You know how it is as a young family man.
No money for fancy equipment, no time to really practice your woodcraft, and at that time (way back) there weren't a lot of turkey hunters around to pick their brains. The one thing I had plenty of was enthusiasm. I had my old tried and true 870, originally a modified choke which might have been blown out a little by slug loads, and one slate call.
My first year I learned a few things (mostly through my errors I was learning what not to do), but never got a chance at a bird.
So here comes my second season, I'M READY! Yep, got a year under my belt, some fancy new camouflage, and a couple of new calls, a box call and a diaphragm. And I've read everything I can regarding turkey hunting.
So up comes the sun, and with it comes the gobbles booming through the woods. There, a hundred or so yards off I can see one in a tree, pitching out his head and gobbling. Out comes the box call and I give a soft cluck. Well, I meant to, anyway. What comes out sounds more like the worn out brakes squealing on my old clunker. OK, get it together man, I think, you'll scare him off for sure. But no, he turns around on the limb and double gobbles, right at me! Then he does it again. Sweet! I fumbled around for my slate and give him a little purr. Hey, not too bad, I impressed myself with that one. Him too, because he gives a series of doubles, hammering at me time and again. I'm getting more confident by the second. Heck, I've got this licked.
One more double and he pitched off the roost. Oh-oh, what do I do now? He's gone quiet, nothing at all to tell me where he is. I cluck, nothing. I purr, nothing. I yelp, nothing. Just when I was ready to cry I hear a cluck on the flat above me, right above me, maybe fifty yards up the hill. I got my head turned around, but couldn't locate him. OK, he's there, I think, and I can't shoot there from this position. So, thanking the gods that I had kicked out the leaves and twigs where I was sitting, I turn my body to the left, but still manage to snap a twig. He gobbles!
Dang! There he is, 40 yards up the hill! OK, I've read all about this. I've rehearsed it in my mind hundreds of times since last year. Let him come on in and make the good shot! Yeah, that's what my mind says.
My finger, however, says B.S., and pulls the trigger.
The bird drops. YES!
Yep, I've read the advice to immediately run for the bird to stop the flopping and make the kill, so off I go, up the hill.
Uh-oh, the bird isn't dead, and he must have read the same thing because he's trying to get off the ground before I get there. He's having no luck getting airborne going uphill, so he turns to try the downhill route, right into me! I literally grabbed the bird by the neck when he was three feet off the ground.
No problem, right? I'm a young man, in shape, 180 pounds and in the prime of my life. He's what, maybe 18 pounds and wounded! No contest here!
Uh-huh. That when he commenced to kicking my butt.
Have you ever been kicked in the chest by a turkey? Have you ever had wings pummeling your ears? My world was reduced to a blur, the concussion of the feet hitting my chest, the pain of my ears being bruised by wings, the darkness as I was enveloped by them, the fury of sound in the yelps and wings, and not just a little cussing. Mine, I think. Every time he'd kick me, and slap me, the world would go dark and I'd lose a couple of feet on the hill.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to wring his neck like a chicken. Uh, this isn't like a chicken. This neck is as big as my wrist! Somebody could have clued me on this.
I squeeze, he kicks! I squeeze, he slaps! I'm 40 feet down the hill from where I grabbed him, and he seems to be getting the better of me. At least it seemed like I was weakening, and he wasn't.
I was finally able to get a hand on his head, and with a bend and a twist it was over. YESSSS! I got him!
So I carry him back to my gun and lay him down for a good look. He's a jake, maybe 16 pounds. Just bumps for spurs, or I might have really been hurt.
And not one feather between his beard and his head, I had twisted them all off trying to wring his neck.
Still, I've got my turkey. I packed up my gear and headed back to my uncle's house, proud as a peacock, and find him drinking a cup of coffee on the porch.
I lay out my bird, all proud of myself. He takes one look and says "What the heck happened to that bird? That is one ugly bird".
I told him I strangled it to death.
And he said, "you younguns has got some funny ways. I woulda used a shotgun.
True story.
