Sunday, April 22, 2001

Doing the Rio Grande turkey dance

David Sikes/Caller-Times

After capitalizing on their early-morning opportunities, Greg Hagar (left) and Ted Johnston went in search of gobblers, which often seek mates throughout a spring day.

LIVE OAK COUNTY - A faint shoulder tap told me we'd hiked beyond the point where whispers were allowed.
   I slowed my pace and turned to face Ted Johnston, who was pointing to a canopy of oak branches almost directly overhead. I knew what he meant.
   Turkey roost.
   Johnston and fellow Florida fly fisherman Greg Hagar had scouted this Live Oak County ranch the previous day. There was no doubt my boots were trampling turkey tracks in the darkness.
   I began to step even lighter, believing that a disturbance at this point could jeopardize our hunt later. A bit farther down the path, Johnston peeled off into a wooded spot that would be his roost for at least the next two hours.
   Hagar and I walked on.
   A twig exploded underfoot and before I could contort my face into a cringe, a succession of gobbles broke the silence of a morning barely old enough to create silhouettes against overcast skies.
   We froze, turned to each other and shrugged simultaneously as if to say, "What do we do now?"
   I motioned to continue forward, while Hagar hand signaled for me to proceed with even greater stealth. What else could we do?
   A couple of hens pitched from the trees as we passed. But I suspected others stayed put.
   About 100 yards from the disturbed, but still-groggy gobblers, we set out a hen decoy and prepared makeshift blinds in the gray dawn. Camera and shotgun were already loaded and ready.
   Before settling in, Hagar cupped his palm around his mouth and let loose a whoo . . . whoo, whoo-whooooo, exactly mimicking an owl.
   A gobbler from the trees responded quickly, evoking a glance my way, a nod and a smile from Hagar. The broken twig folly didn't seem so foolish after all.
   Hagar and Johnston had traveled too far to be foiled so early.
   Starting a dialogue
   I'd met my hunting companions through local physician and fly fisher, Dr. Stan Shoemaker. The larger Rio Grande turkey had drawn Hagar and Johnston to South Texas, just as Shoemaker had been lured by tarpon to Hagar and Johnston's turf, the waters of Homosassa, Fla.
   We were hunting a 1,600-acre ranch between Orange Grove and Mathis. Turkey hadn't been hunted here for years.
   The spring wildflower show was spectacular, even before I saw strutting gobblers vying for a mate.
   Once in our blinds, the crafty dialogue between turkey and hunter began. Hagar's opening statement consisted of subtle slate scratches, typical of early morn turkey talk. Hagar skillfully played the instrument, emitting light clucks, purrs and tree yelps, sending a message to roosting birds that hens were nearby.
   A smattering of responses came from treed hens, followed by a chorus of sequential gobbles that faded into the wind.
   Hagar, concealed and camouflaged about seven feet in front of me, pulled out a push button caller from his vest. The second movement consisted of a series of slightly more aggressive purrs and clucks with various pitches to denote different voices. He furthered the charade by raising and lowering the box caller to give the impression several birds were in the vicinity.
   My job was to sit still and watch, which I performed flawlessly.
   Finding turkey bliss
   Hagar's calls grew more forceful against an escalating cacophony. He later told me that South Texas turkeys are more vocal than Florida birds. To a student of turkey calling, such as Hagar, this is bliss.
   Next, Hagar discharged a series of yelps, clucks and purrs from a diaphragm caller, aimed at cutting off similar turkey talk from the now-agitated flock. Hagar's fly-down cackles completed the ruse. The reciprocal racket sounded as if the hens were in heated competition with Hagar. That was the intent. The match raged for 10 or 15 minutes.
   A hen in the clearing
   I sat motionless - well, almost - even though parts of me were asleep and uncomfortable.
   I could feel the curiosity building in the distant birds. They'd be clucking our way soon to investigate their adversary.
   The next sounds heard were those of wings against branches and turkey feet crunching dry leaves.
   But wait. How could my ears pick up turkey footsteps at 100 yards? Apparently, some birds had been roosting closer than we'd thought.
   Within moments, a hen appeared in the clearing before us.
   If you haven't observed many turkeys in the wild, they're a hoot. Their hearing and sight are among the most highly developed of any game animal. But they're an awkward bundle of pure instincts.
   The lone hen before us was either a kamikaze bird or a scout. Either way, it appeared both impatient and cautious, eager to check out our hen decoy, but wary of it too.
   The bird would run forward, peck the dirt a couple of times, scan the area with a 360-degree spin, then peer intensely at the decoy with neck outstretched. With cartoon-like antics, the hen repeated this animated and deliberate routine several times. And she was getting closer.
   Then without warning, she froze, looked around and retreated to join a group of more cautious group of about six or eight hens and at least two gobblers.
   Hagar remained silent. The slightest sound from us, even a subtle purr, would have allowed the birds to zero in on our position.
   Hens from the group, particularly one dominant bird, began yelping as they grew near. Still, Hagar gave no response.
   At about 30 yards, a couple of hens putted, perhaps out of uneasiness, perhaps because a large Tom was in full strut across a nearby fence.
   I became fixed on the fanned-out gobbler, who didn't have a chance with the ladies. Turkeys rarely cross such barriers.
   No one ever asked why the turkey crossed the road, because it probably didn't.
   Watching the dance
   Meanwhile, the two resident gobblers were staging a show of their own. This captured the attention of the group, offering opportunity to Hagar.
   Moving only his finger, Hagar scratched out a couple of soft yelps, prompting an aggressive response from the dominant hen.
   While the give and take continued, the near gobblers waltzed around the hens as if to different music. At one point, they squared off, but didn't spar.
   Then one of them seemed to notice the decoy, which was in line with Hagar and me. For a moment - and only a moment - all focus was on the decoy. The gobblers were looking directly at us at 20 yards.
   Hagar shot. All but one gobbler flew.
   I was so engrossed I forgot I was holding a camera.
   I'm trading my Nikon for a Mossberg.