It is my observation that a turkey hunter's psyche tends to be much different than that of hunters of other types of game. Most turkey hunters tend to be fastidious to the point of obsession with things like camo, guns, ammunition, and the different styles of calls they use. Unlike many other types of hunting, most turkey hunters can usually tell you what name brand of camo they prefer, how it might change as the season progresses, and the benefits of using one kind of camo for the upper torso and a different kind for the lower. To be honest, I really could not tell you what kind of camo I wear. I get it on sale if it looks good to me or for Christmas and birthday gifts. I use it so long as multiple machine washes have not given it a "whitish tint."
Shotguns and chokes provide excellent fodder for many a discussion/argument. I have witnessed vigorous and sometimes heated debates on the following topics: Lengthening Forcing Cones, Barrel Length, Back Boring Barrels, Polishing Barrels, the constriction diameter of Chokes, Choke manufacturers, Scopes vs. Aim Points vs. Beads. I have also seen detailed discussions on the effect that temperature, altitude, and humidity have on shot patterns. I tell these things to some of my otherwise gun-savvy, non-turkey-hunting friends, and they look at me like I am crazy. Shotgun shells are an entirely different topic. I have personally witnessed complete nastiness on turkey hunting forums arguing the benefits of TSS shot shells vs. more standard lead shells.
Personally, I happen not to be so keenly focused on the relatively slight nuances of all these many variables. I spent the first five years of my turkey hunting career toting a 12-gauge Smith & Wesson pump shotgun that I had to take out a small loan at the local bank to purchase. It had a 28-inch barrel with a modified choke. I wrapped it in vinyl camo tape and thought it looked so cool. My brother gave me two boxes of 3-inch Winchester #4 lead shotgun shells that had been outlawed for duck hunting a few years prior. I killed many a turkey with that setup and really can't recall a problem with "turkeys getting away." Now I have upgraded my rig to a Remington 870 pump with a camo stock. I shoot Winchester lead #5s out of the factory turkey choke that came with the gun. Somehow, I manage to kill turkeys with it.
Even though it seems I may be a little to the right of center compared to many of my fellow avid turkey hunters, I have noticed I do share a common thread with the majority of the turkey hunting fraternity—and that is telling the truth—or, for you "goody-goodies" out there, not telling the entire truth. Most deer hunters will readily tell you about deer they saw, what time of day they saw them, if they think the rut is on or off, etc... etc... Most fishermen will give you advice on "what they are biting," how deep they were, what colors are hot, etc... etc...
Turkey hunters—not so much. In the turkey hunting world, reliable and accurate information on the locations and current habits of gobblers is hard to come by. This seems to be such a prevailing theme and commonly accepted notion that even when the odd turkey hunter does give up some golden nuggets of information, most other turkey hunters assume it is a ruse to sidetrack them.
I have my own personal experience with this phenomenon. Once, I spent three days turkey hunting on Montgomery Island. I was on several gobblers for all three days but did not manage to connect. After my three-day stint was over, I met a fellow club member, "David Howard," on the other side of the river as I was pulling my boat out to leave. Since I did not expect to come back to the island that year at all, I eagerly told David where the gobblers were roosting, where they had been going after fly-down, and a few other salient points I thought would come in handy for him.
Later that spring, after turkey season was over, I had to laugh when the camp caretaker told me, "David really didn't appreciate you trying to throw him off track with the turkeys." I told David later it was solid, factual information—but I could read his eyes—he knew a real turkey hunter would have never divulged so much useful information.
The "Clark Boys," as I like to refer to them, were two brothers in their mid-twenties who were new members of Montgomery Island. I have to give them credit for being hard hunters, but not anywhere near what I would classify as seasoned turkey hunters. However, if grades were given on effort alone, they would certainly garner an "A."
I had been on the island turkey hunting for two straight days. I had been hunting the same gobbler for both days. I had seen him numerous times, so I knew he was a big-bodied bird with a thick, swinging beard. I wanted to give him a ride in my vest—badly.
After the second day of playing "cat and mouse" with this gobbler, I arrived back in camp just after sunset to be met by the Clark Boys—both of them with "hat in hand." They sidled up to me, and with neither of them making eye contact, said, "Mr. McLemore, we have been hunting over here for a day and a half and have not seen or even heard a turkey. Could you please tell us where we can go in the morning to kill a gobbler?"
Well, I must admit, even though I tried not to show it, their impassioned request caught me off guard. They were young, "new age" guys who really didn't have any reason to believe that I would not "spill my guts" and divulge some prized information. They stood in silent anticipation as I turned my eyes upward in thought, buying me enough time to decide how to handle this somewhat awkward situation.
That day, the little devil on my left shoulder was much more persuasive than the angel on my right shoulder. I looked down and, with the sincerest face I could muster, said, "Boys, follow me outside—I know the exact spot where you can kill a big gobbler."
Well—my primary plan was to send them off in a direction far, far away from where I had been hunting the big gobbler for the past two days. I picked up a small stick, squatted down, and began to draw a detailed map in the dusty road in front of the camp. I began my ruse. "OK, boys, you take the Camp Road until you get to the Gar Hole Road, then you take a left and cross that buck brush bottom—you boys with me so far?" They both nodded in wide-eyed agreement. I continued to narrate as I drew on my canvas of dust. "After you come out of the buck brush bottom, you will come to a ridge with some big cottonwood trees. The biggest of the cottonwoods sits off a bit from the rest of them and is the closest one to the Mississippi River. You set up under that tree, and if you can call worth a lick, you will kill a big gobbler there for sure."
After studying the map for a moment, we stood up, and they both shook my hand. They were so thankful for my advice. I detected from their posture and their livened steps as they were leaving that they felt the bad luck they had been experiencing was about to change.
I must admit, I did begin to have some pangs of guilt after the deed was done. I had sent them off into an area that, to my knowledge, was barren of turkeys—a gobbler wasteland, if you will. But—I got over it by rationalizing that all is fair in love, war, and turkey hunting.
I spent the next morning hunting the same gobbler I had pursued for the previous two mornings. This gobbler gave me quite a thrill on this day. He was roosted in his usual place. This morning, I called him up to within 15 yards or so—but there was a little ledge of land he was under, and I just could not see him. He was so close that when he gobbled, I could feel it vibrate in my chest. He eventually left me, so I circled around and got in front of him. He showed up this time with a harem of six hens.
He was standing on the bank of the river and would gobble hard at any call I threw his way—but he would not budge a foot closer to me and away from his bevy of playmates. This gobbler was so hot that he even gobbled at an outboard motor on a boat that passed close by. But—just like the previous mornings' hunts, the big gobbler outwitted me once again. I got back in my truck with what was proving to be a much-too-familiar empty vest.
As I entered the camp area, my eyes immediately darted to the gobbler strung up feet first from the camp-house porch rafters—a big paintbrush beard swaying in the breeze. I got out of my truck, and the Clark boys approached. They both started excitedly talking at once, slapping me on the back and telling me what a great guy I was. They said, "We followed your map and did everything exactly like you said. This gobbler was exactly where you said he was—man, he was hot—we hardly had to call at all."
Well, my kind readers, the whole situation came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. I had to inwardly smile at myself. I felt like the good Lord paid me back for the misinformation I had doled out. This time—for sure—I got what I deserved.
