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Written by Claudia Eisenmann
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Monday, 13 July 2009 03:21 |
 The winter of 2008-2009 was one of the most severe winters ever recorded in North Dakota. The weeks of sub-zero temperatures, nearly 100 inches of total snowfall, and devastating blizzards and floods, took its toll on the region’s fish and wildlife populations. So in the month of May, with a significant measure of apprehension, I tucked my 2009 resident turkey tag into my pocket, gathered my shotgun and turkey calls, and headed to the state’s far west to hunt.
It was clear from reading the Game and Fish Department’s report on winter kill, that the wildlife populations most negatively impacted by the harsh weather were the white tailed deer, the pronghorn antelope, and the upland species of birds. In addition, the thick ice and heavy snowpack that covered North Dakota’s lakes had resulted in significant fish kills in a number of the state’s fisheries. The impact was so dramatic that experts agreed that it would take years for the state to fully recover from what Mother Nature took only a few short months to destroy. As a result, I was more than a little concerned about my prospects for finding and harvesting a 2009 spring gobbler.
I drove into my hunting area just as daylight began to illuminate the rugged hills and coulees of the North Dakota badlands. To my complete surprise, the advancing sun revealed a plethora of unexpected wildlife including multiple groups of mule deer, a few small herds of antelope, and of course, wild turkeys. With each subsequent sighting of deer and birds, my optimism grew and I was truly heartened by the fact that somehow despite the difficulties of an unexpectedly harsh season, an amazing number of beautiful creatures remained to grace the earth with the promise of future abundance.
I pulled my SUV into an area of the North Unit, parked near some old camp sites, and grabbed my turkey calls as I prepared to exit the vehicle and begin my hunt. I walked through the brush to a location that was about 200 yards from a long, winding creek bottom where turkeys were known to roost in the cottonwood trees. There, I sat and listened for any sound of turkeys and after a long period of silence, I decided to use a box call to stroke out a few hen yelps and see if I could generate a response.
After my second call sequence, multiple gobbles suddenly erupted from nearly a half mile away across a long, brush-choked draw. I waited a few minutes and called again. And in turn, the birds responded.
I raised my binoculars to see if I could see any of the turkeys crossing through the openings in the trees and could just make out two black forms in the distance as they disappeared into the creek bottom. Since it was unlikely that I would be successful calling the turkeys across the distance that separated us, I quickly moved to cut my distance to the birds in half, hoping that I could get positioned before being detected.
I was hunting without decoys, so set-up was particularly important in this situation. I knew that any turkey responding to my calls would become suspicious if he could see the location that the calls were coming from, but could not see another bird. Thus, I needed to make my quarry come directly to me before he expected to see the hen. And that meant finding a location that offered just the right balance of transitional topography, moderate cover, and open ground.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to look long before finding an area near the edge of cut bank that would allow me to call the birds into what could prove to be a perfect ambush location. By positioning myself 20 yards in front of the cut bank, I would be facing a small opening just below the crest of a brushy slope only 30 yards across from me. I didn’t know whether the birds would come from the slope directly in front of me or from around the edge of the cut bank that wound around to my left, but I felt certain that as a right handed shooter I would be able to maneuver for a shot either way.
My calling sequence began with a few hen yelps from both a glass call and a mouth diaphragm. I followed the yelps with some feeding clucks and then put the calls away. The Toms responded almost immediately and it was clear that they were no more than 150 yards or so away. Not knowing if they would take a competitive posture with one another and rush in to impress the hen or be more tentative in their approach, I readied my shotgun and waited.
After about 20 minutes, I yelped and clucked a few times with the diaphragm to try and ascertain the location of the birds. They gobbled in turn and appeared to be a bit closer. I waited. After another 15 minutes I repeated the sequence, but this time the response seemed to come from the first location. This told me that the Tom’s were likely with hens and may be on a strut zone. It was time for patience and a change in tactics.
I let 20 minutes pass before my next series of calls. This time, they were much more subtle with light clucks, purrs, and the contended feeding sounds of hens scratching through the prairie grass and tree litter in search of insects and seeds. If I was going to get a shot at a Merriam’s gobbler on this day, I needed to get the hens to bring the whole flock into my location. I had been a turkey hunter long enough to know that finesse calling was the best way to pique the curiosity of a wise old hen, so I made it my mission to sound as nonchalant and authentic as I possibly could in an effort to convince the hens to come.
Careful not to over-call, I gently clucked and purred in sparse intervals. Although the gobblers answered the calls from a distance that sounded closer to my location, their responses became less frequent. Since I knew that the birds knew exactly where I was I decided to simply sit quietly and wait in silence to see if the turkeys would come.
I’m not sure how long it took for the first hen to appear from my left and begin to curiously peer into the small clearing, but it was the unmistakable sound of a gobbler spitting and drumming that quickened my pulse and nearly took the breath from my lungs. As I cautiously endeavored to move my eyes in the direction where I expected the Tom to emerge from the cut bank’s brushy edge, I maintained my awareness on the lead hen that was nervously looking for the other hens that she thought had been feeding in the area. As other members of the flock began to appear from the cover, it was obvious that she was becoming uncomfortable and I hoped that the Toms would come into view before her suspicion grew any stronger.
A loud gobble pierced through the underbrush as three magnificent Merriam long beards, heads bright blue and red against their black breast feathers, strutted into view. I was captivated with the breathtaking beauty of these extraordinary birds; white-tipped tails fanned in display, brilliant heads and necks pressed upright against protruding breasts, ebony beards waving proudly in the North Dakota wind. What a privilege to be in this moment, awestruck by the impressive figures that danced before me as I witnessed one of nature’s most intriguing and magical events.
 While I relished every moment of the gobbler’s spectacular display, the hens were growing impatient and bored. One hen had already casually retreated back into the trees and others were beginning to take note and follow. The Toms would not be far behind, so I placed the white bead of my Winchester 1300 shotgun on the closest gobbler’s wattles, clucked once to get him to break from strut, then carefully squeezed the trigger.
At the gun’s report, the big turkey crumpled to the ground. The load of number four shot had dispatched the bird quickly and humanely, leaving me grateful for a clean kill.
Slowly I stood up and approached the big gobbler, awash in the emotions that define my personal experience as a hunter. Struck by the paradoxical blends of reverence and revelry, of sadness and exhilaration, of elation and mourning that are such significant parts of my appreciation of the creatures I pursue and of the deaths that sometimes accompany the hunt, I gently hoisted the turkey over my shoulder for the long walk back to my SUV.
I drove slowly on my way home, careful to take in every detail of the landscape and the animals that had prevailed against the adversity of the prior winter. I thought about the months of cold, dark days shrouded in ever-advancing layers of white, of the apprehension I felt as I began my journey to hunt, and at how with every animal sighted, that apprehension melted away, evaporating in the thermals of blissful optimism, shining from the triumph that is spring.
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