Has anybody ever heard of this guy? He used to post on another forum I used to be on. He makes some pot calls if I'm not mistaken and from Georgia I think??? He used to tell the most amazing turkey hunting stories you'll ever read.
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Its amazing what Google can do... Read the whole thing its worth it you'll see what I mean...
Charlie Horse By Redbeard
'Twas gonna name this bird Tanner, as he was walkin' Georgia's former Game and Fish commissioner's Tanners' property line, as goes that grand ol' Marshall Tucker Song of the same name. But seein' as to what he done to my arm, I've settled on Charlie Horse. Probably oughta be Charlie 1 Horse, as it was our first meeting but then I'd probably get sued by that great hat maker fer confusin' his masterpieces with a turkeebird.
Began the fifth day of the 2007 season in a familiar neck of Culloden's woods. In fact, just about the only neck of woods left on a once upon a time spectacular 800 acres of turkee huntin' property. Fortunately, the investors deemed it fit to leave us 'bout 300 left with timber, least for a while.
All was quiet in the bat woods that morn, a special little grove of oaks and beech trees given that name by my then 8 year ol' boy after he'd shot a 'diller and found a live bat under it's belly upon the fetch.
My aging ears found new life, however, reckon due to the lack of woods and I heard a gobbler sound off quite a distance away. I knew of a good four wheeler trail that headed that direction and off I went.
Took it fairly slow, as the bird wasn't particularly hot. Each time, I was a bit closer and finally it dawned on me, that I just might be able to get in front of this bird.
Got deep into a holler and sat a spell, offering some sweet hen talk from my aluminum 4 track player and was immediately answered by a hen still in the tree, just back of me. She had a very slow melodic cadence and was so perfect in her tree yelpin'. I tried my best to mimic her measure in rhythm and tone.
We had us a pretty good conversation going until that mouthy tom started ah shoutin' at us ta come on.
I picked up the pace a bit and got dang near even with him, with him being on the other side of some thick stuff. I may even have spooked him a bit as when I sat up, I heard a loud cluck. I stayed put and offered him some nice purrin' compliments of my Roger Lathem round pocket slate. Some feedin' clucks from a Charlie Trotter trumpet and Lathem purrin' put him to rest, I suppose, but further on down the line.
Seein' as how the gobbler/jake trick I've been using has been so productive, I gave the ol' Primos gobble tube a shake and followed up with a great kee kee/yawk from Mountain's Man's Koa tube. He liked that and his throaty gobble told me he had went down the line 'bout 50 yards. 'Twas real thick where we were so I felt confident in a moccasin quiet stalk, until I caught sight of his big ol' black body. I sat up at the nearest tree and had no opportunity to clear any of the briars and crap around it, as he was still visible. You know the ol' sayin', "If you can see him, he can see you." I limited my movement to a minimum.
Twas a perculiar and awkward position for me but I had gun up and he obliged me coming forth, gobblin' and struttin' all the while. Saw no sense in calling any more, what with only 70 or so yards for him to cover and he was doing everything just right.
That was until he got 'bout 10 yards short of a shot. For some reason, much like a veteran NASCAR driver, he took the inside lane to get to my last callin' spot and I could see him lookin' that way. 5 more yards needed and he was mine. He found the only dip in his path to me and being contrary to ordinary, he went to spittin' and struttin' right smack there. I couldn't see him but I sure could hear him. I feared he'd head back thru the thick stuff from wenst he came and searched with despair for a possible shot, should he be so full of the devil.
I swear, I was holdin' that 14 pounder of a Remington SP10 up the whole while and was pretty proud of myself for my arm strength, as my sittin' style offered no knee support whatsoever. Let me tell ya, the closer a bird gets to that gun, the heavier it gets. That ol' round barrel started doing circles, small at first, then larger and larger. Up and down with each spit and drum. Finally, with hushed cursin', I had to lower it a bit. My bicep burned, bad.
Well, even with the turkey in the hole, all he had to do was come on up a slight hill, maybe 5 steps and he'd be mine. I would have time to give 'er a raise at the opportune moment. Guess what the sucker done next? Dad blame gobbler turnt'd and headed back up hill. Chitfar. I had a limb blockin' my barrel dead on his head, so all I could do was speak a short cackle with a diaphragm and he obliged me with a tall outstretched neck and I, like a painter with a brushstroke, rose a bit and sent a rush of copper to his periscope.
Charlie Horse gobbled his last morn on March 28th, 2007. He was a young 2 year talkative birdy that weighed in at 18.6 lbs, with 15/16 spurs and 9.5 inch rope. My right arm just now quit burnin', some 5 days later.
