Readers who are not interested in the manifestations of wild turkey hunting’s addictive illness that besieges us turkey hunters should perhaps read no further and move on to other sections of the paper.

    On Easter Sunday morning at 8:40, I killed Two Face.

    Now Two Face was one of those few special gobblers in a hunter’s lifetime that is assigned a name; a badge of honor and respect. To earn this distinction, Two Face had eluded me until this, the fourth season of our struggles, two of which I hunted him exclusively. That is I worked other gobblers only incidentally while pursuing my nemesis. As a result I bagged very few toms during those lean years.

    That drought aside, the old bird cost me dearly in other ways. Few toms ever taken came at a higher price than Two Face. There were the missed experiences of interacting with dozens of other gobblers; each one would have stocked my storehouse of cherished memories. Even more notable are the thousands of dollars it took to fix a smashed truck and a smashed shoulder that happened during the 2011 season.

    I had parked near Two Face’s roost tree to scout and lay a plan. The truck would not re-start because a starter activation part had failed. While pushing the truck backwards to start it, the downhill speed overcame my ability to keep up and two attempts to jump in the driver’s seat failed. So I found myself being dragged near the front tire of the small truck while hanging onto the steering wheel.

Runaway

    The pickup gained speed and I knew I had to somehow get loose from it before it hit the woods and scrubbed me off on a tree. I had to do this while avoiding being run over by the front tire and yet I had no way to push myself away from that wheel. With a brief prayer, I twisted away from the vehicle as best I could and landed on the hard gravel with my left shoulder, tearing loose all ligaments from the rotator cuff connection.

    The truck hit a tree and ruined the door and much of its side. That bill was big. But the shoulder operation yielded screws and pain and incapacity and pain and lots of money and pain and rehabilitation that has still not ended a year later. Yes, the wheel could have crushed my head so maybe I am lucky.

    Meanwhile, I was gaining scads of knowledge about the life and times of Two Face. He never roosted with hens. Instead he kept a younger tom as a companion that was not allowed to gobble until their second season together. Nor would the dominant bird tolerate him in the same roost tree; instead requiring a perch 50 or so yards distant. I named this bird Sidekick, and the rascal was skilled at protecting Two Face, always coming between his master and me and messing things up royally.

    On opening day 2011 I called the two in together at last. Not knowing which was which, I shot Sidekick. I knew I had killed the wrong bird when Two Face returned to each of his two roost trees where I could hear his gobbles. Yes the devil had trees he would alternate for spending his nights, without fail, for four years.

    Very uniquely, his pattern was to gobble a few times from his west roost and then fly down and make a wide circle deep into the woods gobbling occasionally, gathering interested hens and engaging in procreation. At about nine a.m. his circle would bring him back to the road where his roost was. He would cross the road and abandon his lovers to disappear into the sunset as it were, and walk quickly for a quarter mile to another area where a different group of hens waited breathlessly. He would consort to his heart’s content.

    Dreading the long walk back, the tom would roost, with Sidekick nearby, in a specific tree in a tangled ravine in this eastern area. That night he snickered at his cheating the western ladies out of a full day of his attention and likewise those in his eastern block. He loved his duel sex life; double dipping if you will. Accordingly, the next morning he would circulate among the willing hens of the east and desert them at mid-morning for the walk back west; thus the moniker “Two Face.”

    As Easter morning dawned, lacking only one bird for my limit of three, I hid in cover and heard his gobble from his western tree. His fourth gobble was subdued and I knew he had flown down. Then I made my move to a green field adjacent to his roost. When I set up, he was already moving away on his morning tryst circuit.

Foiled again

    In the next hour I conversed with another nearby gobbler and failed to make Two Face jealous, as he was preoccupied with his regulars. Eventually he tore himself away from his western harem and crossed the old dead-end road heading east. I said something magic to him on a box caller and he answered from across the road. I could tell he was interested, but I would have bet my lunch he would not re-cross that road. So I picked up and headed toward him with a faint hope I could catch him at least approaching.

    Reaching the road I heard him gobble close! He was coming to my last call. I hurriedly set a hen decoy beside the road and looked for a set-up spot. None in sight, I quickly crawled into the shoot house that accompanied the field where I had been calling. I got the door closed, but was still crouched inside when a peek revealed Two Face stepping into the road.

    He saw my decoy, puffed up, scraped his wings on the pea gravel and took three steps my way. He repeated this three steps and a tight strut all the way to the hen, some hundred yards and 20 minutes. His dragging wings could be heard echoing through the woods at each pause. At the hen, he made several circles, at long last covering his head from my view with his flared tail feathers. I aligned on his neck when he turned around and savored the moment for several seconds before I pressed the trigger and ended my long engagement with this finest of tom turkeys.

    I talked to him all the way home, reminding him that his infidelities and countless tricks he pulled on me well justified his demise. Two Face is dead. Long live Two Face, in the pages of my memory.