Dave Richey OUTDOORS

In fact, most people didn't want to spend one hour sitting outside in hopes a longbeard would come calling.

I got up in the dark, leaving a warm and comfortable bed, and could hear the wind whistling outside. My eyes were wide open, my ears cocked toward the bedroom window which I reached up and opened, and I began a private fight with myself.

One part was clamoring: "You fool, it's impossible to shoot a gobbler while laying in bed. Get up, and get out there into the woods. Your last days of the spring turkey hunting ends Sunday. Forget the weather and get with it."

One must get out in the weather to become a successful turkey hunter.

The other part, the more logical side of my brain, argued the other side of this problem. "That may well be true, but tell me when have you had a good turkey hunting day in really windy weather? Huh?"

It seemed a standoff. Both sides of the problem made some valid points, and both sides had a strike or two against them. Both made sense, in a rather twisted kind of way, and the final decision had to be made by the guy laying in a warm and comfy bed.

Recognizing the problem, I made my decision. I rolled over, closed my eyes, dozed and dreamed of a fanned-tail gobbler marching to the call like a good little soldier. He came, head-up, wary and looking around, and I woke up again just as the Day-Glow bead was settling on his noggin.

It was still dark, but graying up toward dawn. My watch said 5:45 a.m., and I decided to let my ears do some work for a change. If I heard a bird gobble, I'll hit the floor moving, climb into my camo, grab the cased shotgun and my hunting vest, and head out.

I laid there for almost an hour, and heard some robins and other song birds outside, but not one gobble was heard. Up I come, jumped rather slowly into my pants and shirt, and went out for the morning paper. I'm listening with both ears cocked, hopefully in two different directions,  desparate to hear a gobbler beller from yonder woods.

No such luck today. The paper was eased out of the tube, and I stood there for 20 minutes in 40-degree windy weather and listenedintently. I can hear a gobbler a mile away, and so I'm covering nearly four square miles with my ears. and all I got for my efforts was cold.

There was nothing but the sound of wind whistling through the trees. I spotted a doe, her belly heavy with fawns, cross the road a quarter-mile upwind of me as I stood motionless and silent. The old girl moved rather sluggishly, and it was apparent this year's litter of fawns would be born very soon.

In the house I go, my mind now on the next Detroit Red Wings game. That line of thinking made me happy, and I began having turkey hunting thoughts again.

Thinking up a gobbler is great fun.

My mind conjured up many past turkey hunts, in my younger days when time was limited and I hunted regardless of the weather. Thinking back, I've shot a couple of gobblers in a heavy rain when they looked like giant two-legged, water-logged rats coming to the call.

I recall once when I called a great gobbler up to me in a snowstorm, and many are the days when the sky dawned clear with a chilly bite to the air, and the birds gobbled their brains out before flying down and working their way rapidly to the call.

There were days when the Toms roared, and days when they snuck in as silent as drifting fog. Some of those days I shot a gobbler, other times my wife did, and on many occasions, whoever was hunting with me popped a cap and took a grand longbeard as he raised his head to look things over.

I've also hunted enough to know that some of this turkey hunting, and the weather conditions we encounter during the season, are rather meaningless. For every rule, there seems to be an exception.

Weather is a dominant factor in turkey hunting.

The rule holds true with many things. Normally, I would have been out there looking for gobblers that probably wouldn't gobble. It's mighty difficult to really get really cranked up, but I donned my clothing, grabbed my venerable Model 870 Remington, stuffed three magnum loads of No. 5 copper-plated shot into the old cornshucker, and headed out into the cold morning air.

I moved often, called sparingly, covered a mile of terrain, and never saw or heard a gobbler or hen. Once, I thought I heard a hen mouthing off at my calls, and moved in that direction.

I gave it a few minutes of rest, and tried again, now about 200 yards closer to where I thought I heard the hen. I tried calling again, hoping for some word from a tired old gobbler who still had enough in him to want to breed one more young hen.

No such luck. It may have been the wind or just wishful thinking, but nothing came to the call in that morning's wind. However, there is always tomorrow and with luck the wind will die and the longbeards will gobbble.

One can always hope. Right?

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors