In a classic spring turkey hunting scenario, the hunter hears a gobble, or gets a gobbler to respond to some proficient calling. They find a suitable ambush location, begin their sweet serenade, and the bird obligingly saunters into range.

Unfortunately, things seldom go that smoothly, and the variables can result in frustrating – and sometimes comical – conclusions.

Plan A didn’t work on opening morning, making me a little later than I’d hoped for Plan B. I made the most of it, setting up in an uncomfortable and less-than-desirable position. My scouting and calling worked, and soon I had a randy tom on the way. Had I been where I wanted to be, it would have been a short hunt.

Instead, the bird puffed up into strut just out of range and began pacing back and forth, each lap bringing it a few feet closer. All the while, my face inched closer and tighter to my stock. Just a few more steps and… boom!

The 835 Ulti-Mag shotgun, while sending 3-1/2-inch loads toward its target, hit me square in the nose like a prize fighter.

Dazed, I tried to clear the barbed wire fence in front of me, opening a three-corner tear in my pants. I grabbed the fallen bird by its legs, just as it went into an explosion of spasms, as turkeys often do. When I dropped it, a spur caught in my cotton glove and the bird proceeded to pound my legs with its wings until it finally expired. I made quite an impression at the check station, shirt covered with my own blood and tattered pants with the turkey’s. But I got the bird.

Hunt long enough and eventually you’re going to roll a bird, only to have it recover and run away. Then it takes quick thinking and action to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. When it happened to me, instinct took over.

I vaulted to my feet and raced after the bird, firing two more ineffective shots. Then I dropped the now-useless implement and ran faster. The bird was barely outpacing me while binoculars beat my face and chest. They were next to go and the distance was closing, but still not enough, so I shed my vest. That did it, and after a brief wrestling match, the day was mine. Several minutes later, my companions caught up with me, laughing so hard they could barely contain themselves, and carrying the numerous and varied items along the way. We called that one the Yard Sale bird.

More recently, I was hosting a youth hunter who shot with similar results. As his gun was a single-shot, there was no time to waste and little choice but to exhibit the sprinting skills of a fat old man. This race was shorter, but it had rained quite heavily the day before and it ended in a puddle, with me covered in mud, water and feathers. All would have been well had I not neglected to take my now soaked cell phone from my pocket sooner.

“Shoot; shoot now!” I urged my daughter in a loud whisper. The longbeard that had strolled into our decoy spread apparently sensed something wrong and was about to exit, stage left. The gun went off and the bird took several running steps before launching into flight and sailing off. When it reached the treeline 150 yards away, it stopped, and plummeted to the ground, stone dead. Upon recovering the bird, we discovered a single pellet hole in the head. We all hope for the perfect scenario, but sometimes it seems the more unusual ones are also the most memorable.

Bob Humphrey is a freelance writer and Registered Maine Guide who lives in Pownal. He can be reached at: bob@bobhumphrey.com

Copy the Story Link