FALL TURKEY HUNTING

(photo courtesy of www.tomjonesbuckeyephotos.com) Pennsylvania has two wild turkey seasons each year. One is during the spring mating season when gobblers can be called into a hunter’s stand. The other is during the fall when either hens or gobblers can be taken. In the spring one has to rise early (3-4 AM) and get set up in the field before the turkey get up. You have to do enough scouting to know where the turkeys are and where your stand should be. A spring hunter must completely camouflage himself and be accomplished at “calling a gobbler in.” All these requisites were why my dad never hunted in the spring and why I never became a spring gobbler hunter. Dad simply didn’t have the time. However, when the fall season rolled around it was different. Your chances weren’t as good at actually bagging a bird but it was a gorgeous time to be in Penn’s Woods. In the fall you could pretty much just get out for a leisurely walk in the woods at any time of day. You could sit around on a stump and take in the beauty of God’s creation. If you were real lucky a turkey might walk or fly by. If you weren’t real lucky you at least had a great day in the woods and you didn’t have to clean anything afterward.

In the fall Dad liked to get up to camp as many weekends as possible. The whole family enjoyed the crisp, dry air, the colored leaves, and the occasional early snowfall. Turkey season began in late October or early November so the leaves were past their peak and snow was always a possibility. Such was the case on the day in question. We awoke Saturday morning to find in had snowed a couple inches overnight. This would provide both contrast in the woods and the ability to track any turkeys that might be moving around.

Just after dawn Johnny and I walked behind Dad up the old roadway to the top of the mountain. He figured if there were turkeys around they might be up on the flat. As we went Dad suddenly crouched down and lifted his gun (he was carrying his Savage model 110, .270). He looked through the scope at a number of deer he had spotted on the road up ahead. Johnny and I strained our eyes to see where he pointed. One was a buck – a pretty nice 4-point. Dad commented that he wished it had been buck season. We watched the deer mill around for a few minutes and then continued our climb. The road didn’t go all the way to the top so when we got within 100 yards or so we found a deer trail that went straight up. Dad knew how to walk slowly and quietly through the snow without slipping. I, on the other hand, took two steps forward and slid back a few when I stepped on branches hidden by the snow. When we reached the top Dad found an old oil shack that had four pump lines running out to surrounding wells. These were interlocking steel rods that connected the power source to the wells. The operation had created an opening that was slow to overgrow. It would be a good place to have a seat and watch for any signs of turkey. Our plan was that if Dad saw a turkey at some distance he would use his rifle. If we had a close encounter Johnny and I would make an attempt with our shotguns.

Most trios of hunters would have spread out to improve their chances but dad kept us close by. He enjoyed the time with us and we with him. He described how the oil operation worked and we talked quietly about what we saw on the forest floor. Squirrels and birds were active that morning and we enjoyed their antics. Suddenly Dad motioned for quiet. He had heard something but wasn’t sure what it was. To me it sounded a little like the chalk on a blackboard when the teacher was writing out an assignment (not a pleasant sound). It definitely wasn’t a gobble but Dad thought it might be a hen. We all listened intently and the next time it sounded closer. Dad thought it was a hen coming in our direction, maybe several. It seemed like forever between calls and I began to wonder if the turkeys had sensed our presence and gone back where they came from. My dad; however, was a pro at this game. He could sit motionless for longer than anyone I had ever seen. As I watched him he slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder and studied the landscape through the scope. The crack of the .270 and the orange blast for the muzzle came as a shock. We weren’t sure what Dad was shooting at. Neither my brother nor I had seen a turkey. Had our father “lost it” and shot at a squirrel? As was his manner, Dad simply lowered his gun and said, “Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

I know we walked at least 75 yards before we came to a dead hen turkey lying in the snow. We couldn’t figure out how Dad had even seen this bird, let alone shot it right in the neck (spoiling no meat as usual). Always a stickler for the game laws, Dad unloaded his rifle, filled out his tag and attached it to the bird’s leg. Johnny and I admired the bird – the first I had ever seen up close. Dad rarely showed a lot of emotion but we could tell he was excited about shooting his first turkey. From the tracks in the snow it appeared there were at least three turkeys foraging together. The remaining two ran in the direction from which they had come. “Let’s see if we can track them down,” Dad said, as he hoisted the dead turkey over his shoulder. Johnny and I couldn’t keep our eyes off the big bird as its wings spread out over Dad’s back. Dad was intent on the tracks in the snow. He pointed out how far apart the tracks were as the birds ran. In about fifty yards it seemed they slowed down a little and then Dad showed us two perfect wing imprints in the snow where one had taken off. Then a few feet away the other lifted off. Dad’s gaze scanned the trees for as far as he could see to determine if they had gone to roost. He doubted they would and figured they would be in the valley someplace by now.

“Let’s get this bird back to camp,” Dad said, as he led us down over the crest of the hill. As we got close to the road we saw Ed Downing out behind his camp cutting some firewood. Dad hailed him and Ed said, “So that was you I head shooting back over the top. That .270 has an unmistakable crack. Who shot the turkey?” Johnny and I blurted out that Dad had made a great shot. Dad asked Ed if he had ever cleaned a turkey before, as this was his first one. I knew Ed would be all over this. “Why sure, I’ve dressed out dozens of ‘em. Here’s what you do….” Ed went into great detail and then gave us a hand with the bird. We saved several tail feathers to show our friends and proudly displayed some on the mantle at the camp. Mom refused to cook the turkey at camp as she didn’t have any of the necessary equipment there. It would have to wait until we got back home. What a great day it had been for me. I was proud of my father and happy for him that he had gotten his first (and only) turkey. I’m still waiting for my first.