Lucky Charm

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The man who finds a wife finds a treasure, and he receives favor from the Lord. Proverbs 18:22

We parked the truck in the edge of a hayfield that was situated on the top of a hill overlooking the creek bottom to the west. The creek bottom was comprised of pine plantation that had been thinned years ago and had grown into sawlog sized timber with an understory of mostly sweetgum with diameters varying from the size of a quarter up to about the size of a twelve-ounce drink can. There was a network of food plot shooting lanes and trails that surrounded and dissected the plantation, some historic and others established between rows of trees following the thinning operation. 

The plantation was elongated east and west, running from the edge of the hill on the east side and continuing across the bottom, dissected by a perennial creek and the streamside management zone that had been maintained along either side of the creek channel. The streamside management zone, or SMZ for short, was approximately forty yards in width from the edge of the plantation to the edge of the creek channel and was comprised of various species of hardwood and scattered, mature volunteer loblolly pine. The timber across the creek was pine plantation, as well, slightly older with a much more open understory. Both stands had undergone a cool season, prescribed understory burn several years before and the black charring could still be seen on some of the sweetgum stems that had been controlled during the burn, some fallen and some still standing, all equally dead, nonetheless. The plan was to follow the trail down the hill and take the lane that ran through the bottom to the edge of the SMZ and listen from there.

The full moon shined nearly bright enough for to you to read the newspaper without much of a squint, casting long shadows into the hayfield, as we finished up our final preparations before the walk. We made our way into the cold, crisp morning air through the hayfield to the trail which led down the hill and off into the bottom to the west. Reaching the edge of the plantation before we started down the hill, we came upon what was to be the first of many obstacles that we would have to navigate quietly under the moonlight. A late winter storm had covered the area in a heavy coat of ice, breaking the brittle branches out of some of the pine timber, particularly the branches that hung out over roads, trails, and other openings and did not have the support from their neighbor nearby. Large broken limbs some piled on top of one another littered the trail ahead of us for nearly a quarter mile. 

We started around the end of the first of these, and she broke one of the first sticks that she came to. “Shoot!” she whispered under her breath. I grinned without looking back. The further we went down the hill, the more numerous were the downed branches in the trail, and the wetter the ground underneath. Once we reached the foot of the hill, the bottom laid ahead of us with very minimal change in elevation between the creek and where we stood. We pressed forward navigating over, around, and, at times, through the pine limbs that littered the trail. The ground in the flat would swallow your foot nearly to your ankle with every step, sometimes forcing you to twist your foot on pickup to avoid that loud suction sound made by pulling straight up when your boot gets stuck in the mud. 

At about the halfway point in our trek across the bottom, we were nearing a deer stand that was situated on the south side of the lane that we traveled. The stand sat where the lane intersected with another lane that ran in from the north and continued to the south past the stand location. The lanes to the north, east, and west of the stand were nice and straight for two hundred, plus, yards in all three directions making for a great place to sit and watch for a crossing deer in the fall. 

As we approached the stand, I stepped into a spot where the moon shined unhindered through the overstory canopy and hit me like a stage spotlight. If there is a turkey close by it can see me right now for sure. I thought as I passed back into the shade. No sooner than that thought exited my mind, the explosion of wingbeats in the canopy overhead startled both of us to an immediate stop. I looked up and could see the silhouette of a small turkey rising into the moonlit sky and heading southwest. I turned and looked at her with a grumble. “I’m sorry!” she was quick to whisper, immediately assuming she was to blame. “That’s not your fault,” I said, “this moon is killing us!” “Was that him?” She asked. “No, that was a hen.” I said basing my assumption solely on the relatively small stature of the turkey that had flown. We pressed forward passing by the deer stand and continued on across the wet ground slowly making progress toward our destination at the end of the lane, still navigating the, thankfully, not so numerous downed pine limbs. 

Nearing the end of the lane, I crossed over to the south side of the opening to find a good tree to stand beside to wait for daylight. After too many occurrences of being caught in the open or a turkey gobbling so close that maneuvers to a good hiding spot seemed impossible without detection, I have made a practice of not standing around in roads, trails, food plots, pastures, or whatever opening I find myself in waiting for a turkey to gobble. No matter how hard I try to wield myself invisible, I have not been successful- but I will keep trying! 

There was a trail that ran more or less north and south following the SMZ and intersected the lane that we had walked in on. The lane that we had walked in on narrowed in width but continued westward crossing a small drainage ditch that ran parallel to the creek just inside of the SMZ boundary then crossed the creek some fifty yards from where we stopped. The headwaters of the creek originated in the hills to our south and the stream ran abnormally north and had channelized itself through the sandy-silt loam soil topsoil and fifteen, plus, feet through several other soil horizons before reaching the gravel layer that made up the floor of the channel itself. The width of the channel ranged from around forty feet in the narrow spots to over sixty, plus, feet at the widest. 

I found a pine tree, well over twenty inches in diameter at the stump, that was situated in the corner of the plantation about fifteen feet to the south of the lane we walked in on and about fifteen feet from the edge of trail, running north and south, separating the SMZ from the plantation. I motioned her to my side and propped the gun up on the tree. We had made the walk in good time, all things considered, and the bright moonlight was still winning the illumination battle by a good fifteen minutes. 

If I were a smoker, I would have had about enough time to dig a pack from my pocket and pull a cigarette from the pack before a turkey gobbled so loud that it made every hair on my body stand on end. We immediately looked at one another in wide-eyed disbelief. The turkey was no more than sixty-five yards, west-southwest of where we stood, roosted in the SMZ very near the creek channel. “What are we gonna do?!” She whispered excitedly. “Sit down right here.” I told her. “Do you want to shoot?” I asked rhetorically. “NO!” she answered quickly, “I just wanna watch.”

My mind immediately started running through the possible scenarios, all of which led to us very likely being handcuffed if this turkey came, especially if he flew down on our side of the creek like I figured he would have to do if he was going to come close enough for a shot opportunity. We need to get across this lane to the north. I thought quietly. But there is no way we can do that without him seeing us, heck, I honestly don’t know how we got here without him seeing us. “We are in a bad spot.” I told her. “We really need to be on the other side of that lane.” “Well there is no way we can get over there without him seeing us now!” She said. She was very right. I pulled out my clippers and prepared to make the best of it. 

Three minutes, or so, had passed since he gobbled the first time, and he was gobbling at least every ten or fifteen seconds basically in the dark, save the moonlight. I moved a rotten pine limb at the base of the tree where I needed to sit and settled into position. She was on the back side of the same tree that I sat against, and the gobbling turkey was at about my ten o’clock. I clipped a couple of sweetgum saplings that stood close enough to contact my barrel in the event that I had to swing to one side or the other. I put my clippers back in their place in my vest and began the wait. 

The turkey continued to gobble at nearly everything around him. More of the birds and other day critters were beginning to awaken now and the boisterous noise seemingly continued to grow. “Are you not gonna call to him?” She asked. “I am in a minute.” I said. I was honestly reluctant to call being this close. If the situation was different, I would never even consider calling to him while he was still in the tree from these close quarters, but in this case, if I did not convince him to fly down on our side of the creek then we would be out of the game before the first pitch.

I let the turkey gobble a few more times and made a soft cluck and tree yelp. He gobbled after I called, but I was not sure if he was answering me or if it was just his regularly scheduled time to gobble. I gave him a few seconds post gobble and did it again- same result as the first. On the third iteration of this procedure, he cut me off which told me that he had heard my call, and that he was in fact at least somewhat interested. I put that one in the win column, pushed the diaphragm call over to my cheek, and focused my concentration on being still.  

Daylight was growing and the colors around us were becoming more visible. Most of the budding leaves on the sweetgum that dominated the understory of the plantation around us and scattered through the SMZ ahead of us were about the size of a carpenter bee which painted a smattering of pastel green throughout a largely grey and brown landscape that was in the process of coming back to life after winter dormancy. 

Probably close to ten minutes had passed since my first series of calls. Thinking that he was likely taking a deeper level consideration on which side of the creek to pitch to from the roost, I elected to give another tree call in an effort to sway his decision, quite literally, in our direction. My first call was immediately rewarded by a gobble obviously in direct response. The next sound we heard was an abrupt PUTT! The alarm putt was coming from another turkey who was in a tree that stood only a few feet away, roosted nearly right above us. “What is that!?” She whispered concernedly. “A hen in the tree behind us.” I said. “I see her!” She reported back. “She sees us too, so be still.” I said. The hen continued her business of putting and looking down at this strange pile of bushes that was not there yesterday evening, but that periodically made turkey noises. The gobbler slowed his gobbling some after hearing the alarmed concern from the nearby hen. I decided to give another tree call or two as reassurance to the gobbler that everything on this side of the creek was perfectly fine, and that the hen above us slept in a bed of lies the night before. After a couple of minutes of some very convincing tree talk he was back gobbling at somewhat regular intervals. 

Good daylight now, obviously listening more carefully, I noticed for the first time that I could hear the gobbler strutting on the limb. Once I heard it the first time, it became as plain as dry toast, I could hear him spitting and drumming for sure! I should be able to see him up there. I thought to myself. The more I listened to him strut and gobble the more accurately I pinpointed him behind a big pine tree that stood about fifteen feet from me and directly between the gobbler and I. No more than a minute or so passed before I picked up movement in the canopy in the direction of the gobbler’s roost. Sure enough, just off the left side of the pine tree that had been blocking my view, the gobbler was walking from right to left on the limb where he was roosted. Just as I saw him, he raised his tail fan and went into a strut. “I see him in the tree,” I whispered, “He can definitely see us too, so be still now.” “I am not moving!” She was quick to report. 

18 The turkey continued to gobble, going in and out of strut, and turning on the limb with a very obvious growing level of anxiety around which side of the creek to fly down to. He knew where I was, and I had the added confidence of at least one of his hens being on my side, as well. I felt like calling anymore would only delay the inevitable at this point. The decision was his to make.

The turkey gobbled once more and went quiet for better than a minute. I could still see him in the tree, but there was a limb between us that prevented me from being able to tell which way he was facing. Without warning he pitched from his limb, straight down at my twelve o’clock. Firmly on the opposite bank of the creek. “Dangit!” I whispered. “He just flew down on the other side of the creek.” I told her. Within seconds, one of his hens that had been roosted to our left pitched out and landed within a couple of yards of the gobbler, as well. 

I gave the gobbler a minute or so to get comfortable with his surroundings, and I made my first call. No answer. He had landed in sight but had moved to the right behind some brush which blocked him from my view, at this point. I elevated the aggression in my calling slightly and this time received a gobble. I cut at him and answered him right back- nothing in return. I sat quietly thinking through possible scenarios. The only play that I knew of from here would be to wait for him to move away and get across the creek with him. 

After several minutes of silence from the both of us, I called again. Nothing. I decided to really give it to him now. Elevating the inflection in my calling, I mimicked the cutting of an excited hen, followed by an excited hen yelp. This time he answered and sounded as if he were two hundred yards away and moving out into the plantation across the creek, away from our position. I pulled my phone from my pocket to pull up a map. I wanted to check the exact distance from where we sat to the edge of the creek channel. My thinking was- if I let him go far enough, then, maybe, we could move up to the edge of the creek and call him back close enough for a shot. 

About the time I got the map pulled up, I heard wingbeats directly to my twelve o’clock. Without moving my head, I cut my eyes up just in time to see the gobbler sailing the final ten or twelve feet of his flight and then feet down about fifteen yards on the home team side of the creek, no more than fifty yards from our tree. “Here he come’s Julia. He just flew the creek!” The gobbler stood erect for about a three count, then went into strut and started stepping in our direction. “Where is he!?” She asked. “He’s straight in front of me coming right to us.” I whispered. “Oh, I see him!” She replied excitedly.

At some point there, I had dropped my phone on the ground beside me and put both hands on my shotgun that laid across my lap. The turkey walked in either a full or half-strut all the way inside of comfortable shotgun range as we watched. “Let me know when you’re going to shoot him.” She said. The turkey was coming at a diagonal from left to right and his progress was about to take him behind a big pine tree that stood at the edge of the plantation between us. I was waiting for that tree to hide his eyes, so that I could shoulder my shotgun undetected. The second he went behind the tree, in one smooth, fluid motion, I drew my shotgun. Just as I did so, a hen that I was unaware of, less than twenty yards to our immediate left saw the motion and started putting. The gobbler stepped out from behind the tree and raised his head, but some brush between he and I prevented a clean shot. 

The hen continued to putt loudly, and the gobbler’s nervousness was growing by the second. I had to do something. I began to cluck and yelp softly and almost immediately the gobbler discounted the alarmed hen nearby and went back into strut. He strutted a couple of steps closer to our position, putting him nearly on the bank of the drainage ditch that was running parallel to the creek, between he and I. Those last two steps put him in a good clean opening. “I’m gonna shoot him right there.” I whispered to Julia. He stretched his neck to look in the direction of the hen he heard soft calling, and no more than a handful seconds later I was standing across the ditch with him as he flapped his wings for the final time. 

Looking back across the ditch at Julia, who had walked to the other edge and stopped- unsure if she could cross, she was smiling a smile as big as ever. “You are my good luck charm!” I said, and she laughed excitedly. She crossed the ditch carefully to my side, and we hugged in celebration. She told me several times throughout the remainder of that day, as she always did- “I really enjoyed this morning.” I knew without a doubt that she meant it. I could tell by her level of excitement that she really did get it now. She could look past all of the senselessness and see why this is something that consumes so much of my life. Having someone there to share it with is always special, particularly when that person is genuinely happy seeing you succeed at something that is important to you. However, it adds another entire layer of special when that person is your partner in life, my lucky charm indeed!