Yesterday morning I was late getting moving and I was getting to the roost site at the time I should have been there 30minutes before. I got pinned down by gobbling birds on the roost and was not able to get up on the ridge above them. Knowing they would probably NEVER come down hill to me, I just contented myself with holding position as a forward listening post to gather intel for a new mission the next morning.
The main flock was across the paved road from me on private land, but this smaller satellite group was roosted on Black Hills National Forest public land. I can remember at least seven birds I have killed on this ridge including my first gobbler. I have taken them on this spot with the 20 gauge I was given as a kid, with my Benelli autoloader, my black powder dbl barrel 10 gauge, and once even got a hold of one jake by his ankle where he proceeded to introduce me to an obscure Isreali/hillbilly martial art form called Krav Magobble. Despite all the sound and the fury, when we separated neither was hurt but both the wiser for it. I dropped really big money for some of that TSS, tungsten super shot in .410 and my goal is to drop a mature bird with that.
They came down from the roost in classic manner and landed just below the edge of the steep slope below the bench where I was snugged up against the base of a tree. As always, they shut up immediately upon touching ground and I took the chance of moving up on them since they were out of sight for the moment. I got about 20 yards closer and I was in a position that if the birds spread out nicely, I may JUST have one in range of my little Stevens 301 pipsqueak .410. With a small bore like this, typical lead shells would not give you enough of a pattern to be ethical, but these TSS #8's run about 207 pellets in the 13/16th oz load. That is roughly the pellet count of an ounce of #6 lead, but packs the same ballistic impact of a #3 lead pellet. I was unable to procure the full choke for the gun, but found that out to 30 yards the modified choke puts 6-10 pellets in the spine and brain part of a turkey target...plenty of overkill!
The birds hung under the edge of the bench for what seemed like the same amount of time as it took me to drive down to the Tennessee Classic...two days! They released the parking brakes when a couple mature hens behind me a couple hundred yards started to yak and gossip. One by one, then in twos and threes, they came up into view and assembled to my left. Being a right-handed shooter, I was easily able to slow turn to the left and bring the birds to bear under the bead on the barrel. They were at the ragged edge of my self imposed ethical shooting boundary and none were strutting. The light was low and it was quite overcast, without a bird breaking into full strut I was not willing to make a guess. There was enough grass that I wasn't able to make out beards or spurs. Insufficient light meant I could easily pick out a head, I was just not getting enough feedback in the form of photons to determine where on the refracted light spectrum their head colors might lie!
I thought about imitating a jake gobble to fire up an older bird, but I had only been out of bed 20 minutes at the most and my voice would have likely been far too low to really work. Ultimately, with my little shotty pointed in their general direction I let them wander off about their business. I was not convinced there was a mature tom in the bunch, they all kinda looked like hens and jakes, and it was early in the season. So, they lined up and followed the very well-established deer/turkey trail heading north to a very wealthy subdivision of McMansions and fancy birdfeeders. I pushed my start time back 45 minutes in my head and calculated I would be here in the morning at the proper time to get on an ambush position on the trail. Easy peasy, right?
Yeah, well, the alarm went off at the correct time, the cup of instant coffee was ready to throw in the microwave, and I threw the dogs outside as I dressed. In as long as it takes for the pups to take care of their morning lawn downloads, I was dressed and sipping barely acceptable brew from my favorite pottery mug. I told them to go back to bed and I will be home shortly to feed breakfast. We'd had off and on light sprinkles overnight so the dry grass was wet and the sticks on the ground bent rather than snapped when stepped on. Nontheless, I avoided stepping on pine cones, although not because of the noise they make when dry, but because they roll under your foot and I didn't want to risk a tumble on this 60 degree slope. This slope is unnatural as it is a cut out of a hillside in order to straighten out Nemo Road outside of Rapid City. The hillside is comprised of alluvial rock, gravel, silt, and is liberally decorated with blowdown pines in various states of decay. In daylight with a walking staff to help balance this is tricky. Doing so in the dark with an overcast sky blotting out the moon and stars, a dead headlamp, and carrying a shotgun, it was the stuff of your ankles' worst dreams.
I made the north end of the bench in good time and proper silence. I had used this one tree over and over during the last two decades and that is where I headed. I had long ago drug up a section of rotting pine deadfall and it partially leaned against my chosen tree and a large rock. I am able to wedge myself in the crux of the upright and the deadfall so that I can rest comfortably. And I did. In moments I was back asleep, tiny droplets of a light misty drizzle tip-tapping in the forest floor litter lulling me to slumberland. A gobble awakened me, but I didn't so much as lift my head. One eye opened briefly and shut again - it was still too dark to concern myself with anything other than my much-desired nap. Eventually, the flock across Nemo Road was starting to get a little too raucus to ignore and I begrudgingly sat up and arranged my turkey calls behind the deadfall.
I put some fresh chalk on Kevin Reybauld's classic box call and lined up three different strikers for the granite and pine knot friction call dvhunter sent me from Michigan the year after he hunted birds with me here in the Black Hills. My wingbone call was hanging from a braintan buckskin thong on the rearview mirror down the hill <grumble*grumble>. This morning there was but one gobbler on my side of the road and it didn't appear to be any hens with him. I thought I had all my mojo working today - right place, right time, right conditions! I opened on the friction call with a purpleheart striker, because I know this is my highest pitched combo. Just some light work, no yelps, just little vocalizations of a bird waking up. The gobbler immediately answered. I switched to box and gave some more soft calling. His gobbles are very short, but he lays them out often. The main flock across the road eventually got positively worked up and a number of hens were smack talking like they were tonight's new star on COPS. I raised my calling level closer to theirs and no matter what I threw out there the gobbler on my side of the road answered.
When the main flock across the road suddenly got muffled and tapered off calling I knew they were on the ground. I gave one last aggressive series of calls to my gobbler and I shut up. He continued to call from the roost tree for another ten minutes, but all I gave him in return was soft clucks and purrs of a hen starting to scratch and feed. Still, not a single hen call on my side of the road so I figured I was in like Flynn on this one!
Yeah, no. He switched to "in country" mode and all I got was mission radio silence. But I was still in position, so I held fast. And waited. And waited. I waited so long a white tail doe and her twin fawns from last year walked over the hill south of me browsed/grazed their way toward me. Several times Momma stopped cold and lifted her nose and eyes to the hillside where I sat. The morning breeze was perfect to carry my scent stream to her. She got nervous enough that the yearlings paid attention a little, but none of them spooked. Eventually, they wandered off to my left and out of sight. But no word from Mr. Short Gobbles. Either he crossed a very busy paved road or he went southeast and over another ridge.
Only twice have I not seen the birds on this roost gather up and head north on the well rutted path to the black oil sunflower seed packed feeders in McMansionville. Once when coyote wandered through just as they flew down (they all panicked and flew off the bench and across the highway) and once when the friend I brought into the spot didn't believe me when I said we were sitting directly in the line of sight of the roost tree and he gave us away by moving around far too much. Proof once again that you must never say never and always avoid using the word always.
What should have been a slam dunk was a flat airball that didnt even find the backboard. I was home in minutes and crisp hashbrowns, thick sliced bacon, and two perfect basted eggs with runny yolks was my treat before going back to bed.
