Michael Giles harvested old Bogue Phalia Joe on his last hunt last spring with the help of Mossy Oak, Preston Pittman, Paul Meek and Longbeard XR turkey shells.

Have you ever seen or heard of a wary old tom turkey that beat all hunters, no matter what they threw at him? You know the kind that spurned all of the sweet seductive calls that the best callers could muster. One by one the despondent hunters tucked their tails and ran back home to lick their wounds and try other birds.

    That’s just the situation I found myself in during the waning days of the season last year.

After a long season of calling up gobblers for other folks I decided to try my luck on old Bogue Phalia Joe. I spotted old Joe as he ran across a clover patch late one afternoon while trying to roost a turkey. Old Joe was sure to roost nearby, but had I waited too late to give the old Kingpin another try? As old Bogue Phalia Joe exploded airborne and sailed off into the deep hollow I hoped that he hadn’t been scared off into the next county.

    There was only one thing to do and that was to don my favorite Mossy Oak gear, pick up my Remington Special Purpose turkey gun and load up some of Winchester’s red hot Longbeard XR shotgun shells and head to the woods early the next morning.

    Arriving on a knoll overlooking a small clover patch and strutting zone before daylight, I was tuned in to nature’s sounds and listening for the first whippoorwill, owl hoot, and hopefully a lusty gobble from the king of the southern woods. But this bird wouldn’t be easy to fool as he’d beaten all comers and enticed a harem of hens all the while.

    Suddenly the shrill cry of a lonesome whippoorwill pierced the still early morning air and awakened my senses to the smell of an impending thunderstorm bearing down on the area. I waited expectantly for that owl hoot and lusty gobble, but they never came as the night melted away to the dawning of a new day.

    Finally I could stand it no longer as a chorus of crows rang out across the hills and hollows with nary a gobble in response. I crossed the small hill patch and moved swiftly yet silently until I reached the peak of a ridge that dropped off into a deep hollow that was intersected by five other hollows.

    This was the area that the old bird had roosted in all season long, never straying more than a couple hundred yards. Some mornings he belted out gobble after gobble and others only a few, as he gathered his harem. One by one they disappeared until one morning he woke up alone.

    Six o’clock came and not a gobble was to be heard. He should’ve been gobbling by now, if he’d lived through the last onslaught of hunters, but I couldn’t be sure. I was in his bedroom now, too close to send out my favorite owl hoot, but I had to do something as time was slipping away.

I sent out three series of yelps to the north, west and finally to the south with my Preston Pittman mouth call. No sooner had I finished my last series of yelps than I heard the flop, flop, flop, of wings very quietly signaling the gobbler’s descent from his roost.

    “He’s coming now.” Could it be possible that he’d heard my sweet pleadings and simply pitched off of his oak throne? I couldn’t take a chance so I quickly eased back up the trail and prepared for battle. Fifteen minutes went by and nary a sight nor sound of the bird was seen or heard. Crows flew close by and still nothing happened, so I pulled out my Preston Pittman Crow call and sounded out a raucous crow rant.

    Goooobbbblllllleeeeeee! Thundered the grand old monarch from the foot of the hill, perhaps 70 yards away. He was coming now and I was ready to greet him with my 12 gauge aimed down the trail.

    Ten minutes later he’d still not shown up, or made a peep, so I pulled out my Paul Meek copper/slate and purred softly four times.

    Goooobbbblllllleeeeeee! The gobbler was only about 25 yards from me, right over the rise and almost knocked me for a loop with his thunderous gobble. I dropped the slate, aimed my gun in his direction and waited.

    Suddenly the phantom rose over the crest of the ridge and ducked under a huckleberry bush headed in my direction, only 20 yards away. Just as he squeezed between two huckleberry bushes I eased my gun slightly to the right and squeezed the trigger as the bead touched the gobbler’s head.

    Ka-boom, roared the shotgun and a potent mix of Winchester Longbeard XR pellets struck home and the old gobbler collapsed instantly! A rush of adrenaline filled my being as I sprinted to the gobbler and admired his beautiful plumage and relished the challenge of matching wits with Old Bogue Phalia Joe one last time.

    I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving over Bogue Phalia Joe and for a triumphant morning spent in the springtime woods making memories with Paul and Preston, Winchester Longbeard XR, and my trusty Remington turkey slayer.  

    Contact  Mike Giles at

601-917-3898 or e-mail him at mikegiles18@comcast.net