Post by hunter480 on Apr 29, 2006 22:32:50 GMT -5
Before I share just a little bit about what happened today, I want to make a disclaimer: I am a Christian, yes, me who at times has the short fuse. And I DO NOT believe that God does carnival acts, that he is an ATM, that he performs on command, nor that He is beholden to me for one second. Now, on to what happened today.
I was turkey hunting with my good friend, Harold Greene, and we were being guided by my good friend Shawn Brown from Royal Flush. Note: Shawn and I are great friends, but this hunt was still a business transaction, i.e. Harold and I paid Shawn to guide us after some big Parke Co. gobblers.
Our hunt was to encompass 2 days if needed, and based on prior hunts; we would need only the one day. In fact, last season, Harold and I killed a double with Shawn; it was Harold’s first ever wild turkey hunt. I believe Harold was spoiled from the start.
Fast forward to turkey season 2006. Harold, Shawn and I hunted hard our first day, Friday April 28, and heard lot’s of gobbling, almost had a shot at the first bird of the morning, and after it was all said and done, even with no birds in the bag, it was a blast.
We rolled out of the sack well before daybreak again this morning, Saturday April 29, with hopes high and expecting to again hear lots of birds gobbling, but only today, to kill 2 birds.
I’ll skip past the details leading up to my story, but you may get to read those too someday, anyway: Shawn has called a huge gobbler in, and we knew he was coming, as we had seen him strutting in an adjacent field. So there we sit Shawn and Harold together, 15 yards to my right, and me alone to their left, all of us watching towards the field we’ve seen the huge Tom strutting in. We do not have visual contact with the bird, but he`s obviously looking for a hen, so Shawn and I are tag teaming him, Shawn striking the slate, and me talking sweet to him on the H S Struts diaphragm I`ve been working with all winter, and we just KNOW we have this bird in the bag. Ah, the laughable follies of the turkey hunter; we’ve called, and called, and waited and called, and the bird obviously doesn`t have his part of the script down yet, as he`s not made his grand entrance on cue. Hmmmmm. I catch movement to my right, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Shawn start to stand, and Harold with him, and we hear it: PUTTTTTTTTT. The Tom had circled us, and was coming in behind us to investigate, and as I found out shortly after from Harold and Shawn, the bird was a mere 8 yards behind me, and we heard nary a sound of his approach, only the sound of his exit: PUTTTTTTTTT. We are crestfallen, here we are on the second, (last) afternoon of our hunt, and when we were so close to one victory, we have failed miserably. I make my way the short distance to the two, and we all can only hang our heads, dejected that after being that close, the Tom has again prevailed. We walk slowly from the woods, heading haphazardly back towards Shawn’s truck, going over the whole series of events in our minds, occasionally sharing them aloud to each other, only to fall silent again, wondering what it will take to get even 1 Tom this trip, with time beginning to dwindle.
We are walking dejectedly, me at least, head down, when I hear Shawn mutter something about: “There he is”, and I look up thinking,
? Shawn is looking through binoculars, towards the edge of the huge field, towards the levy that holds back the Wabash river, and he mutters a half quiet curse, and matter of factly says that the bird didn`t run as far as he had thought he would have. In reality, the bird has covered about 400 yards, and as I pull up my cheap little pair of optics to look at the bird too, I am in awe to see the size of the birds head, and how blood red his neck, and part of his head looks. Shawn says he has a melon head, and that it`s easily the size of a softball, and he`s exactly right. As we watch the Tom through the glass, he looks back at us, with eyesight we could only dream of ever having had, and at that, only when we were young men, but here we are, and there he is.
Shawn says, almost thinking aloud: Harold, I think maybe you can still kill that bird. Harold`s ears perk up immediately, and you can see it in his eyes: “How?” Shawn gives him some quick instructions about getting out to the road, walking south to the end of the woodlot, cutting back west through the woods to the field edge, and we will try to “nudge” the bird his way. It`s agreed to be the plan, and Harold hits the county road as Shawn and I keep tabs on the bird from our vantage point. We’ve agreed we’ll give him 10 minutes to get into position, then we’ll begin to try to direct the bird in his direction, and even at that, we know the Tom has so many different ways it can go, it`s a long shot at best, but we know we’re running out of opportunities on this hunt.
The Tom has turned away from us, and is looking across the crop field towards the levy, then turns back to look at us, then seems to sit down, now with only a small part of his “melon” head visible. Shawn looks at me and states fairly matter-of-factly, “Greg, you might be able to still kill that bird”. I look at him in shock and say: “”? He laughs and says, yeah, you may be able to kill this bird yourself, and I think he`s putting me on, but I say, “How?” Shawn states: “You just walk up to him”. He obviously can see the disbelief in my eyes, and he tells me, the plan is to push the bird to Harold anyway, so if I approach the long-beard and he moves south, that was the plan anyway, but if the Tom sits tight until I`m on him, I may have a chance. I`m game, so Shawn looks through the binoculars again to locate the bird, and tells me to start heading west, then cut over south and try to find the bird.
I cover the couple of hundred yards west towards the crop field fairly quickly, and then turn south, not really knowing where the bird is now, but trying to estimate where he was when I last saw him in my cheap field glasses. As I`m walking, I`m saying a prayer: Lord, could you please somehow make this Tom sit tight until I can get close enough for a shot?” Even as I pray it, I know it goes against everything that has to be inside the Tom. His eyesight is superior, his hearing is superior, and he can easily run, or fly anywhere he wants to evade me. But as I walk south, I turn back to look at Shawn, and he`s directing me towards the area closer where he knows the bird was last. I walk that way, over the top of the rise in the crop field, and as I top the rise, I see Harold tucked away, under the limbs of a small tree between the rise in the field, and the tree line just south of me. Harold stands, shrugs his shoulders, and walks to me. We chat briefly, and Harold lets me know that the Tom did not pass him, and we turn back north and walk to meet Shawn, who has now come west to join us. I know Shawn is walking towards the spot he last saw the turkey, and I hurry over to meet him, because I`m dying to see how the bird got away. Harold catches up to us and as Shawn and I turn back south and move only a couple of yards, the huge Tom stands up and inexplicably, rather than taking to wing, starts to run away from us. I quickly shoulder my Browning, and in an instant, the 3 inch load of Winchester Xtended Range Hi-Density 6 shot brings the “melon headed” Tom down.
As I think about the whole scenario now, I understand that perhaps some could have ethics issues with how my long beard was taken, and I’ll speak to those very quickly. I would not shoot a turkey off the roost, I would not shoot a turkey in flight, and of course, we all try to take our birds after having called them in. But I know an awful lot of birds have been bushwhacked rather than called to the gun, and this was just such an event. Even though you`ll hear me say again and again, that legal doesn`t necessarily mean ethical, I can sleep well tonight with what I did in the field today, because I believe it was an ethical kill.
More than that though, I really do believe that my prayer to my Lord and my God was answered, and that the reason the bird didn`t flee when he easily could have, was that the Lord heard my plea, and blessed, and honored me, by granting my request, and allowed me to take one of his glorious creatures.
You may, or may not agree that my kill today was a prayer answered, but it doesn`t matter whether you agree with me or not. I KNOW the Lord heard, and answered my simple prayer, and even though I certainly can`t answer why some prayers are answered, while others are not, I am so grateful that the Lord knows me, loves me, and will not turn his face from me.
At some point in the near future, as I clasp my hands together and bow my head to say a prayer over the meal this turkey will provide, I’ll remember the Lord and his faithfulness to me, and my lasting prayer of gratitude will be that he can somehow find a way to use me to his glory, because, even as flawed as I am, I know if he could deliver this turkey up to me, he can find a way to use an old, weak, flawed man to further his cause, and I will humbly submit.
I was turkey hunting with my good friend, Harold Greene, and we were being guided by my good friend Shawn Brown from Royal Flush. Note: Shawn and I are great friends, but this hunt was still a business transaction, i.e. Harold and I paid Shawn to guide us after some big Parke Co. gobblers.
Our hunt was to encompass 2 days if needed, and based on prior hunts; we would need only the one day. In fact, last season, Harold and I killed a double with Shawn; it was Harold’s first ever wild turkey hunt. I believe Harold was spoiled from the start.
Fast forward to turkey season 2006. Harold, Shawn and I hunted hard our first day, Friday April 28, and heard lot’s of gobbling, almost had a shot at the first bird of the morning, and after it was all said and done, even with no birds in the bag, it was a blast.
We rolled out of the sack well before daybreak again this morning, Saturday April 29, with hopes high and expecting to again hear lots of birds gobbling, but only today, to kill 2 birds.
I’ll skip past the details leading up to my story, but you may get to read those too someday, anyway: Shawn has called a huge gobbler in, and we knew he was coming, as we had seen him strutting in an adjacent field. So there we sit Shawn and Harold together, 15 yards to my right, and me alone to their left, all of us watching towards the field we’ve seen the huge Tom strutting in. We do not have visual contact with the bird, but he`s obviously looking for a hen, so Shawn and I are tag teaming him, Shawn striking the slate, and me talking sweet to him on the H S Struts diaphragm I`ve been working with all winter, and we just KNOW we have this bird in the bag. Ah, the laughable follies of the turkey hunter; we’ve called, and called, and waited and called, and the bird obviously doesn`t have his part of the script down yet, as he`s not made his grand entrance on cue. Hmmmmm. I catch movement to my right, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Shawn start to stand, and Harold with him, and we hear it: PUTTTTTTTTT. The Tom had circled us, and was coming in behind us to investigate, and as I found out shortly after from Harold and Shawn, the bird was a mere 8 yards behind me, and we heard nary a sound of his approach, only the sound of his exit: PUTTTTTTTTT. We are crestfallen, here we are on the second, (last) afternoon of our hunt, and when we were so close to one victory, we have failed miserably. I make my way the short distance to the two, and we all can only hang our heads, dejected that after being that close, the Tom has again prevailed. We walk slowly from the woods, heading haphazardly back towards Shawn’s truck, going over the whole series of events in our minds, occasionally sharing them aloud to each other, only to fall silent again, wondering what it will take to get even 1 Tom this trip, with time beginning to dwindle.
We are walking dejectedly, me at least, head down, when I hear Shawn mutter something about: “There he is”, and I look up thinking,
? Shawn is looking through binoculars, towards the edge of the huge field, towards the levy that holds back the Wabash river, and he mutters a half quiet curse, and matter of factly says that the bird didn`t run as far as he had thought he would have. In reality, the bird has covered about 400 yards, and as I pull up my cheap little pair of optics to look at the bird too, I am in awe to see the size of the birds head, and how blood red his neck, and part of his head looks. Shawn says he has a melon head, and that it`s easily the size of a softball, and he`s exactly right. As we watch the Tom through the glass, he looks back at us, with eyesight we could only dream of ever having had, and at that, only when we were young men, but here we are, and there he is.Shawn says, almost thinking aloud: Harold, I think maybe you can still kill that bird. Harold`s ears perk up immediately, and you can see it in his eyes: “How?” Shawn gives him some quick instructions about getting out to the road, walking south to the end of the woodlot, cutting back west through the woods to the field edge, and we will try to “nudge” the bird his way. It`s agreed to be the plan, and Harold hits the county road as Shawn and I keep tabs on the bird from our vantage point. We’ve agreed we’ll give him 10 minutes to get into position, then we’ll begin to try to direct the bird in his direction, and even at that, we know the Tom has so many different ways it can go, it`s a long shot at best, but we know we’re running out of opportunities on this hunt.
The Tom has turned away from us, and is looking across the crop field towards the levy, then turns back to look at us, then seems to sit down, now with only a small part of his “melon” head visible. Shawn looks at me and states fairly matter-of-factly, “Greg, you might be able to still kill that bird”. I look at him in shock and say: “
”? He laughs and says, yeah, you may be able to kill this bird yourself, and I think he`s putting me on, but I say, “How?” Shawn states: “You just walk up to him”. He obviously can see the disbelief in my eyes, and he tells me, the plan is to push the bird to Harold anyway, so if I approach the long-beard and he moves south, that was the plan anyway, but if the Tom sits tight until I`m on him, I may have a chance. I`m game, so Shawn looks through the binoculars again to locate the bird, and tells me to start heading west, then cut over south and try to find the bird.I cover the couple of hundred yards west towards the crop field fairly quickly, and then turn south, not really knowing where the bird is now, but trying to estimate where he was when I last saw him in my cheap field glasses. As I`m walking, I`m saying a prayer: Lord, could you please somehow make this Tom sit tight until I can get close enough for a shot?” Even as I pray it, I know it goes against everything that has to be inside the Tom. His eyesight is superior, his hearing is superior, and he can easily run, or fly anywhere he wants to evade me. But as I walk south, I turn back to look at Shawn, and he`s directing me towards the area closer where he knows the bird was last. I walk that way, over the top of the rise in the crop field, and as I top the rise, I see Harold tucked away, under the limbs of a small tree between the rise in the field, and the tree line just south of me. Harold stands, shrugs his shoulders, and walks to me. We chat briefly, and Harold lets me know that the Tom did not pass him, and we turn back north and walk to meet Shawn, who has now come west to join us. I know Shawn is walking towards the spot he last saw the turkey, and I hurry over to meet him, because I`m dying to see how the bird got away. Harold catches up to us and as Shawn and I turn back south and move only a couple of yards, the huge Tom stands up and inexplicably, rather than taking to wing, starts to run away from us. I quickly shoulder my Browning, and in an instant, the 3 inch load of Winchester Xtended Range Hi-Density 6 shot brings the “melon headed” Tom down.
As I think about the whole scenario now, I understand that perhaps some could have ethics issues with how my long beard was taken, and I’ll speak to those very quickly. I would not shoot a turkey off the roost, I would not shoot a turkey in flight, and of course, we all try to take our birds after having called them in. But I know an awful lot of birds have been bushwhacked rather than called to the gun, and this was just such an event. Even though you`ll hear me say again and again, that legal doesn`t necessarily mean ethical, I can sleep well tonight with what I did in the field today, because I believe it was an ethical kill.
More than that though, I really do believe that my prayer to my Lord and my God was answered, and that the reason the bird didn`t flee when he easily could have, was that the Lord heard my plea, and blessed, and honored me, by granting my request, and allowed me to take one of his glorious creatures.
You may, or may not agree that my kill today was a prayer answered, but it doesn`t matter whether you agree with me or not. I KNOW the Lord heard, and answered my simple prayer, and even though I certainly can`t answer why some prayers are answered, while others are not, I am so grateful that the Lord knows me, loves me, and will not turn his face from me.
At some point in the near future, as I clasp my hands together and bow my head to say a prayer over the meal this turkey will provide, I’ll remember the Lord and his faithfulness to me, and my lasting prayer of gratitude will be that he can somehow find a way to use me to his glory, because, even as flawed as I am, I know if he could deliver this turkey up to me, he can find a way to use an old, weak, flawed man to further his cause, and I will humbly submit.
