Levstek4

Haralson County turkey tales
By Kyle J. Levstek

Clack, clack, cluk-clack, the sound resonates throughout the surrounding woodlands. The swill call of a roosting hen drives people of all ages to the forest with one goal in mind -- the taking of the big tom turkey.

Haralson County's beauty lies in its untouched natural surroundings. Across the landscape of this paradise on earth lies all types of creatures: wild hogs, white-tail deer, bear, and the striking plumage of the wild turkey.

It is early April and the Dogwood trees are in full bloom as I arrive at the hunting camp. It's more like an old mobile home dragged out into a clear cut than something that one would call a lodge, but to the motley assortment of characters I would be spending my weekend with, it was better than home.

Josh is the experienced hunter of the group, and he has bagged more turkeys than you have fingers and toes. Little Kyle (or Junior as we called him) is young, but he, too, knows what needs to be done to bag the big bird. I had been in the camp before, and understood the basics, but am still a novice compared to these two. Regardless of experience, we knew the woods were well stocked and a weekend full of excitement was before us.

My stepfather once told me that to be a good turkey hunter all you have to do is, "Blend in, sit still, and be quiet. A deer may smell you, a hog may hear you, but no animal has eyes like a turkey."

Also, it is essential to be steadfast and prepared to be an effective turkey hunter. Gregg Davis, a local hunter with years of experience notes, "Patience and skill make the hunter. He must not become frustrated when the woods seem empty. Most of the time, this is when the turkey appears. Also, the hunter must be skilled enough to mimic the calls of the bird to draw one to you."

The plan of the first morning was simple. I would sit in my groundblind until I heard a turkey, set up the decoy, call the turkey into visual range, and return to the blind to take the shot. I went west from camp, heading for an open area we called the "bottoms". I hiked through the woods looking for signs of turkey (footprints, feathers, scratchings, or droppings) cradling my Remington Model 1100 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun, hoping that today would be a good day for me and a bad day for a turkey.

Time alone in the north Georgia wilderness will make just about anyone appreciate nature. From the vivid colors of the trees to the smell of the untouched earth, I basked in the glory of the stillness and succumbed to its influence. Simply put, I fell asleep. I returned to camp well rested and empty handed.

That night we ate no fried turkey, just cold beans and hot dogs were our feast. My two friends were also unlucky, but that did not stop the stressless enjoyment we were experiencing. We told tales of hunts long past, and enjoyed the better part of a bottle of whisky. Tired, and a little tipsy, we retired to our bunks to rest for the next day's hunt.

Five a.m. came a little too early for three hungover hunters, but we trotted off to our places in hopes of at least spotting a turkey. I got to my spot and began to use my locator call. This call makes a deep raspy sound like an old crow and will help to get a response out of a turkey. But the result was nothing, no sound, no movement, just the faint rustle of leaves.

In my frustration I resorted to extreme measures. I placed my decoy about fifteen yards in front of me and began to use a mouth call that imitates a hen (female turkey). As time elapsed my frustration turned into sleepiness and I began to doze off. Then my peaceful slumber was abruptly ended.

When I heard a gunshot, I was immediately alert. It had seemed too close for comfort and I rushed out from my blind to find out what was going on. Josh stood on the hill in front of me holding a smoking shotgun. I shouted to him, "What happened?"
"I've got one!" was his reply.

Turns out all he got was a plastic decoy, decimated by a close range shotgun blast. We returned to camp, where the remains of the decoy were put on the wall, becoming the focal point of a tale that Josh will never live down. That night as we were just about to fall asleep, Junior asked Josh, "Did you stalk him long, or did he just sit there before you shot him?"

"Shut up, dummy" was all Josh could muster in his defense. We all broke out in laughter before we faded off to sleep.

Final morning, time to get serious. I walked out to my blind with a peaceful enthusiasm and hoped that today would be my day. Around noon, my chance had come. I heard the warble of several hens and began to work the mouth call. Clack, clack, cluk-clack, cluk-cluk-clack, my palms began to sweat as a hen and two jakes (young turkeys) began to head towards my blind.
Out from behind them came the sport we had all been seeking. Over the ridge appeared a big tom.

He began to strut down the hill and I heard a faint gobble. When he was about forty yards from me I could wait no longer. I put the bead at the end of my shotgun on his head, held my breath, and fired. One shot was all it took. I had missed the tom, and the rest didn't stick around to see if I would take another shot. I packed my gear and headed back to camp with a good story.

Josh and Junior were already loading up when I returned. I told of the big bird, the missed opportunity, and recalled the events of the days before. As I left the woods I came home with an empty cooler, but a heart full of fond memories.

Turkey hunting means much more to people than just the thrill of the hunt. The friendships and memories made in the woods are seldom forgotten. Unfortunately for Josh, shooting the decoy is a memory that also will never be forgotten.

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Kyle J. Levstek has been an avid turkey hunter for five years and is a student at Kennesaw State University.

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