The world seems suddenly quiet as you exit the cab of your pickup, the only sounds the whisper of a distant vehicle and the metallic ticking of a cooling exhaust system. You take it in for a moment, then reach into the back seat, lift your vest and shotgun, and head for a predetermined destination.

As you follow the flashlight beam down an overgrown woods road, the performers in the dawn bird chorus begin. First on stage is a cardinal singing cheer, cheer, cheer, purty, purty, purty. Next comes a towhee reminding you to drink your tea-e-e-e, followed by a robin’s cheery-up, cheery-oh. As you near your destination, others join in and individual songs are harder to parse out.

There’s still 100 yards to go but the light must go out lest you give away your approach to the sharp-eyed birds hopefully still roosted in the big white pines you watched them fly into the previous evening. It takes several minutes for your eyes to adjust to near darkness, and the going will be much slower from here on.

For several days you’ve followed their twilight activities. Each morning they pitched from the pines, hens first, pausing briefly to survey their surroundings, then pecking at the first green clover leaves or some hapless insect immobilized by the morning chill. Next come the toms, who ignore their morning meal and set straight to courtship, puffing up their feathers, fanning their broad tails and strutting stiff-legged toward a potential mate.

You hope to see the same procession today but there are no guarantees. Roosted ain’t roasted, as turkey hunters are fond of saying. A rattling gobble from the nearby treetop reassures you. “So far, so good,” you encourage yourself, knowing there are still many variables to overcome.

Their landing pad is usually mid-field, far from any concealing cover. Preseason scouting has shown they might come your way, or they might not. Perhaps a pair of carefully placed decoys and some soft calling will persuade them. The hens ignore both. The toms gobble in response, but are reluctant to leave the birds at hand for one in the bush.

Three toms march in a staggered line, the leader in a confident full-strut posture. The second bird lags a few steps behind and seems less confident while the third is farther back and holds his tail less erect. The pecking order is clear and the leader does most of the gobbling. He’s focused on his hens but mindful of the competition. 

They, meanwhile, are distracted by what they perceive as other hens, away from the flock and the boss tom. Sensing an opportunity, one male breaks from the flock and starts your way. A little more calling elicits a gobble from the boss, but with each step away from the flock his rival grows bolder. His head turns gradually from pale red to bright white and blue, and his tail grows increasingly more erect. 

Slowly, gradually he comes closer, lacking enough confidence to race in, and with good reason. Old Tom, the boss, has seen enough and suddenly he and the other longbeard break from the flock and run toward the presumptuous bird and then to your decoys. The ensuing scuffle confuses and amuses you for a moment until you remember why you are there. When the melee pauses, you pick out a red head and take aim.

Bob Humphrey is a freelance writer and Registered Maine Guide who lives in Pownal. He can be reached at: [email protected]