Location, Location, Location

A majestic gobbler lit up by the early sun. Shoot straight!

There's an old real estate adage. Everyone preaches ... Location, Location Location!  Where the land or home is located means almost everything.

This old saying also holds true for turkey hunters. Location means everything, and if a hunter is going to have any kind of success with a big gobbler, he must be in the right spot at the right time.

So far, I've talked to just two hunters with a first-season turkey tag, and neither man has found gobblers yet. Both cite high winds, rain and on-again, off-again cold weather and snow as excuses.

Hunting has been slow during the first turkey season. Blame it on the weather.

One was checking for birds near home, and his brother was hunting in a nearby area. My buddy checked where he'd seen a gobbler fly up to roost the night before, and estimated he was 150 yards away.

He waited for dawn, listened to the bird gobble once from the roost tree at about 6:30 a.m., and called twice, and that was all it took.
"That bird came to me, got to within 25 yards, and then turned and ran off," he said. "The bird flew down from the tree, came on a direct line to me, and then spooked as if frightened by my decoys."

I'm more inclined to think he was spooked by the presence of a hunter toodling on his turkey call. Guys who educate birds by calling outdoors before the season opens deserves to have all his calls taken away.

His brother, who had not seen or heard a bird, and had traveled to what would be a new hunting location when their season opened. They walked into the area, sat down with their backs to adjacent trees, and began to listen for birds.

"I soon heard a bird that didn't wasn't far away," he said. "I listened to him for 40 minutes. He seened to have a couple of hens and lesser gobblers with him. We sat still and never spooked the birds.

At first he thought there was just one bird but it turned out to be two adult gobblers traveling together. Finally, one split away from the other, and came our way only to be spooked vy a roaming coyote. Those birds should still be around when the next season opens."

Turkeys in some hunting areas may be spooked by decoys.

I've heard it mentioned many times by many hunters that they believe gobblers and hens may be spooking from decoys. If there is no wind, and the decoy doesn't move, the bird won't come in. Obvious, this isn't an across-the-board belief, but some birds seem definitely afraid of one or more decoys, and scouting hunters should never put out decoys before the season opens.

Being in the right spot at the right time is crucial to success. I don't consider myself a great caller, but I know enough not to call too much once my season opens. Finesse the birds a little, don't call too loud so the bird gets spooky, and chances are good you can close the deal on a gobbler. The trick is to be patient, and don't call too loud.

Years ago, my wife and I drew a first-season hunt, and we got set up early, and she wanted to take her gobbler with a bow. I had her sitting inside a hunting coop. I had three decoys -- two hens and a jake -- positioned in front of her with the jake only 15 yards away.

I sat outside with my back to a big tree and waited for the first gobbler to sound off. A few crows called, and then he tuned up the volumn and rattled the trees in that woodlot. I gave a soft tree yelp, and he gobbled again and again while I remained silent. It's part of the teasing process.

Five minutes passed, and he gobbled again, and I gave a soft tree yelp, waited until he quit gobbling, slapped my pant legs a few quick times to simulate a bird flying down, and could hear that bird busting branches as he flew to the ground.

Be patient while waiting for a gobbler to close the distance.

He gobbled again on the ground, came walking through the woods, walked within three feet of my boots and strutted out to whup on that jake decoy. I could hear him drumming and spitting, and he gobbled out a challenge to the jake decoy, and walked in to smack the fake bird around.

The gobbler offered Kay a good shot, and that was the end of that bird. It wasn't the largest gobbler she has killed, but doing it with a bow was a major accomplishment.

A year earlier, much the same thing played out as I called in a nice gobbler for her, and she took it with a shotgun. In fact, I've called in most of her gobblers over the past decade.

A person can be the best caller in the world, but if he is in the wrong spot, there will be no birds racing in his direction. Personally, I'd rather know where the bird is roosted, and be a mediocre caller, than to be in the wrong spot with championship calling skills on my side.

Location to a turkey hunter, as it is to a real estate agent, is the most important part of the hunting equation. It's what can put a tasty bird on a turkey platter this spring.

Just make certain your scouting efforts don't spook birds out of the area, and for Heaven's sake, be smart enough to leave the calls at home while scouting. The birds don't need more of an edge than they already have, and it pays to scout with binoculars or a spotting scope.

Find the birds, drive away, and know where a few birds are when your turkey season opens.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

The saga of Frenchman's Pond

John Voelker (Robert Traver) signs a copy of one of his trout fishing books.

Snow-covered trees and gusty breezes greeted the dawn, and sporadic flakes fell as the John Deere snow blower threw the snow into a nearby field. Cleaning my driveway of five inches of mushy snow gave me nearly three hours of uninterrupted time to think.

One thought came to mind. It was from a 1984 trip to the Upper Peninsula to fish the legendary Frenchman's Pond with famous author John Voelker who wrote under the pseudonym of Robert Traver. I was eager to get to the pond, and had realized a personal dream that had been gnawing at me for many years.

Fishing "Frenchman's Pond"; with Johnny Voelker was a longtime wish.

"The more you want something, the more you anticipate it," Voelker said, sensing my impatience as we stopped to pick blueberries, chantrelle mushrooms and black raspberries. "That means Frenchman's Pond will be a bigger thrill once we finally get there."

We eventually slid down what passes for a trail to his secluded cabin on the pond. The two-track leading into it was a mix of boulders, corduroy trails, rocks and sand. His battered old fish car was bouncing from side to side as he tried to keep it between the trees.

Frenchman's Pond glittered like a rare jewel amid a sea of cedar and spruce. Here and there a brook trout rose to an unseen insect, and my dream of visiting this hallowed water had become a reality.

It was like coming home after a long absence. I was speechless with the pond's beauty, and Voelker wisely stood by quietly and allowed me to absorb the rare mood of the moment without interruption.

Frenchman's Pond was Voelker's private retreat. He had owned it for over 30 years when I first visited it over 25 years ago. It's location is a closely-guarded secret, and the brookies are as shy and reclusive as the owner is to many people. We had traded letters, and I had interviewed him on several occasions, and it took a few years before the fishing invitation came.

John Voelker, a/k/a Robert Traver, delicately drops a dry fly on Frenchman's Pond.

He knew I wanted to fish it, but by nature, he didn't trust many people that lived below the bridge, and like it or not, I had to measure up. What his standards were for admittance to the pond were unspoken. Therefore the invitation to fish came as a huge and unexpected surprise.

"Why don't you c'mon up and fish Frenchman's Pond with me?" he asked one day. "The trout are notoriously camera-shy, but we may be able to hook one or two."

An invite to fish the pond was like a special request to dine with the Pope or Queen Mum. It wasn't something to ignore or refuse. To do so would have sealed my fate and kept me away for all time.

One didn't ignore an invitation to Traver's famous wild brook trout pond.

I was full of questions. Would the trout rise? Which flies and sizes produced best? Any tips on fishing the pond?

"Chances are good we won't catch a fish," he said. "And if we do get lucky or skillful, as you fishing writers are wont to say, the brookies will probably be small and take only tiny dry flies.

"Fish a long leader tapered down to 5X or 6X, and try No. 18, 20 or 22 flies. We don't land many fish on such light tackle, but it sure is fun when we do."

We fished from casting platforms built around the pond, and I changed flies frequently. Brookies rose whenever the sun went behind a cloud but only one came to my fly. It missed or I missed, and that was that. I figured the old Judge had educated most of them.

Voelker had several rises to his tiny flies but failed to hook up. We crouched low on the platforms to reduce our silhouette, made adequate presentations but the trout weren't impressed.

"That's what I like about brook trout," Voelker said over a ritualistic sundowner of bourbon Manhattans during our U.P. cribbage championship game. "Brook trout are not impressed with who or what you are, or how much money you have, but they are responsive at times to a gentle and quiet approach."

All of this happened many years ago but our time spent together is permanently etched in my brain.

It's been well over 25 years since that trip, and it's been many years since his death, but I returned two more times by written invitation to fish with the old master. I would never go back even though I know where the pond nestles like a rare diamond in a green forest.

John Voelker fished around his last bend many years ago, and one day I may report what he told me about the frailties of old age and death's looming presence.

For now, on a warmer and snowy day, I'm satisfied with remembering this man of letters, writer of vibrant books on trout fishing, and masterful novels such as Anatomy Of A Murder. He taught me a valuable lesson that day, and it's one I occasionally pass on to others.

"There is more to fishing than catching fish," he said. "Learn to savor each day like a fine wine, listen to good music, fish often and keep few fish. Learn about life from brook trout because they are found only in cold, clean waters, and when brook trout disappear from our wild places, mankind won't be far behind."

Those are words worth remembering, and that the old Judge uttered them with a hitch is his voice, meant they came from his heart. The Bard of Frenchman's Pond had spoken, I had listened, and took his heartfelt advice with me when we drove away.

I remember Johnny Voelker (Robert Traver).. I remember the man, his little sayings, his attitudes about brook trout and the waters where they are found, and I'l never forget the old-timer, his Parodi cigars, his lively method of writing, and the waters he most loved to fish.

He was a one-of-a-kind man, and one I'll never forget. He still stirs my imagination.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors