Turkey shot during Texas hunting trip refused to die.
Every turkey hunter has run into a tough gobbler.
You know, the kind of bird that earns a camp nickname based on a reputation for being impossible to kill. Usually, the moniker comes with a hint of spite, and, rest assured, I’ve heard names that shouldn’t be printed in a public forum.
In most cases, the gobbler earns it for being old, mean and too wise to outsmart.
Not mine. No way. He was stupid, as dumb as gobblers come, living up to the Texas’ native Rio Grande bird’s reputation. He was extremely vocal and quick to commit, running right into my kill zone.What he wouldn’t do was die.
I’ll never forget him, because he was the first gobbler I ever called into shooting range for myself. It was the first Rio Grande turkey I ever saw. and he answered my call 10 minutes into the first day of a three-day hunt.
It was my first afternoon near Sonora, Texas, just three days after I got married (that’s another story). I was sent to a clearing that birds regularly crossed on their way back to roost. I got situated, started calling and got an immediate answer.
The gobble came from where I was told it should, and it sounded a couple hundred yards away. I called one more time and he gobbled again, closer. He was coming, but a dozen jakes beat him to the field, followed seconds later by five hens.
They all started getting nervous, looking for the noisy hen that wasn’t there. I figured they were going to mess me up with the gobbler, but I couldn’t chance running them off out of fear they would go toward him and definitely ruin it.
Fortunately, the dominant hen got wise to the whole thing — or bored with it — and led the entire group, jakes and all, away. When they disappeared down the hill, I grabbed my slate and purred ever so softly.
His gobble almost made me jump out of my skin. He was there, behind a mesquite thicket, about 35 yards away. I picked out his black body through the thicket, and when he walked behind the biggest mesquite, I got into position. Five seconds later, he emerged from the thicket and I was looking at his whole body.
His beard was long and thick, and I could make out hooked spurs. He looked jet black in the bright sun. Two more steps put his head right in line with the two beads of my barrel. At 25 yards, with him standing still and his head held high, I pulled the trigger.
Down he went, and he never quivered.
I jumped up, went to him and was amazed at the fine turkey that would be my first solo. I picked up his feet and looked at the spurs, which were pushing 1 1/2 inches. I pulled on what had to be a 10-inch beard.
Happy and proud, I lowered my shotgun, unloaded it and put it down to grab my camera. As I turned back around, I went into shock.
The turkey, which hadn’t lost a feather, was standing up. I could only watch as he took a few steps, flapped his wings and started flying.
Last I saw him, he was 500 yards away down a pipeline and gaining altitude — from graveyard-dead gone to out-of-sight gone in 10 seconds.
I found blood, lots of it, where his head hit the ground. I had hit him.
I was sick, and it didn’t help that my walkie-talkie buzzed.
It was my friends, scattered about the farm, wanting to know who scored. I told the story, and they laughed. One of them, Eddie Lipscomb, said he wondered why a big ol’ turkey with “his beard hanging low just flew over me in this pipeline, about a half a mile high.”
Another, Keith Partridge, gave me so much grief, even after I killed another gobbler 30 minutes later — the second bird actually reacted to me slamming my striker into my slate call in disgust.
“These birds aren’t supposed to be that hard to kill,” Partridge kept saying. “You sure you hit him? Did you get gobbler fever and miss?”
The story could end there, and would have had we not returned to the same farm one year later for another three-day Rio hunt.
On the first afternoon, I went to a new area while Partridge returned to the very spot, sitting against the same tree, where I had hit and lost that big bird. I was lucky and killed a gobbler a couple of hours into the hunt. I drove up to the head of the trail leading to Partridge’s field and cleaned my bird while I waited for sunset.
Bam!
I was just finishing putting the bird in the ice chest when I heard Partridge shoot. A second later, he called on the radio, and said he had a bird down and I could drive on in and pick him up. I started putting everything away and ….
Bam! Bam! Bam!
I drove the 500 yards as fast as I could, slinging gravel behind me. I found Partridge walking around the field, kicking at the ground.
“Cleveland,” he said, “you ain’t gonna believe this, but I shot a big ol’ gobbler down right here. He went down in a pile and never kicked. He had huge hooked spurs and a full beard. I know, I looked him over.
“Then all of a sudden he jumped up, ran a few steps and took off down that pipeline. I shot him, and he turned and flew around that tree. See that pile of feathers there, that’s where he was when I shot him flying. I ran around the tree and I shot him again, twice, and I know I hit him at least once because I saw the feathers fly.”
Partridge said he never saw it go down, but figured the bird probably had.
“No way he flew away, not after I hit him three times,” he said.
We never found him, not after an hour’s search that afternoon and two more hours the next day.
Partridge said its beard was long and thick, its body jet black and its spurs long and hooked. The odds are against it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the same mean ol’ bird.
At least, that’s the way I choose to tell my story.
His nickname: #@&$%#*@#$, of course.
FACTOID:
Mississippi’s spring turkey season
• Youth: March 8-14.
• Regular season: March 15-May 1.
•Limit: One adult gobbler or gobbler with a 6-inch beard or longer per day, three per spring season. Hunters 15 years of age and younger may harvest one gobbler of choice (any age, any beard length) per day, three per spring season.
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