by John Jefferson
An old song goes, “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.”
I would have wished that kind lady in Arkansas one night would have warned me about which tree to not CAMP under!
Returning from a writers’ conference in Tennessee, we drove too far before looking for a campsite in Arkansas. The only one on the map was 100 miles away.
We arrived after dark, and the campground gate was locked. We decided to park by the gate for the night. A car pulled up on our side of the gate and a lady got out. She looked curiously at our Suburban as she walked to the gate. I hurriedly called to her and explained our plight. She said, “Follow me,” and directed us to a secluded campsite and said we could pay in the morning. We thanked her profusely.
It was a good, safe night’s sleep for two weary travelers. Around 5:00 a.m., a strange sound awoke us. Then we heard it again. Shortly, it was followed a familiar sound that went, “PUTT!”. I realized then that we had camped under a turkey roost. We lay there chuckling as the entire flock fluttered down around us. I don’t think we got back to sleep before daylight.
I learned from a friend early in my hunting career that you NEVER shoot turkeys off the roost. Everybody I’ve ever hunted with obeyed that. Several times, we’ve been able to follow a flock back to their nightly roost safely above predators, always keeping a safe distance, then leaving them alone for the evening. The following morning, we’d slip back in quietly and set up nearby, but not too close, and wait for their disembarking.
Sometimes that works. Other times, however, they flutter down, a tom gobbles, and they head off in another direction. That happened one morning south of San Angelo, when Gary Sefton, an experienced turkey hunter was calling for me. He had “put the turkeys to bed” the evening before I arrived in camp, and felt we’d have success the next morning. We set up behind a fallen tree he had previously located. At dawn, he began softly calling.
He’s good. If I’d been a gobbler, I’d have come running to the sweet beckoning of his lovesick hen. He used a box call, a slate, and a mouth call.
Nothing worked. After their dismount, they headed away from us to the north – probably to a feeding area. That happens sometimes, no matter how good a caller you are. Once, on the Y.O. Ranch, I called, and a gobbler answered. He gobbled several times, each time moving closer. But he never came into sight. I gave up and walked to where I could see him cresting a hill a hundred yards away … closely following a hen.
Sefton, also a singer-songwriter, wrote a song that sums it up. He calls it “All Henned Up and Happy!”
Google him for his music — and turkey hunting tips.
JJ
