Listening TO Only A Few Spring Gobblers

Jakes – shoot or let them walk by

Pick up on a FEW Spring Turkeys and listen closely
photo Dave Richey ©2012

It was a beautiful morning to be alive. I slipped out the door about 6:45 a.m. into 42-degree temperatures, and it felt wonderful.

The sun wasn't up yet but sharp spears of golden light shot upward from the eastern horizon, and my thoughts were on how beautiful the morning was. I stood there, a moment frozen in time, and waited for the sun to start bulging the horizon of the eastern sky.

It seems to start slow, and then the top surface of the ball of fire broke through, and up came the sun, growing more orange and red as it rose. It's a magic that I never tire of watching, and if there is a reason for rising before sun-up, it's to witness the rare beauty of dawn.

Watching a golden sunrise on opening day

I stood, transfixed by its beauty, and asked myself how anything could be any better. And then I learned how.

Off in the distance, so far away it could hardly be heard, came the very soft tree yelp of a hen turkey. She cutt once, just checking on the whereabouts of the other birds, and then a full-throated gobbler chimed in and the sound was loud even from a long distance away.

It's always amazing how loud a gobbler is when he roars as the sun comes up. The volume of sound is impossible to believe unless it is seen and heard up close.

He nailed that gobble with lusty exuberance for the day, and she gave another soft yelp. Big Daddy, still sitting in his roost tree, gobbled and then hit a double-gobble just to show everyone in the nearby trees who the Boss Gobbler in these parts happened to be.

Another Tom gobbled once, and again 10 seconds later, and then the Big Boss Man tuned up the woods again. The hen yelped a little bit more, just enough to keep the gobblers fired up, and then the Toms began gobbling back and forth at each other.

A gobble or double-gobble is pure Michigan excitement

Four individual gobblers were heard, and the fury of this sound was awesome. One or two small jakes tried to gobble but couldn't quite pull it off. Like adolescent boys, their voices were changing but they simply couldn't hit that low bass note and keep it going.

It was one of those days when I wished I could be sitting on the ground in my camo, a shotgun over my knees, and start lighting a real fire in their bellies. I love to listen to that low-pitched humming sound that gobblers make when they are close to a hen.

Many people have heard it, didn't know what it was, but if you are hunting and hear it, don't move because a gobbler is close. The sound doesn't carry far, and two or three years ago I was calling a gobbler for a buddy when I heard it.

"Don't move a muscle," I whispered. "There's a big gobbler behind us and he is very close. Don't move anything. We'll wait him out."

If you hear a gobbler spitting and drumming, sit still and don't move

That bird was within 15 feet of us, and I could hear him pacing back and forth in dry leaves, but he wouldn't circle around. We later learned that he had two big hens with him, and he was trying to lure my two hen decoys to follow along with him.

Unfortunately, I was too far away to hear this sound but I have no doubt that once the hens and gobblers flew down, that it would have been audible if the birds were close.

These birds on this delightful day serenaded the morning for 20 minutes while I stood and listened. And then, as if the switch had been thrown, they shut up and started moving.

I pulled the newspaper from the tube, walked back to the house, and stood on the back deck for another 10 minutes. The birds were indeed on the move, and I heard one gobbler rattle out his love song to the hens as they walked off in the opposite direction.

The turkeys, just like me, appeared happy to see the snow gone off the hillsides. All of winter's snow back in the hollows is gone, but I'll greet the dawn with the birds many times before the hunting season begins.

There's not much need for preseason scouting because I know the pattern of these birds and where they roost. I'll stay far away from them, hope they are not spooked out of the area, and each day they greet my distant presence with a gobble, is another memorable moment in my life.

Calling gobblers is more fun than shooting one

Somehow, I hope that's the way it may turn out but I have some doubts. It's been spring for five weeks, and I doubt many birds will be in the mood this spring. Some hen  birds have been seen on nests, and we're seeing very little gobbler activity if compared to past years.

But when my season open April 30, I'll be out there as usual, to greet the dawn with optimism. And I hope for just one lusty gobbler to call to me and my buddy. One chance may be it for this spring season, and we'll try to make the most of it.

The glory of fall

A touch of fall color while fly-fishing for Chinook salmon.

Autumn comes each year with a balmy day  like today, breezy weather, like yesterday, and days when a sweater feels dandy while greeting the dawn, and on those odd day when fall rains pelt us with cold water that will soon turn to snow.

There is something magical that offers to show its pretty face right after Labor Day but this year autumn was a bit late in coming. The hordes of tourists have abandoned northern Michigan, and once they leave, the frantic pace of living slows down and the residents can take stock of their lives.

Mine revolves, as it always has, around fishing and hunting. It's just that these outdoor loves speak a bit more provocatively to me, and I willingly imbibe in everything that epitomizes autumn weather.

It might be enough for most people just to watch the brief flurry of autumn colors as the days grow shorter and the weather cools. It starts with a gradual blend of orange, purple, red and yellow colors. They quickly intensify in the depth of their beauty, and brilliant sunshine seems to make each color more vibrant.

There are one or two days each fall when the brilliant sunshine combines with just the right angle of the sun in the sky to make each color stand out in stark contrast against any nearby cedars or pines. I've yet to see a pine tree whose beauty wasn't intensified by its close proximity to aspens, maples or oaks in full color.

Those days are when I step outside, and bask in the glory of the autumn hues. I love the sight of the leaves in full color on the trees, and frown slightly once they lose their sparkle, and fall dead and somber to the forest floor.

I love running water. The sight and sound of a trout stream twisting through the woods and gurgling around a log jam, makes me happy to be alive. I often pause, during an autumn day, to idly sit on a river bank to watch the ritual of recreation as Chinook salmon move onto a spawning redd and renew their kind.

The old adage about Pacific salmon holds true: They are born an orphan, and die childless. Think about it, and it's another marvel of nature that requires too much thought to explain. It's enough to know that it is true.

Autumn means testing my mettle against the thunderous flush of a ruffed grouse, the corkscrewing flight of the woodcock towering over an alder run, or the quick flush of a snipe from the edge of a wooded water puddle. These game birds, although I seldom run into snipe  these days, provide something very important to me.

These months often deliver a day of fine dog work. It's wonderful to watch a brace of pointers or setters work the cover, singly or in tandem, moving into the wind, cutting the breeze at a 45-degree angle, and suddenly slamming to a rock-hard point, their bodies quivering in anticipation of sudden flush.

They stiffen in position, one dog backing the other, and hold steady as we move in. Calming words of "easy now" are muttered softly as a hand gently touches the dog's head or shoulder to steady them up, and the hunter moves in. His eyes aren't on the ground but a few feet above the ground, a built-in hedge against being startled by sharp sounds of strong wings grabbing air.

The bird is up and away, and a shotgun barrel swings through the grouse or woodcock, and when everything looks right, a shot is fired.

Sometimes, for me at least, the bird commits suicide, diving into a long shot string of No. 8 bird shot early in the season and slightly larger shot once the leaf drop occurs.

It is sitting still in a tree stand, marveling at the fall splendor of color along the oak ridges, and watching a buck ease through a saddle and become backlit by the setting sun and a back drop of blazing color.

Autumn is knowing I can kill a buck with my bow, and having the intestinal fortitude to forego the shot because it isn't necessary. There are times, once I draw down on a buck, and then let off without taking a shot, that I know that buck could be killed. Knowing it and doing it are two different philosophies.

This next two months are the finest of the year. They provide me with everything I need to feel whole. They stroke my one-eyed vision, offer me daily glimpses of some of the most colorful sunrises and sunsets that an angler or hunter could ever hope to see.
Fall is my time. It is the best time of my life, and just think, it just started this month and I can't wait. I'm ready, quivering like a dog on point, and panting to be afoot in the woods again.

Being there, once again, moves me in such an exquisite way that words to describe my awe often fail me. But then, you know what I mean.