Spring turkey hunting is a delight, but hunters of all species can end up embarrassed

Josey1

Spring turkey hunting is a delight, but hunters of all species can end up embarrassedBy SHANNON TOMPKINSCopyright 2002 Houston ChronicleI felt the coyote's pain. We both had made embarrassing mistakes. Still, I couldn't help but grin under my camouflage face mask -- at him and myself. The wild canine had slipped in from behind my brother Les and me this past Sunday morning as we sat overlooking an opening where three senderos met and a small pond offered water in a horribly dry country. The 'yote skidded to a halt just inside the trees along the opening and eyed a pleasant surprise standing right in front of him: an unsuspecting turkey. At dawn, I had staked a turkey decoy in the opening where it could be seen by any gobbler entering the open area or crossing one of the senderos. We secluded ourselves about 20 yards away among the seemingly endless sea of live oaks growing from the fine sand on the Reserve Ranch Los Jefes Division's five-square-mile tract near Falfurrias. The afternoon before, that opening was a magnet for turkeys. I had seen a half-dozen gobblers and fumbled a "gimme" opportunity on a ponderous tom wearing a beard ZZ Top's Billy Gibbons would have admired and spurs that looked like Yemeni daggers. Oh, it was a horribly classic example of how over-thinking and hesitation can lead a turkey hunter to snatch failure from the jaws of success! I had set up by the opening, staked the decoy, settled against a pair of live oaks and offered a series of yelps, clucks and purrs. There was little doubt I would see game and get to experience part of a unique piece of Texas geology. The Reserve Ranch Los Jefe Division sits about a dozen miles southwest of Falfurrias in Brooks County and astride an aberration in the South Texas landscape. A band of deep, white, powdery sand -- much like that of coastal sand dunes -- about 8 miles wide and 40 miles long stretches from the King Ranch across portions of Brooks County. The band of sand -- designated Falfurrias fine sand by geologists -- is covered with a carpet of live oaks and darned little else. Unlike most of the rest of South Texas, there are few mesquites and rocks. The landscape, with its stunted oaks, looks more like the live oak thickets in places such as the Blackjack Peninsula near Rockport than anything a person would recognize as South Texas. But that blanket of oaks holds wildlife rivaling anything in the more fabled areas of the region. The Reserve Ranch's main business is offering guided hunts for high-quality white-tailed deer, a mix of exotics and pen-reared quail. But owner/operator John Ed Stepan also sells guided hunts for feral hogs, javelina and Rio Grande turkey, with guests lodged at a compound in the center of the ranch. (More information on the operation is available on the Web at www.reserveranch.com or by calling 800-725-4537.) His place is not short on critters. The water hole drew a parade of deer and javelina Saturday morning, and the sand was pocked with the three-toed tracks of turkey. But with the wind blowing near gale force, turkeys stayed put. Although no birds showed during the morning, it seemed a great place to head that afternoon. While I trudged through the soft, ankle-deep sand toward the water hole, Les opted for a spot to the south where he had seen some birds earlier. It proved a smart choice. He called in and dropped a huge gobbler -- 10-inch beard, 1-inch spurs and weighing an estimated 22-25 pounds, a tremendous Rio Grande. The gobbler, he said, was conflicted about whether to follow a group of hens into the woods or approach his decoy. The bird strutted at marginal shotgun range, trying to draw the fake hen to his harem. And when the real hens began moving off, it appeared the gobbler would follow. But the tom hesitated, stopping and turning one final time toward the decoy. Les make the split-second decision to take the shot. The gobbler dropped in his tracks at what Les' rangefinder determined was 37 yards. He who hesitates is lunch -- every hunter understands that. While Les was enjoying a productive afternoon, I was making the first of many mistakes. My calls drew almost immediate gobbles, but they were the strangled, high-pitched warbles of jakes. A pair of year-old gobblers followed a string of hens right past me and up the sendero that led past my right shoulder. The jakes would gobble and attempt to strut and drum, and it was fascinating watching them less than 10 yards from my hide. I could have taken one, but I wanted to wait for a long-beard. The hens wandered down the sendero and over a hill behind me, and the jakes followed. I called every few minutes, hoping to draw a gobbler. But mostly I just enjoyed the show as deer and javelina walked from the brush to the water hole, vermilion flycatchers "bugged" the opening, a green jay hopped overhead and a black-crested titmouse claimed a big caterpillar in the live oak next to me and spent a full 5 minutes dining on the treat. There were painted buntings and warblers moving through, as well as a summer tanager and an indigo bunting. There is a reason South Texas is a birders' paradise. I was witnessing it. A low hum distracted me from the songbirds. It came from over my right shoulder on the sendero where the jakes had passed. I eased my head around and saw a puffed-up and strutting gobbler in the lane maybe 75 yards away. But a screen of tasajillo and kidneywood hid most of the bird. I assumed it was one of the hen-addled jakes that had returned to try wooing the stoic hen decoy. So I didn't pay much attention to him -- actually, I was a bit put out, thinking the jake's return would hurt my chances to attract an adult gobbler. But maybe five minutes later, when the ground began vibrating and I eased around again, I was looking at a major-league gobbler. The "jake" was no jake. The bird stood in the edge of the sendero and strutted for the decoy, dancing through the sand like some flamenco, his blood-gorged head all blue and red. I slowly moved around as much as possible and, when the tom was turned away from me, eased the shotgun to my shoulder. But the bird stayed in strut and partially obscured behind a screen of brush; I never could get quite the clear shot I wanted. I was in a strained position, what with being twisted around. And the 8-pound gun was getting real heavy. Maybe I moved or he saw the gun wobble. Whatever. The gobbler went from stone-dumb over the decoy to all legs and wings as he sprinted up the sendero. He slowed for a second, and I made a poor choice, firing three rounds that had no chance of connecting. It was a rookie mistake and horribly embarrassing. I would have kicked myself, but I probably would have missed. Sunday morning was a chance for redemption. Les came along with his video camera to document what I was sure would be a successful hunt. The Reserve Ranch holds heaps of turkeys, and they are lightly hunted. The other hunters on the place had taken birds or passed up opportunities. Things looked pretty good early. The morning was calm and cool, and there were birds gobbling on roosts all around the water hole as Les and I skulked up to the spot and took our seats. It took all of about 5 minutes for the first gobblers -- the two jakes from the day before -- to come to the call. They strutted and gobbled and danced nearly within reach of us, then spotted some real hens and chased off after them. After watching a near constant show of wildlife visit the water, my chance appeared. A gobbler came waltzing across the far side of the open area, maybe 100 yards away, and seemed intent on finding the hen he had heard. I gave a couple of soft yelps, and the bird turned and began moving straight to us. With my shotgun already on my knee, I was ready. But I couldn't get a really good look at the gobbler. And as he approached, he stayed behind brush. I couldn't see his beard. Maybe he's a jake. I hesitated to shoulder the shotgun until absolutely certain. When the gobbler walked into an opening no more than 10 yards away, I could see a 9-inch beard dangling. But he was looking straight at me, and I couldn't make the move to mount the gun. The bird's head shot out, he putted, sprinted into the brush and was gone. Another chance lost. I could feel Les' glare over my shoulder. I knew he was wondering why I hadn't been ready and taken what would have been an easy shot. Then I heard him hiss. I turned around and looked at him, and he motioned to the left where a string of hen turkeys were walking fast through the grass. "Coyote following them!" he whispered. That's what spooked the gobbler. The hens trotted out of the woods and across the opening. The coyote slunk along, shadowing the obviously alerted hens. Then the 'yote spotted the decoy and stopped not 15 feet from me, its tongue lolling and yellow eyes blazing. I could almost see the wheels turning in the coyote's head. Acting nonchalant (if a coyote can act nonchalant), the wild canine appeared to ignore the decoy as it walked into the sendero. Then in a tremendous burst of speed, it turned and attacked the decoy from behind. It slammed into the foam fake, and sand flew as the impact threw the decoy into the air. The coyote never slowed down, sprinting into the brush but looking over its shoulder as if to see if anyone had witnessed the blunder. The animal looked plum sheepish. Les caught it all on digital video, and watching the clip makes me feel a bit better. Not only was seeing the coyote stalk and pounce on the decoy worth the whole trip, it was heartening to me as a hunter. If a coyote, an animal whose continued existence depends on it being a skilled hunter, can make a mistake while hunting turkeys, then a guy who pursues the big bird to feed his spirit as much as his body shouldn't feel too bad about the occasional lapse in judgement. There's always next time.

---

Shannon Tompkins covers the outdoors for the Chronicle. His column appears Thursdays, Fridays and Sundays. http://www.chron.com/cs/CDA/story.hts/outdoors/1338970