It's June 23rd. . . . and I hate it. Everyone's showing off pictures of velvet antlered deer and giant largemouth bass while I'm sifting through pictures of springs past. . . again. The numbness that consumes me when that final sun falls on my spring season hasn't even begun to loosen it's grip. A friend and I are still getting together a night a week and sharing stories and strategy over a cold drink, like nothing has changed, like we're getting up tomorrow to continue the battle. But the battle of 2017 is over; I'm just trying to cope.
"A very different Spring," that's the title I'd give this season if it was forced. Last season I completed a goal that for better than a half dozen springs had somewhat formed my seasons for me. It gave me the destinations to conquer, I just had to work out the dates and times. I looked forward to a spring without an "itinerary" without knowing how lost a spring without it would feel. While spring 2017 felt different in many ways, luckily, when the sun rose and the stage was set the mind seemed to settle and things fell into place as they should.
With my absence from several forums/ social media platforms it appears that a couple fine souls thought I was worth checking up on; and I appreciate that. While my approach to sharing my springs may have changed a bit this season, my approach to spring remains the same. For those that missed my periodic updates and pictures throughout the season I apologize, I suppose the lack of respect for a bird I care so much for being shoved in my face daily drove me into the shadows; maybe next year will be different. For those that have no clue what I'm jabbering about,then just prepare for one more season summary from a bum who spends too much time "remembering when."
Like seasons before, my spring began on March 4th in sunny South Florida. I was joined on the first few days by my darling girlfriend and after her departure I met up with good friends to finish the week.
My girlfriends first Osceola gave us a thriller for the first bird of 2017. After he made his way into view across a (very deep) canal he strutted and drummed behind a cabbage palm for what seemed like hours. She pulled off the 35 yard shot after he cleared the palms and it was at that time I was reminded of how deep and cold
that Florida water is in early March.
This Osceola gobbler waited until mid day to throw his caution to the wind- the 20mph wind at that.
. . . . more from Florida 2017
What a perfect example of a deep south black wing Osceola. He resisted the temptation for hours but the small talk finally broke him. I'll never forget him strutting through palmettos "too thick" for a turkey to live in.
I spent much of my time this season hunting places that were made up of terrain I thoroughly enjoy chasing gobblers in, terrain I hadn't been able to spend as much time with in years past due to traveling. I hunted for the bulk of my time in the steep hardwood mountains of northern Georgia, northern Alabama and Southern Tennessee. It's hard to find a gobbler on that turf with his guard down it seems. It was humbling and an absolute pleasure to wrestle with these fine specimens of the turkey community. I'm convinced more gobblers die of old age in these areas than any I've ever hunted. Here are a few of those . .
What a pretty bench this Alabama gobbler called home, I love hunting turkeys on hardwood benches.
This Tennessee longbeard acted like a dream. . . until the first call was made. Then the decision making got very diligent, it was like he contemplated each step and gobbled almost by accident. But slow and steady won the race.
My girlfriend with a beautiful Georgia gobbler we slipped under by accident. His first gobble directed us both to look up and watch his antics on a limb 50 yards away until he flew down.
Easter Sunday was a beautiful day to be in the Alabama mountains.
Others. . .
During the last couple days of April, I hopped aboard a jet plane destined for some turf I'd made a promise to return to on my initial visit in 2012. That day in 2012, a friend and I stood atop some rimrock overlooking a deep Arizona canyon with what appeared to be stream side meadows dotting the rich, green ponderosa below. . . an eery gobble echoed from miles below and I vowed to return to that canyon floor to tangle with that gobblers offspring when I had a season that would allow it. Spring 2017 was that season.
We heard these gobblers from a great distance atop that rimrock. It took hours to navigate our way to the floor but we did. It took several more hours to navigate our way back out a pair of gobblers heavier. We slipped into perfect position to call a flock of 3 hens, 2 gobblers and what must have been 6 or 8 jakes into range. When they came into view it was a sight to behold. The flock hesitated at the edge of the small opening 60 yards away but with a little more convincing the jakes were feeding on the ant mound mere yards in front of us. This caused the hens to break and the boys followed. My buddy Marc took the strutter and I was able to "clean up," picking the other longbeard from the flock on their retreat. That hunt in that spot had been 6 years in the making, it was an absolute dream to have it unfold as it did.
From there we moved eastward a couple hours to the first national forest, Gila. I'd never hunted the Gila National Forest but had heard of it's beauty. I'd always wanted to see it for myself. The area of the New Mexico-Arizona state line is often mentioned as historical, native Merriam turkey range which added to my desire to spend some time there. The Gila National Forest is a masterpiece. The birds are scattered, just as the rumors had told but the place is a circus of other wildlife, especially elk.
Every turkey hunter deserves to watch a Merriam work through the ponderosa. This gobbler fell at 8466ft. From memory, I believe that's as high as I've wrestled one down.
From the Gila, I moved back across the state line to another historical area for the Merriam wild turkey and another one of those spots I'd caught wind of that I "had" to visit. I wanted to hunt the turf surrounding the Grand Canyon. On my first evening I listened over a nasty canyon and as luck would have it, a gobbler on the opposite side spoke enough for me to get a bearing on his sleeping quarters. The following morning, I began my walk in at 2am; the sun comes up awful early there. It turns out I was amongst a flock of turkeys at daylight and collected my gobbler shortly thereafter. We decided a visit to the Canyon would be fitting (he had very little say in the matter.)
A few short days to complete the season in the southeast and it was off for a run at Nebraska and Kansas. No idea why, just seemed like the right thing to do. I was flying by the seat of my pants for late season plans and with the exit of the spring gobbler season at home I got frantic. I was able to recruit a couple friends and we packed the truck up and spent the better part of the next week bouncing across the plains.
Just before setting out on the run across Kansas and Nebraska, in that before mentioned frantic state I was in, I found a spot for my butt on a Delta flight for June 1st- destination Maine. A spring gobbler season that extends into June just makes me smile. I'd hoped to take part for some time and on my first trip to Maine in 2014 we had found success on the very last day, it just so happened to be May 31st that year. For the 2017 spring season, it trickled on until June 3rd. I shared the last 2 days of my 2017 Spring season with 2 gorgeous Maine gobblers. It may be a bit easier to face the end when it's brought to you on such a high note. I'm certainly glad the Father saw fit for the high note to hold out until the end . . . not sure how I'd make it until next March otherwise.
