We spent the morning hunting the four-corners, coyote saddle, bobcat lane, and skull mountain...all tried and true spots. Although we'd seen sign of turkeys in each area, it was all a couple days old. We moseyed our way down toward Pollock creek but before we could make it, we spotted a couple strutters and a hen.
They were in a spot that, if done correctly, we could sneak in front of them, set out the decoys, and wait in ambush. It only worked because Hunter was there. Like on a string, the toms cut off my hen calls simultaneously with their rude gobbles. They were 60 yards but due to the contour of the land, we could only hear their gobbles and their drumming.
"Right there, Hunter. Don't move!" their brilliant-colored heads suddenly appeared from over the grass hill. In sync, they strutted in side by side fanning their tails at our plastic female impersonators. At 25 yards, the stare-down began. The ol' devil chicken raised his head in concern, as if he spotted something he didn't like. It was Hunter. The sun glistened off the devil's eyes, from which I swear reflected a hint of red. His sharp spurs were as long as I've ever seen and his gobble was deep and carried for a mile. He was the devil chicken we were after. "Whenever you want Hunter."...I was shaking in excitement.
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| At the brushline. (Hunter climbing the fence to retrieve the tom) |
I had no doubt my boy would connect with the bird. The devil cock dropped....but then got back up and began to run! Hunter chased him across the hillside and anchored the old bird right before he went into the heavy brush. What a rush! At the young age of 12, Hunter is a seasoned turkey hunter and as long as he wraps his fingers around his 12 gauge each spring, those sons of the devil better watch their backs.
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| Until next spring... |
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