I played hooky from work last week to go turkey hunting with my friend Russ.
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It was all in the name of journalism, of course.
Not being a turkey hunter, I didn't really expect to see a gobbler. Rather, I envisioned penning a column about the experience, perhaps entitled "April Fools and other Woodland Creatures.''
The April Fool, of course, would be me: shrouded in camouflage, propped against a tree, somehow expecting a wary longbeard to strut into shotgun range.
I met Russ at the hunting cabin before dawn, and confessed my misgivings.
"Tell you what,'' he said as we sipped coffee. "You come with me, and I'll do the calling.''
Daylight beckoned so we set out into the chilly forest. I shouldered a pump-action 12-gauge and Russ stuffed some decoys into a bag.
First stop was a wide, tapering ridge dotted with food plots and old deer stands.
"The trees down below us are perfect for turkey,'' Russ said. "We'll start there.''
He blew an owl call. "Sometimes a gobbler will answer,'' he said. Nothing happened.
Then we set up about 20 yards apart. Russ clucked pleadingly with a slate call. I sat motionless. We heard nothing.
It was still early, I thought. Maybe we could get some crickets and catch bluegill in the irrigation pond.
"We'll try another spot,'' Russ said. "I saw eight big birds there last year.''
Again, we sat apart, facing opposite directions. Russ yelped longingly with his call.
I listened hard, but heard only the wind.
Nearby, bits of flint gleamed brightly from a newly plowed cornfield. Maybe we could call it a morning and look for arrowheads, I thought.
Next stop was a tall ridge. On one side, a fallow meadow hugged the forest. The other side fell sharply toward the nearby Savannah River.
Russ placed me 15 yards into the woods, facing back toward the field edge.
My shoulders nestled into the base of a giant tree. The sun warmed my face.
This is heaven, I thought, gazing at the greening forest. Maybe I'll nod off, and take a short nap.
The cluck-cluck behind me was hypnotic. I couldn't see Russ but heard his patient calling. Half dozing, I thought I heard something over my right shoulder, and I turned to look.
Again, there was nothing.
Russ approached me a half-hour later.
"Did you see that turkey?'' he asked. "A gobbler walked up out of the swamp, ran along the ridge and came within 20 yards of you.''
I sheepishly wondered if my movement had spooked the bird Russ worked all morning to locate.
"He probably didn't like my calling,'' Russ said diplomatically. "We'll move down the ridge and try again.''
This time I was more attentive. Again, I snuggled against the base of a tall oak and listened as Russ emitted a series of clucks and purrs using a mouth diaphragm and his slate call.
This time, there was an instant and undeniable response as a big bird belted out a resounding "gobble gobble.''
Russ called again and nothing answered. Could the eerie gobbling have been wishful imagination?
Then I saw movement far off in a leafy ravine. It was a gobbler, heading my way. A long beard dangled from its chest. It walked slowly, cautiously, stopping every few feet and craning its neck in all directions.
Then it froze - staring straight at me with beady, dark eyes. I sat motionless, fingering the safety on the shotgun. Fifty yards off, I thought. Too far to shoot.
Russ called again and the bird strutted uphill toward the field.
As it vanished behind a fallen tree, I clicked off the safety and aimed where I expected the gobbler to appear.
Then I waited - and saw nothing. The bird had made an about-face behind the log, only to reappear, beyond gun range, at the ravine from which it first emerged.
Russ, unbeknownst to me, hadn't even seen the bird. But he noticed the movement of my shotgun when I turned to aim, and he knew something was up.
So he called again: purrs and clucks, slow and tempting.
The gobbler stopped and turned.
It hesitated for a few seconds, then began a steady, methodical strut in the direction of the call, which was directly behind the tree I sat against.
It walked closer and closer, fanning its feathers, staring intently past me in search of the source of the hen sounds beyond me.
To say my heart raced is an understatement.
When the distance closed to 15 yards, I put the bead at the base of its head and squeezed the trigger. The turkey collapsed in a heap.
For a while, I forgot to breathe. Then I finally ejected the spent shell.
Russ walked over to congratulate me, just as I stood to congratulate him.
"That worked out OK,'' he said in his typical, calm monotone.
"Uh, yeah,'' I replied, breathing like I'd just run a three-minute mile.
The gobbler was a respectable 2-year-old with an eight-inch beard. To me it was a fine trophy, my first bird, destined to be my most memorable.
It left me determined to become a turkey hunter, and perhaps to become skilled enough to someday share the experience with a newcomer, as Russ had done with me.
Reach Robert Pavey at (706) 868-1222, ext. 119 or rob.pavey@augustachronicle.com.
