Taking Turkeys with a Baby Gage

I don’t know what it is about turkeys, but I’m into ‘em. Big time.

Maybe it’s their goofy noises, Old Glory colored heads, or habit of awkwardly half running, half flying when they’re all worked up. Maybe it’s those gobbles that seem to make the whole woods shake. Or, maybe I just have trouble saying no to a challenge.

After all, as of spring 2019, I was in a serious turkey-killing slump. It had been years since I shot a bird, despite my best efforts at learning to call, decoy and DIY it on Nebraska’s public lands. Even a work-sponsored hunt with well-known outfitters in one of the prime turkey hunting areas of the country left me with unused tags. Convinced the animals had it out for me, I returned home meatless, beardless and frustrated beyond belief.

Regardless, when last year’s spring season rolled around, I grabbed myself a tag, made the trek back to Nebraska with my now fiancé and braced myself for another round of long days and hard hunting in on-the-verge-of-springtime weather. I was excited. Nervous and already a bit frustrated, sure, but itching to hear those birds waking up the next morning and dying to catch my first glimpse of red, white and blue coming out of the trees.

After an eight-hour road trip, we made our destination and quickly hit the hay – alarms set. Two hours later, we were up, dressed, in the truck and en route to (fingers crossed) turkey town.

From that first alarm, the day was long. Long and frustrating.

We walked, hiked, set up, sat, called, sat, picked up, walked, drove, glassed, stalked, snuck, squatted, crouched, sat, hiked, set up, picked up and drug around decoys, shotguns, vests, calls, ammo, water bottles and extra layers all day long. We gave them everything we had, even running and gunning in hopes of finding midday birds making the mistake of showing themselves and begging for shock gobbles while stalking through creek bottoms and pasture cedar thickets.

Unfortunately, the turkey population in this area has continued to decrease due to a combination of predation and poor nesting conditions. Based on what we were seeing, Ben guessed numbers were the worst they’d been in more than 10 years. We clearly had our work cut out for us.

When we expected the birds to be on one side of the river, they squawked from the other. What we thought from a distance were jakes (at this point, we were interested in just about any bird we saw, so long as it didn’t require going for a swim) turned out to be hens. My fiancé’s go-to spots that for years had been unpressured and productive were empty. Birds that had traditionally been responsive to calling and aggressive toward strutters acted nervous and otherwise uninterested instead.

It was also hot for late-April. By midday, temps had climbed well into the 70s, and traipsing around in our layers of ghillie suits, vests, facemasks, hats gloves and boots was getting old, fast.

Early that evening, we arrived at our final spot of the day – a large bean field nearly boxed in by trees and nearby the river we just couldn’t seem to get on the right side of earlier in the day. Our plan of attack? Haul our sweaty, tired selves and all our gear to the far southeast corner of the field, set the spread, find a cozy spot to hang out with sticks propped and shotguns at the ready, call and hope the birds returned to roost in the same area we thought they had the night before.

We made for the distant corner of the far field – hugging the tree line as we went, stopping now and again to reshoulder gear, peel off layers, wipe sweat from our faces and rattle off some soft calling cadences, just in case we were in the vicinity of a loner out looking for love.

After a good walk, we noted feathers and scratchings, picked our spot, got situated and settled in for an even longer wait. Having not been able to scout the property beforehand, it was important to be in early, so we didn’t inadvertently spook birds. Our hope was to intersect them coming from loafing cover to their roosting area, roughly a half mile away.

Every so often, my fiancé would break through the white noise – the hum of a distant tractor, whoosh of the breeze through the trees, rattling of branches, chirps of birds – with a call, just to remind anything in the area that turkeys were  around … or should be, at least.

His calling also kept me focused.

It helped me step away from my frustrations by distracting me from how incredibly hot, thirsty, sweaty, hungry and painfully uncomfortable I was wadded up against that tree; how stiff my back was, how my feet throbbed against the insides of my boots with each heartbeat and how badly my hips ached.

His calling reminded me of the good in the day.

Of the excitement that came with hearing the birds wake up that morning and listening to them respond to his calling, as well as the pride I would feel once the day was done. I’d put my all into the work we’d done that day, never slowing us up, falling behind or blowing a single potential run-and-gun opportunity.

At days short of 35 weeks pregnant, I was holding my own just fine.

There’s a time of day my fiancé Ben calls “turkey-thirty.” It’s this time, a half-hour or so before dark, when the birds become super active, feeding their way back to their chosen roosting location for the night. On this occasion, an hour or so before turkey-thirty, a small group of toms ventured one-by-one out of the woods to our right.

To say they moved slowly would be an understatement.

They hugged the tree line, cautiously moving away from us, eating and checking over their shoulders as they went. Beyond our group of birds, a pair of hens appeared. We watched and waited. Every little while, Ben would softly call, drawing the toms’ attention back to our spread.

Each time he’d call, the birds acted interested. But it was clear they were torn between the live hens nearby and the hen/jake deke combo we had in front of us. Just when we thought the toms were convinced and committing, they wouldn’t.

We continued to wait.

Until, suddenly, a pair of birds couldn’t take it anymore. Two toms turned our way and paused, then tucked their wings, lowered their heads to the south and started out on a trot. They were coming.

I slowly shouldered my gun and lowered my cheek. “C’mon,” I thought.

Ben stopped calling and let them come, allowing the dekes do the work.

Once they were in our laps, the birds started pummeling our dekes – hopping, flapping and kicking at the rubber bodies.

Behind me, from the other side of the tree, Ben first whispered, “Slow and steady, slow and steady,” followed by a more urgent, “Shoot. Shoot him.”

The tom closest to us hopped and kicked again, moving away from his buddy. The gun went off and the bird fell hard. My belly rolled. I held my breath as our boy jabbed at my ribs and my whole body tightened.

Frantically, I tried to get my bead on the other bird as he hightailed it back toward the hens and out of range.

Next thing I knew, Ben’s hand was shaking my shoulder, his voice in my ear. What he said, I still don’t know. What I remember is the babe inside me rocking, rolling and reacting to the shot.

I had my bird – a four-bearded two-year old tom taken at 15 yards and eight months pregnant after some 14 hours of hunting and nearly six miles of walking on just two hours of sleep – and it was by no means a gimme.

This hunt and the seriously special turkey that came with it, is hands down one of my favorite outdoor memories, and will only be topped when our boy Gage takes his first bird – one that’ll come to his daddy’s calls and leave him with his own story. A story I’m sure will make his momma’s belly flutter.

Yeah, I’ve got a thing for turkeys – now more than ever.