Mike Giles harvested this gobbler in the Bogue Phalia hills west of Meridian in the fog on his birthday.

   As dawn broke trouble was brewing and it wasn’t looking good for my birthday wishes. A thick fog descended like a blanket, covering the Mississippi foothills and most likely my chances at a gobbler. The lighter it got, the thicker the fog.

    At 6:30 I sent out a few owl hoots expecting to hear the old tom that I’d scouted out a few days earlier from a hill a quarter mile away. Silence was all I heard in response. Cloudy overcast days often spell trouble for gobbler hunters as it puts a damper on and quiet’s down all but the most vocal suitors.

    Crows began to cut up off in the distance and their symphonic calls drew nary a response from a gobbler. Time was passing quickly and soon the birds would be on the ground and I’d have to go to work without locating and tangling with an old tom.

    At precisely 6:45 I owled and was greeted by a lusty gobble from a love sick gobbler about 200 yards across the hollow to my east. Bingo, the game was on. I quickly surveyed the surroundings and spotted a knoll at the crest of the ridge. That would most likely be where he would make his appearance, if I was fortunate enough to entice him closer.

My setup

    Backing off some 45 yards I found a pine tree on the edge of a clearing and set up. I pulled out my Albert Paul box call and strummed a few sweet purrs, yelps and clucks and set the finely tuned instrument down. To my dismay the bird never said a word. In fact, he never gobbled again.

    As I sat waiting, listening for any sound and straining my eyes for any sign of the old tom the fog just got thicker and thicker. Visibility was about 35 yards. As I stared in the direction of the bird’s roost something caught my eye. Out of the mist an unusual shape appeared, partially obscured by the fog.

    Suddenly the mist cleared a bit and there stood the coal black monster with blood red waddles and a white head, staring straight in my direction. Seconds turned to minutes and the bird walked forward and blew up in full strut and belted out a double gobble pleading for the unseen hen to come hither.

    The gobbler was perhaps 50 to 60 yards distant, out of the normal range for my trusty Remington 12 gauge. Twenty-five to 30 yards was my comfort zone and part of the challenge of getting him on my terms. I’d known the knoll was most likely his strutting zone but there was no place to set up and call.

    The old tom gobbled and gobbled as he pleaded for any available hen to appear and join him. Back and forth he strutted and gobbled at anything he heard in the distance. Crows, vehicles and numerous other sounds elicited voluminous gobbles from the lovesick bird.

    Suddenly the fog got so thick you could have cut it with a knife and the gobbler disappeared. Was he still there, or had he gone looking for another hen?

    Geeoobbllee, gobblee, obble, sounded the old bird from somewhere in the fog. Time and again the fog would get so thick that the visibility dropped to only a few yards, each time obscuring my view of the hesitant suitor. Off in the distance another gobbler belted out a gobble and he was met with a lusty challenge from my bird.

Unmovable

    Twenty-five minutes passed and several hundred gobbles later and the bird was still in his strutting zone. The gobbler seemingly appeared and disappeared in the fog.  I knew better than to call with the bird so close, as he would probably pinpoint me and not move another step forward. By now I was weak from holding the gun up for so long. I turned my head as far to the left as I could, hidden by my camo cap and face mask and sent out a few yelps directly behind me with my natural voice.

    The gobbler couldn’t stand it and he belted out a double gobble and strutted toward me about 5 yards. A few minutes later he moved a few more yards and stood tall and still as a statute. Something didn’t look right as he cocked his head ever so slightly. Cutting my eyes to the left I saw what he had spotted, two jakes headed my way. They were about 25 yards to my left and closing fast, never for once thinking the king of the woods was right here also, obscured by the fog.

    A tremendous gobble almost shook the bushes beside me as the gobbler belted out a warning to the youngsters just before he puffed up in full strut and flew across the ridge top, seemingly floating on air. With the thick fog they never had a chance to escape as he busted in amongst them and sent them running.  One of the young jakes circled by me and the enraged gobbler made a horseshoe turn and followed in my direction.

    Yelp, yelp, yelp, I called to the old big boy and he put the brakes on and stretched his neck looking for me. At just about that instant a two ounce load of copper plated shot hit him full force and sent him to meet his maker! The ghost gobbler of the Bogue Phalia Hills had met his match and fulfilled my birthday wish! My birthday gobbler sported an 11 inch beard and 1 and 1/8 inch spurs!

 

    Contact  Mike Giles at 601-917-3898

or e-mail him at mikegiles18@comcast.net.