Turkey hunting tends to get us up early. Normally, it feels like a death march from bed to the kitchen. But not the other day. I practically sprang from bed, not having slept very soundly all night.
It was my daughter’s first-ever day of turkey hunting.
Unfortunately, due to her busy teenage schedule, it would be the only full day we would have this spring to devote to hunting. After that, the best we could expect was to piece a few hours together here and there. It felt like a lot of pressure to make the most of the day, not that there was any way to influence the outcome.
But not everything was working against us. There was far more working in our favor.
The chosen spot was in a comfy deer stand on land that has been in my mom’s family for generations. It’s in a natural funnel between a lake and a big dirt field, on a travel route for deer and turkeys. My dad had been receiving numerous trail camera pictures of various birds— single hens, groups of hens, unidentified turkeys. Plus, he picked off one jake from a group of four the previous week, leaving the other three to return at a later time.
When Dad said, “They’ve been coming through in the midday. I think you have a really good chance if you can sit there all day long,” it was a real confidence boost. Most of the time it feels like stumbling around in the dark. Rarely do I have a good lead on turkeys. I tried not to reveal my excitement, lest it leave my daughter overly disappointed if she be left with an unused tag.
The morning started out warm and windy, over-60-degree breezes knocking our caps off as we stepped outside in the dark. Once in the stand, not much could be heard besides geese as they rocketed past.
So much for hearing her first gobble.
Already at 6:30, we had our first sighting. “Dad, there’s a turkey.”
She was calm. I was not.
I strained to see past the ancient oak tree out the south window. When it came into view, it was easily identified as a hen. Small. Brown. Slender, curving neck. No beard.
We relaxed again on our seats. I urged her to watch that hen, to observe her habits and the way she moved. It was a good opportunity to point out how, even when they seem nonchalant, turkeys don’t let their guards down.
That bird didn’t seem to find much to eat. Though she looked intently, she didn’t peck at anything more than a couple times. This continued as she wound past us, and into and through the cemetery. I had to wonder if she would return eventually, perhaps with a bearded friend in tow.
To see a lone hen was slightly disappointing, but I took it as a good sign. My philosophy is that if hens are around, gobblers will probably be also. I resumed vigilance, feeling as though a glowing red head would appear at any moment.
A couple hours later, the sky to the west turned ominous. The stiffer gusts shook our plywood house. Literally the same second I wondered about hazardous weather, my pocket buzzed. It was Mom.
“Severe thunderstorm warning. It’s near Eagle Lake and coming toward you!”
We packed up a couple things and hightailed it back to the car. Not knowing how long it might last, we went the few miles back to my folks’ house.
By the time I could pull up and study the radar, it was apparent the worst was over.
Upon return, it occurred to me how extremely casual that little detour in our day was. Taking an hour out of my hunt like that would normally have eaten me up. But I didn’t mind. It didn’t matter because an air of inevitability hung over the entire day.
My girl was going to get her bird.
The wind continued to pummel us. One of the decoys literally spun in circles. Sleep deprivation wore us down.
Around 3:30, a bowl of soup sounded good. Out came the isobutane stove and kettle.
I like those gut-rot instant ramen, and just making one is a good way to break tedium and keep the mind occupied. My deer stand usually smells like cheap chicken soup at least once a day, so why not the turkey stand?
When I had gotten the water poured and stove lit, I sat up in the chair and glanced out the north window.
Turkey, sneaking through the woods.
“There’s a turkey over here,” I hissed as I bent over to shut off the stove. I didn’t see if it was gobbler or hen, but rather expected it to be the early bird returning.
“No, there’s three!”
That’s when I knew it was happening.
As we’d already discussed at length, I reminded her not to stick her gun out of the window too quickly, to be shrewd about her movements.
She did well.
But just before the first two jakes reached the decoys, one became suspicious. I couldn’t tell why, but they were obscured by trunks and branches, and she couldn’t quite get a shot. They began to amble away, stiff-necked.
My heart pounded in my ears.
“That one on the left— when he gives you a shot, take it.”
He hit the leaves with conviction. We rejoiced and laughed and hugged.
I texted my folks, who said they’d be out shortly for taking pictures and such. They probably knew they weren’t needed for that, but were obviously excited and positively nothing could have convinced them to stay home.
There were many pictures. A girl doesn’t get her first turkey every day, after all. There were standing pictures and sitting pictures. Turkey on rock, turkey on log. Turkey on another log. Turkey over shoulder. 200 exposures later, we packed up and marched out through the old cemetery one last time.
My mom expressed how happy her grandmother would be to know her great-great-granddaughter took a turkey from her land.
”She would really think that is something.”
By her remark I could tell she had been contemplating such a wondrous and wonderful thing, and how proud she was. I imagine she was moved by deep feelings surrounding family, connection to the land, and legacy.
I know I was.