In my last article, I noted that I have gradually gone from well organized and early to last minute. At the time, I was referring to preparing for turkey hunting trips. However, on a return trip to Florida this March, my chances of taking a turkey came down to the last minute as well.

    For the return trip, I was hunting an area I had previously hunted. Knowing the area you intend to hunt, no matter what you are hunting, offers an advantage. Last year, the area was dry except for a few swamps and one river that ran through the unit. This year early rains in Florida had changed the area dramatically. In fact, most of the places we found turkeys last year were under water this season.

    I quickly realized that abundant water also meant abundant alligators. The excellent turkey hatch in Florida the prior two years was matched by an excellent alligator hatch.

    We spent the first morning in a blind waiting out a thunderstorm that lasted until noon. That afternoon we roosted turkeys and, upon returning to camp, were entertained by an interesting character. Bill was from Alaska and currently unemployed, unless you classify “turkey bum” as a job. He was hunting various spots in Florida for the month and then heading off to another turkey destination. He had several Grand Slams under his belt and some very interesting ideas about hunting, including a special “hoot thing” he did during the “bewitching hour” each morning and a belief that you never needed to roost turkeys.

New start

    The next morning, I waited with great anticipation for the “bewitching hour.”  Having roosted turkeys the afternoon before, I felt the odds were favorable. However, that was before I encountered another hunter with a deep affinity for blowing a crow call. I was next to a swamp bordered on both sides by roads. The area surrounding the swamp had recently been burned, and I was certain the turkeys would eventually make their way into the burn. I was about 100 yards from the roost area.

    The gobbling started early and continued for fifteen minutes. After fly down, the turkeys made their way toward the burn and all that separated us was a thin line of palmettos. About the time the turkeys made it to the palmettos, the “crow call maestro” kicked off the concert on the north road. I have never used a locator call to try to call a turkey; however, apparently that was his intent because he blew the call for a solid hour, never making one turkey call. As a result, neither did the turkeys that were headed my direction. In fact, they never spoke again until roost time.                      

    Morning three was a repeat of the prior with only one exception, my best friend and hunting companion Steve Brown was with me. I think he doubted my story about the crow caller. I can still see the look on his face when the turkeys started gobbling and the “maestro” started the show for the second time. Leaving out exact words and phrases, let me say that fortunately we did not encounter the crow caller because I am certain the outcome would not have been positive for all involved parties. Frustrated, we left the area and headed across the river. After an unsuccessful afternoon of roosting and a wonderful fireside salami sandwich dinner, we settled in and eagerly anticipated the next day’s hunt.

    The last morning, the campfire coffee took the edge off the cool air, but even Rudolph would have had trouble cutting through the fog that rolled in after the turkeys started gobbling. When the turkeys hit the ground, the gobbling stopped and we waited impatiently for the fog to lift. Finally, around ten o’clock, the fog lifted and we made our way down a fire lane, stopping to call every few hundred yards.

Long walk  

    After walking about three and a half fruitless miles, we came to a turn in the road bordering a shallow corner of the swamp.  I yelped on my box call and the resounding silence offered us no hope. At that point, Steve clucked loudly on his mouth call and a turkey sounded off about 150 yards behind the swamp.

    We both dove behind a huge live oak in the corner of the road. I positioned myself facing the swamp, some 50 yards distant, with Steve behind me.  Ten minutes later, the sound of a crow overhead resulted in another loud gobble. He had cut the distance in half. Within minutes, we saw the top of his fan as he strutted our way. I almost cried when he turned away and headed up the swamp, but a little soft talk on Steve’s slate call made him change his mind.

    I expected him to make his way to the road along the water and turn our way. However, as turkeys never fail to both humble and amaze me, he instead turned into the shallow water to make his way across. Since it was the last hour of the last day, I did not wait too long. As he made a few steps across the swamp, beard in the water, it was time for this last minute bird to make his way back to Mississippi, and he did after a second “insurance” shot.

    As I hoisted the soaked bird out of the water, admiring his now wet beard, I asked Steve how much he thought he would weigh.  His reply still makes me laugh, “Thirteen before you shot him, sixteen now.”  There truly is nothing like waiting until the last minute.