It was several years ago when I experienced what personally felt like a perfect turkey hunting day to me. I awoke with plenty of time to hike to my hunting spot, and stepped outside to see what the weather like.
I should have turned on the yard light first. Everything was a blur as thick tendrils of fog hovered like white gauze from ground level up to the tree-tops. It was impossible to see but I decided to leave early to walk to my hunting location. I’d need more time on this day to find my hotspot.
Turkeys often stay roosted until the fog clears off but these birds had been put to bed the night before. I knew where they were, and didn’t need any landmarks to find this spot. Just get on the north-south dirt road, and walk along the edge of it until i reached a narrow finger of woods that came down to the road. The almost one mile walk would take longer on this day, so I forsake a breakfast and hot coffee in favor of the early start.
The fog was so thick it was literally impossible to see your hand in front of your face. My tiny penlight was shone on the road edge where weeds met the dirt, and I actually walked past the finger of woods in the dark and fog, and had to backtrack.
I eased off the road and into the trees, and knew I was within 200 yards of the roosted birds. There were three adult gobblers with long beards, two jakes and two hens ready for breeding. I had no clue what the day would provide but knew the birds would stay roosted even longer in the fog.
A narrow spot of farm land was separated by two woodlines. There seemed to be no need for a turkey decoy because the birds couldn’t see the ground. All I had to do was sit still near the clearing, wait with infinite patience for a roosted gobbler to call, and then try to sweet-talk him to within 35 yards while hoping all the birds didn’t approach at once.
A long hour passed, and there seemed to be a lightening of the fog but it was still impossible to see the trees on the other side of the clearing. The birds were roosted 100 yards deeper in the woods, and a small water puddle lay at the base of the roost trees.
The second hour passed without hearing a bird. The fog seemed thick enough to cut, and it was lighter but the ground fog hung heavy over everything within sight. Eventually a lone crow flew over, cawed once, and a moment later a gobbler returned the greeting. Nothing happened for a few moments, and the bird gobbled again, and was joined by the others.
I sat there, knowing the birds probably wouldn’t fly down until it got a bit lighter so they could check for danger. I kept my silence, and so did they, and by nearly 9 a.m., the fog was thinning slightly but it still a long ways to go before I’d be able to see well enough to shoot.
Time seemed to drag by for another 30 minutes before the sound of flappint wings was heard. They hadn’t flown down but were getting restless on the roost. I coaxed out the faintest purr from my old Ben Lee box call, and the birds lit up. They double- and triple-gobbled, and the hens were making noise, and the tree-top-talking went on for another five minutes before they pitched down into the open spot in front of me.
All the gobblers, including the jakes, began ripping the air apart with their gobbles. Another faint yelp started another round of gobbling as the birds circled the clearing looking for the hen. On several occasions, the gobblers were right in front of me and their footsteps in the leaves could be heard, and they kept circling in a clockwise manner. The sounds still seemed a bit muffled by the fog but all the birds were within 25 yards of my shotgun, but the dense moisture-laden air was still too thick so see a thing.
Those birds circled around me, time after time, until about 10 a.m. when the fog began to clear. I called softly one more time, and the birds stopped moving. The biggest longbeard was 50 yards away, and I tried to appear to his male urges. One of the hens began calling to him, and I began a duel with the hen, and we verbally fought for 10 minutes before all the birds shut up and they moved off through the woods.
It had been a long morning of sitting with just a bit of calling, but the suspense of those birds circling in the fog right in front of me, has left an indelible imprint on my memory. I didn’t shoot that day, and it didn’t matter, because the symphony of turkey talk coming at me through the fog was enough to satisfy my hunting desire for one day.
I should have turned on the yard light first. Everything was a blur as thick tendrils of fog hovered like white gauze from ground level up to the tree-tops. It was impossible to see but I decided to leave early to walk to my hunting location. I’d need more time on this day to find my hotspot.
Turkeys often stay roosted until the fog clears off but these birds had been put to bed the night before. I knew where they were, and didn’t need any landmarks to find this spot. Just get on the north-south dirt road, and walk along the edge of it until i reached a narrow finger of woods that came down to the road. The almost one mile walk would take longer on this day, so I forsake a breakfast and hot coffee in favor of the early start.
A one-mile walk in the fog to reach the turkeys.
I eased off the road and into the trees, and knew I was within 200 yards of the roosted birds. There were three adult gobblers with long beards, two jakes and two hens ready for breeding. I had no clue what the day would provide but knew the birds would stay roosted even longer in the fog.
A narrow spot of farm land was separated by two woodlines. There seemed to be no need for a turkey decoy because the birds couldn’t see the ground. All I had to do was sit still near the clearing, wait with infinite patience for a roosted gobbler to call, and then try to sweet-talk him to within 35 yards while hoping all the birds didn’t approach at once.
A long hour passed, and there seemed to be a lightening of the fog but it was still impossible to see the trees on the other side of the clearing. The birds were roosted 100 yards deeper in the woods, and a small water puddle lay at the base of the roost trees.
Fog so thick I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
I sat there, knowing the birds probably wouldn’t fly down until it got a bit lighter so they could check for danger. I kept my silence, and so did they, and by nearly 9 a.m., the fog was thinning slightly but it still a long ways to go before I’d be able to see well enough to shoot.
Time seemed to drag by for another 30 minutes before the sound of flappint wings was heard. They hadn’t flown down but were getting restless on the roost. I coaxed out the faintest purr from my old Ben Lee box call, and the birds lit up. They double- and triple-gobbled, and the hens were making noise, and the tree-top-talking went on for another five minutes before they pitched down into the open spot in front of me.
The unseen gobblers called
Those birds circled around me, time after time, until about 10 a.m. when the fog began to clear. I called softly one more time, and the birds stopped moving. The biggest longbeard was 50 yards away, and I tried to appear to his male urges. One of the hens began calling to him, and I began a duel with the hen, and we verbally fought for 10 minutes before all the birds shut up and they moved off through the woods.
It had been a long morning of sitting with just a bit of calling, but the suspense of those birds circling in the fog right in front of me, has left an indelible imprint on my memory. I didn’t shoot that day, and it didn’t matter, because the symphony of turkey talk coming at me through the fog was enough to satisfy my hunting desire for one day.
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