawn on a flat he used to land and gobble the following morning. He flew down to where I was set up yesterday. The day before, the same scenario. He is making me a little wacky, trying to outsmart this old bird.
One morning, I decided to wait him out, just to see what his next move was going to be in the mid-morning sunshine. Because of the steep terrain, trying to get in front of him quietly and unseen is somewhat difficult, with the fringes leaning toward impossible — especially when you have no idea which way he is going to go.
After the morning fly-down and gobbling session had ended, I made a guess and circled off the ridge, and entered the hollow way below him. I called and walked slowly up toward the ridge. He gobbled twice back at me — which it is rare after the first light that he gobbles — and seemed to be heading slowly in my direction.
After a long spell of my hearing nothing but whitewater rushing through one of the many major rapids of the Gauley River, he gobbled again and was maybe 10 yards closer than two hours before — still a long way off.
He has found a perfect neck of the woods, and he is the king of the big hardwoods. I am wood-wise and old enough to know that I should leave him and find another gobbling turkey to play the game with. Then again, I would miss our morning chess matches too much and be left wondering what he did in my absence.
I will keep in pursuit of the old bird, and maybe one day he will mess up. If not, I am perfectly fine with him winning. I am starting to enjoy my morning nature walks with the sun rising beautifully above the river valley. The brisk walk and climb to the top of the mountain is good exercise — at least, that is what I keep telling myself.
Tomorrow is a new day, and if you need me, I will be watching the sunrise and listening for him to gobble.
Chris Ellis is a veteran of the outdoors industry. His book “Hunting, Fishing and Family from The Hills of West Virginia” is available at . Contact him at chris@elliscom.net.
