I finally got around to writing about my single season Royal Slam.
All the birds were taken within the good Ol' USA. Only the second time this had been done at the time.
Unlikely Bodie Canyon hard on the US/Mexican border in southern Arizona is where my
quail hunting partner Perry Chisum found what later proved to be a Gould's turkey
primary feather and ultimately my idea for completing a single season Royal Slam
was formed. Meeting back at the truck after becoming separated, Perry didn't realize
what he had found. "Give me that feather!" "It's just a turkey feather," said Perry.
"No, it's not just any turkey feather. It's a Gould's turkey feather." "Aren't they extinct
in Arizona"? "Not any more! The Game and Fish transplanted pure stock obtained from
down in Mexico and turned them loose in this area. I heard about it and will bet we'll
have a season someday" Later, I confirmed my suspicion with the local G&F biologist
who stated we had been in one of the primary release areas and believed they were doing
well, well enough it later proved to be trapped and transplanted to many areas across
southern Arizona with suitable habitat and ultimately limited hunting permits by drawing
for this rare subspecies have been allowed.
Five subspecies of turkeys; the Rio Grande, the Eastern, the Osceola, the Gould's and the
Merriam's, comprise what in the turkey hunting world is called the Royal Slam. (A sixth,
the Ocellated, exists only in southern Mexico and adding one of them to the other six
makes a World Slam.) All these species live in diverse geographic areas and states, but
the limited spring gobbling time envelope is basically the same for all. Thus the logistics
of travel, finding places to hunt, obtaining permits and finding the gobblers receptive
make achieving the Royal Slam most difficult, I was trying to achieve this goal in a
single season.
The whole project evolved around drawing the coveted Gould's permit and it took me
five years before the luck of the draw went my way. The Merriam's was available in
nearby New Mexico, the Eastern in southern Georgia through my sister's plantation
connection and my Texas buddy Ted Fowler had the Rio Grande covered. The Osceola
was my one stumbling block but computer contact with a Florida guide Dennis Ansbro
solved the problem.
Couple the travel logistics and cost, a demanding job, an understanding wife, and plain
old luck, doing my own calling was a priority. Our local Merriam's gobblers had
educated me on how to call plus previous trips to Georgia and Texas had proved
successful but the pressure of getting five gobblers in 48 days would prove tough,
especially when the Eastern and Osceola were combined into one brief week trip.
Overconfidence and bad luck in the end almost cost me my goal of achieving the Royal
Slam. My good friend Gary Bowles jinx didn't help either. He had scouted the New
Mexico area where we decided to hunt and when I arrived in his camp, the grin on his
face told me there were lots of local gobblers.
An early start put us within a mile of the roosts and we heard gobbles all the way to
where we set up. The only problem was the birds headed away from us after flying down.
After unsuccessfully trying to get ahead of them, we again set up near the only water hole
in the area. We were unsuccessfully talking with a gobbler who would not close the last
100 yards when we noticed smoke to the southwest. Soon planes were overhead and it
became evident there was a forest fire burning but the good news it was not coming our
way. Meanwhile back to turkey hunting, Gary determined the night before which route
the birds were using to go to roost and we set up near a dry water hole putting out decoys.
After a few yelps on the box call, we had a gobbler on his way when we heard an ATV
headed our way, so much for being alone in the area. Gary snuck out to try and head
off the rider. "Hello. You belong to the truck back there?" "Yes, said Gary in full
camouflage. We're hunting turkey." "See the smoke over there? This area is now closed
and you'll have to leave right now! "Well, this put a kink in my plans as the next
weekend was the opening of Gould's season and would only leave two weekends for the
Merriam's. Talk about pressure.
Weekend number one after the Gould's hunt was again a zero. I spent two days hunting
with a friend from Gallup on the Continental Divide and saw or heard very little. The
drive back to Pinetop was depressing with only one week of the New Mexico season left.
Would the Merriam's be the one bird, the ones with which I was most familiar, missing
to complete the Royal Slam in one year? Self doubt had me looking into Colorado and
Nebraska since their hunts lasted into June.
My decision was to go back to my old tried and tested area between Quemado and
Reserve where I'd had success in the past. An early start from home put me in position
but nothing was working. Next I tried near Apache Peak and after one trial rattle of the
box call, a booming double gobble came back from real close. I barely got off the road,
sat down and raised my gun when the bird came running. It took only 30 seconds from
my first call to kill my 5th and final bird, a Merriam's, accomplishing the Royal Slam
in a single season which began on March 19th and ended on May 7th
Texas and a Rio Grande gobbler was the first leg of my quest which was a natural
connection through my old Arizona Grouse Camp pal Ted Fowler who moved to San
Antonio and has access to a ranch south of Uvalde loaded with turkey. A late flight
delayed my arrival until two in the morning but after sleeping in past daylight, I woke
raring to go and after walking outside the camp trailer house with my box call, a gobbler
immediately answered. Needless to say, the rest of the gang in the house was roused by
the eager new hunter.
After a cup of coffee, the owner of the property drove me to the other side of the river
and showed me several prime turkey areas. They dropped me off at a location I chose,
stating they would pick me up later in the evening. Blind setup decoy deployed, I yelped
a few times and got a gobbler to talk with me about 200 yards out but could not get him
to come any closer. This proved to be the norm most of the day. Finally, my light was
fading and it was time for the birds to fly up to their roosts. I had given up and was about
to collect my gear when I noticed about a dozen jakes coming into my setup. They
spotted my movement and turned to head away at a fast pace. The closest one didn't
make it as my load of sixes brought him and another nearby jake down at the same time.
This was not a problem in Texas with its liberal limit. I had my first gobbler towards my
Royal Slam. I spent the next day and a half unsuccessfully trying for a bigger bird before
heading home to Pinetop.
The next trip would include hunts for both the Eastern and Osceola subspecies and my
understanding wife would accompany me, staying at my parents' place in The Villages,
Florida near Orlando while I ventured south for the Osceola and north into Georgia for
the Eastern. I had seven days to get the two birds but only one hunt day would be
possible for the Eastern.
Rental car in hand, we met both Dennis Ansbro, my Osceola guide and my parents at a
designated spot. Dawn went with Dad and Mom; while I followed Dennis.
Dennis has access to areas around what in Florida is called the Green Swamp, a noted
Osceola habitat per the Florida Game and Fish Department. We arrived early enough for
a brief tour and spotted one hen but were unable to put a gobbler to roost. Dennis didn't
seem to mind as he knew from experience where the birds would be the next morning.
Accommodations were at the Green Swamp Hunt Club; six mobile home trailers set in a
large circle with a screened porch enclosing a kitchen and dinning area. All this was
surrounded by a commercial blueberry field. The Club was more a deer than turkey camp
and I would be the only turkey hunter for the two days before I left for Georgia.
Given my druthers, an Osceola and a Gould's brought to bag would make my season
even if the other three hunts were unsuccessful and now the Osceola hunt was about to
begin.
Early starts are the norm for spring gobbler hunting no matter the subspecies and this was
no exception. Dennis had kindly taken up my cause in the first place especially when I
confessed to not being able to afford an expensive guided hunt. He was intrigued with the
single season Royal Slam idea and took me out at no cost other than maybe an Arizona
trade hunt in the future.
We were on stand early Saturday morning in full camo, portable blinds and decoys before
first light. In fact, several gobblers flew down and approached before I could clearly see
to shoot. We heard more toms later and one came in close, gobbling his head off but I
never got a look at him.
Just before noon, we walked over to an orange grove where a couple of hen clucks drew
an immediate response from down at the far end. We ran up to within a 100 yards of him
and set up. He wouldn't come in so I tried to go to him and that was all it took to spook
him out of town. That's turkey hunting no matter where you are. You win some and lose
some.
Our afternoon hunt saw mainly hens and two gobblers across the boundary fence where
we could not hunt. Saturday had been fun but no shooting.
Sunday was again a day for seeing hens up close but little gobbler action and I had to
break off the Osceola hunt to drive the four hours to Thomasville, Georgia for my Eastern
hunt. I'd have a couple of days later in the week to continue my Florida hunt.
Dawn and I proceeded north in a driving rain with my fear mounting with each mile.
Would the storm ruin my chance for the Eastern subspecies? To top it off, there were
tornadoes in the area as we pulled into my sister's house. My wake-up alarm was the
sound of thunder and rain pelting the roof.
Chase Lee, my guide on the plantation I would hunt, didn't seem concerned with the
weather and after we set up our blinds and decoys, 3 gobblers responded within a minute
to my call. Soon the toms were on the ground gobbling to hens seemly everywhere but
they decided to go a different direction rather than towards us. A shift in location brought
in a hen but no tom.
Finally, lunch time saw us contemplating going into town when we noticed a gobbler in
full strut at the edge of a field and we turned around to get out of his sight and sneak into
set up close to call him to our setup under a big pine. Well, the boss gobbler refused to
come but a group of jakes did and with only one day to hunt, I was not about to pass up
the opportunity. My first shot did not put him down but the second one did. My side
thought was a question of whether my Royal Slam would be all jakes. We spent the rest
of the afternoon to no avail trying for a bigger gobbler but my second leg to the quest was
in the cooler.
Four hours back to Florida again leaving Dawn at my folks before continuing back to the
Green Swamp Club where Dennis expected me. He had another hunter in camp but it was
not a problem for me to hunt on my own.
"Do you remember asking me for three days on a specific tom and you'd get him?" said
Dennis. "Yep." "Well, its time to put or shut up. You've got three days all by yourself."
Dennis and I decided a good bet would be an island of trees out in the middle of a field
next to the Wildlife Management Area (WMA) where I could not hunt. Walking out to
the chosen spot, a booming gobble came from the WMA. Things look interesting but
unfortunately the storm experienced in Georgia had dumped on Florida too leaving our
island a swamp. A retreat to the higher ground back at the property corner seemed the
best bet. Old Boss kept talking to me but wouldn't come. After shifting positions several
times and giving up on him, I went back to the original corner determined to wait until
the hens went to nest. Maybe after the hens left him; Old Boss might get greedy and court
the lonely little hen (my decoy) he could see in the distance. Scrunched down to lower
my profile, three yelps encouraged him. Ten, twenty minutes. Nothing. I even started to
doze off when I thought I heard a gobble come from behind me in the WMA. More
waiting. The noise behind me didn't repeat. Another three clucks out of the box call
immediately drew a response clear across the field beyond the island of trees. Old Boss
was on my side of the WMA fence!
Four hundred yard separated me from the island and at first, I couldn't spot the tom but
he continued his lusty gobbles. At 300 yards he came into view headed towards the
jezebel hen with lust on his mind. Figuring a long wait, I kept low with my gun in
position to pop up when he got in range. What a sight watching him gobble and strut
from side to side slowly coming closer! Finally in range Old Boss had made his first and
last mistake. He knew he was in trouble and instantly turned to run from my left to right.
Wham! The first shot hit him and the second put him down for good.
"Yahoo!!! A holler all Florida could hear! Later, Dennis and his party related they had
indeed heard my joy.
This beautiful, bronze mature gobbler completed what is known as a Grand Slam
as I already had several Merriam's to my credit. Many thanks again go to Dennis for his
generosity and goodwill. Ironically, the weather turned again bad the next two days so
my chances would have been slim.
Gould's is the magic word among turkey hunting circles. They were thought at one time
to be nearly extinct and certainly were so north of the Mexico border. Arizona's Game
and Fish Department finally located pure stock down in Mexico and released them in
their old southern Arizona habitats where Spanish live oak, native grass, sycamores and
natural water exist. Places like the Huachuca's, the Chiricahuas and the Canello Hills
were candidates for the recovery attempt. Hardy birds that they are, they took hold and
prospered will enough to be live trapped and moved to other suitable locations. And
eventually, a limited draw-spring only hunt was authorized.
Arizona has a bonus system allowing unsuccessful applicants to accumulate points good
for extra chances and I took advantage by applying exclusively for a Gould's permit.
Eventually I was successful and the subject of this story was hatched. Now on the 22nd of
April, it was time to go Gould's hunting.
Thepermit was for Unit 29 in the Chiricahuas Mountains south and east of Wilcox. My
supportive wife Dawn was to be my partner on this hunt. All I needed was the Gould's to
complete my Royal Slam but as related at the start my Merriam's had been put
on hold for the Royal in a single season.
Good friends had scouted the area and roosted a gobbler near Rustler Park Campground
where we would pitch our tent. We noticed the campsites seemed to be full but had
forgotten it was Easter weekend. Egg hunts aside; it turned out the area was the home of
the elegant trogon and birdwatchers from all over the world were there to see and record
their sightings in their record books. Needless to say it turned out to be a trying weekend
for an anxious Gould's turkey hunter.
My scouted roost tree came up empty the next morning. Feathers and curly droppings
indicated it had been used but too much local human activity had caused them to move.
Locater calls, cackles, gobbles were all tried. Nothing. Cruising the ridges did no better.
They had moved out. The second day we drove over towards Portal on the south side of
the mountain, stopping to use the locater call as we went. A heavily wooded ponderosa
grove finally drew my first response to my crow call. Finally music to my ears, a lusty
gobble! What a wonderful sound!
Grabbing my gear I soon was headed up the steep mountain where I setup in a nice open
glade close to their roost. Decoys set; I gave them a soft tree call which got
the hens and gobblers talking. They knew where I was and waiting for light and fly down
was the name of the game. Flapping wings told me they were down and a few minutes
later a lusty gobble come from the forest floor 100 yards away. Three soft clucks drew
another response but he wouldn't leave his harem. Finally, he tired of the game and
headed directly away with me in pursuit. Every time I gained ground, he'd respond to my
call but wouldn't come my way. Finally after a few hours, enough was enough. I figured
an evening hunt would get this bird and would return.
After a trip with Dawn to Portal looking for more likely spots, we returned to camp for
lunch before I headed back to resume my hunt for the morning gobbler. It was nearly 2
o'clock by the time I found one of his strut zones and got set up. Every 20/30 minutes I
called and finally around 4 o'clock I heard him gobble seemingly several hundred yards
away. He took his sweet time but kept coming towards me until a got a look at him, the
biggest tom I'd ever seen. His beard was dragging the ground as he slowly worked my
way. He got to 60 yards, 20 more than my preferred range when it happened.
"That's a turkey!" The tom lifted his head straight up and streaked away. A frustrated
fruitless shot thankfully drew nary a feather. I couldn't believe my ears as I sat there
dumbfounded. Suddenly the sound of retreating boots told the story. Birdwatchers! The
best I could figure is they had heard the gobble and had come to get another notch on
their life list.
Poor Dawn had to listen to my tale of woe and it was a depressing camp that night.
Headed back to the scene of the debacle but can you blame the big tom for departing the
country? Cruised towards San Simon to refill my gas tank using the locater call as I went
but nothing was doing along the road.
Back at camp, the Easter crowd had left and as I made my way around to my camp, I
noticed an odd looking shape not 100 yards out in the meadow. A big gobbler in full
strut! Surrounded by empty campsites, I was in a pickle of what to do. Quickly I drove on
to our tent. Hurriedly I informed Dawn of the situation, asked her to stay in the tent and
keep our wiener dog Drake quiet inside. Grabbing my gear, I ran to head off the gobbler
now at the bottom of the hill. To complicate things I'd forgotten my decoys. At last after
several tries, I was in front of him calling softly, waiting. After a 5 minute wait a
slow turn of my head ever so slowly to the left, nothing. Slowly back to the right, there he
was 25 yards away, his big blue and red head sticking up behind a downfall looking right
at me. A quick swing of the gun to the right, I shot just as he ducked. Like a streak of
wind he ran 100 yards finally out of sight. Sadly, another frustrating miss.
Dawn heard the shot and just knew I had a tom and was as disappointed as I. We broke
camp deciding to try a spot on the north sides of the mountain and if we put a bird to
roost would spend the night in Wilcox. On the way down the mountain again fruitlessly
calling as we went, we came around a corner into a long straight away of a well
maintained road when we noticed ahead on the road a sedan pulled off to the side. As I
approached the vehicle slowing down in case they had trouble, no one was observed
inside. Off to one side movement was noticed; birders 50 yards in the bush crouched
down using binoculars. Could they be watching turkey?
Driving further along the road, my call drew no response but the borrow ditch was full of
turkey tracks and droppings. A prime place to spend the rest of the afternoon. A turn into
a side road brought into view a whole flock. Gathering my gear, including my decoys this
time, an approach was made to 125 yards without them seeing me. Settled into a bit of
cover, a couple of clucks were all it took and in they came. I didn't even get my call
down before they were on me. A quick shot took the largest gobbler and it was all over
and I had my single season Royal Slam. How ironic in the end, the birdwatchers had led
me to my Gould's gobbler.
