“What’s all the fuss about this turkey hunting?” some of you who are not addicted might understandably ask. A turkey hunter’s behavior for six weeks every spring stretches acceptable social conduct to the very outer limits. The root cause of this lapse into eccentricity is the supreme challenge the male turkeys present hunters when their (the turkeys’) hormones prepare them for fathering baby turkeys.  

    This turkey hunting is an outdoor activity that is not for everyone. Those who want their hunting to be a relaxing stroll in the woods requiring minimum concentration and ordinary effort and gear will find spring turkey hunting a hassle. The casual hunter will be annoyed by the chill of pre-dawn waits, the sweat of late spring mornings, occasional encounters with rattlesnakes and cottonmouths, constant war with mosquitoes, chiggers and ticks and a quarry that has suddenly turned ridiculously evasive.

    I can’ think of a game animal more deserving of the word wild that the wild turkey gobbler in March and April. From his roost, usually high up in a tall tree, he typically gobbles at daylight. Gobbles from the roost can often be provoked by making a call like an owl. Sometimes a crow call or just some loud noise can make a roosted tom gobble. This response from the bird is communicating “This is my territory and intruders should shut up and leave!”

    The gobble is also used to attract hens. It says “Here I am ladies. I expect you to join me for the pitching of some woo.” The hens may answer with subtle purrs, clucks and yelps, all typical female whispers that fill their suitor with unbridled passion. In this state of mind, the gobbler finds an opening on the ground where the hens can see clearly and he struts and puffs up to double his size and drums with a sound like a distant car motor. As he struts he usually gobbles until his head fills with blood and turns red.

    The hens are expected to flock to the gobbler, and herein lies the fly in the ointment. The hunter intervenes in hopes of attracting the gobbler to a special willing lady (the hunter’s fake hen calling device), but the gobbler expects the “hen” to come to him. Thus ensues a standoff, and only part of the time can a tom be convinced to break tradition and seek out the inviting but reluctant temptress, whereupon he is dispatched and becomes the source of endless bragging by the hunter.

    Most of the time the puzzled tom continues to prance about, showing his flared tail feathers and inflated chest to the non-existent hen and getting more frustrated at her hesitancy. His gobbles often become more demanding, their volume silencing the other noisemakers of the forest. If these screams could be translated into English, they would be laced with four-letter words. He has done his part; gobbled his desires and shown his worthiness with gleaming plumage and majestic marching. “Why won’t you show?” he obviously asks.

    Every trick in the gobbler’s book will be used to attract the hidden hen into view. The hunter who is patient – and that may mean two hours of calling, long periods of silence or a tom simply walking away – will on certain specially blessed days actually get a shot at a spring tom.

    He may come in, tiptoeing silently up behind you an hour after going silent and leading you to believe he has wandered over to the next county. He may be in the last spot he gobbled hours earlier, waiting you (the hen) out. Or he may actually be in the next county, seeking a more cooperative girlfriend. Only long minutes, often hours of motionless waiting will tell.

    Many a gobbler has been spooked by a hunter who has “worked” him all morning and, after an hour of silence, gets up to leave and flushes the bird from a nearby hiding place. It has happened to every turkey hunter who has hunted very many seasons.

    So when you encounter a turkey hunter during the season, remember that he or she is dealing with a long list of defeats. Don’t ask the popular question, “Have you killed one yet?” He or she probably hasn’t, and your asking only causes the hunter to face that painful fact again, and for those so inclined, move deeper into the perennial state of depression common to frustrated turkey hunters.

    Have I killed one yet? No! And I don’t want to talk about it!