Easing silently into the pitch black woods we carefully made our way to a prime listening spot right near a roosting site. If there was a gobbler still left in the woods, we would surely hear him from this vantage point, far from the hustle and bustle of towns, roads, and automobiles. This morning was different for Justin Giles, however, as the turkey season was almost over and he had yet to score. Though he had good excuses with school, tennis, and fishing surely commanding much of him Justin still yearned for one more chance at an old tom.
Our memories wandered back to his first encounter with a gobbler some time ago, taken with the help of his uncle and an Albert Paul Box call. That bird was a trophy, and one worthy of mention. But that was a while back and the task at hand was to get another one this year.
Gobble- eoobbllleeeee! The still morning air was pierced with the high pitched scream from an old tom, located some 125 yards from our position. He followed up with a couple more gobbles and we had him pegged. Moving some 25 yards to our left, we set up at the base of an old pine tree and got ready for battle.
Yes, one tough old battle scarred bird had survived all comers, and there had surely been plenty of suitors both man and fowl. And he had survived the toughest battles of them all with Mother Nature, other gobblers and an infinite number of predators.
A yes answer
As the eastern sky turned a faint glow of pink, the old bird belted out gobble after gobble. Suddenly a hen cut his call and let him know that she had survived the night and was ready for him on such a fine morning.
Though it was still too early for fly down, it was now or never for us. Slowly taking off my cap, I simulated a gobbler flying down by flopping the hat back and forth on my leg. That was followed up by a series of low yelps, purrs, and clucks.
And then there was silence, no response at all. Minutes went by before the old bird sent out another thunderous gobble. The hen cut and yelped right behind his gobble. This went on for quite some time as the hen wasn’t about to give way to another possible suitor.
Though the early morning light was still dim, it was time for action. I pulled out my Albert Paul box call and purred and clucked very quietly. And still there was no response as the old bird just kept doing his own thing, and gobbling at will while playing uninterested. Through experience I knew that this bird had survived several seasons of tangling with hunters and wasn’t about to go away easily.
I believed that he was more interested than he let on, though. Suddenly, I heard the flapping of wings and knew the game was on. Almost as soon as the King landed on terra firma he belted out another fierce gobble, and the drumming began.
The arrival
When he gobbled again he was so close that I could almost smell him and “feel” the vibrations from his thunderous gobble. With his shotgun already on his knee and aimed in the direction of the sly old gobbler, Justin moved his head slightly and drew a finer bead.
At that point the coal black monster appeared on the rise some 30 yards or so away looking dead at us. Instantly he blew up in full strut and I could tell he was a mature gobbler by his fan tail, though I couldn’t see the beard. As soon as he came out of strut, Justin laid the gobbler down with one shot to the head and our morning and season was done!
This limb hanger gobbler was surely a trophy with long spurs, a 10 inch beard and a hefty weight. As it turned out this was the youngster’s last chance at a trophy tom for the year and he had made good on the opportunity. Of course the youngster, Justin Giles, is no longer a youngster, but a young man swiftly approaching high school graduation and the beginning of adulthood. Money is easily spent, but memories of a trophy gobbler given as a graduation present between an uncle and nephew will last forever.
Congratulations on your graduation, and your graduation gobbler, Justin, you earned both of them.
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