On almost every trip up the Guadalupe River above Canyon Lake this year I have see large flocks of Rio Grande turkeys. In early February the toms weren’t gobbling. But now they will fan their beautiful tail feathers, strut around the hens, and answer our calls from the boat with a loud gobble. With just a couple of weeks until the opening of spring gobbler season on March 16. I’m already pumped for a great gobbler hunting season. Next to duck hunting, spring turkey hunting is my favorite sport.
Spring is the turkey mating season. Gobblers are sounding off with loud gobbles to attract hens. Unlike the fall season where you hunt watching a feeder, the spring season involves listening, stalking and calling. It's excitement raised to the tenth power. When you make a couple of soft “yelps” and a gobbler sounds off 100 yards behind you, the hair will stand up on your neck.
On a cold rainy day last week, sitting in my recliner, I walked down memory lane on some of my turkey hunts last year.
On opening day my brother Wayne and I were hunting on our lease on Cibolo Creek near Panna Maria. We had scouted days before and knew where several gobblers were roosting across the creek. We set up behind an old fence with a camo cloth stretched over it. After settling into our lair in the dark I made a few yelps on the box call. Several gobblers answered immediately.
Wayne had never hunted turkeys during the spring season. “If it works right,” I whispered, “they will fly off the roost at daylight and come walking in right up the hill to us.” And that’s exactly what happened. We heard the sound of big wings flapping and then two gobblers landed on our side of the creek. They started up the hill, gobbling lustily.
“I’ll take the right side,” I whispered.
“I’ve got the other one,” answered Wayne.
The gobblers kept coming until they were about 30 steps in front of us. Both 12-gauge shotguns roared and two gobblers died. “It’s not always that easy,” I said.
Later in the season I was hunting with my friend Randy on his ranch near Rosanky. Like Wayne, Randy had never hunted spring gobblers. We drove slowly in the dark down a dirt road, listening for gobblers on a roost. We stopped, called, and got an immediate answer. Slipping into a large field, we set up about 200 yards from the roost. The birds continued to “talk” to us while still on the roost. Then we heard turkeys flying off the roost. But not toward us. They flew the opposite direction.
“Let’s move,” I said.
We moved across a little dry creek toward the direction that the birds had flown. I called and got an immediate answer. I sat down behind a bush and Randy, just a few steps from me, stood in a good thicket. I called again and the bird answered. He was very close. Then he appeared in an open field 30 steps from us. I watched Randy raise his gun and pull the trigger. “Click” was the sound as the hammer fell. A dud shot shell. Randy was trying to eject the shell but the gun was jammed. He frantically motioned for me to shoot the turkey. The bird never moved when my load of No. 4 lead shot hit him hard.
“What happened?” I asked. “That was your bird.”
Then I learned that the shotgun shells that Randy was using were his wife’s grandfather’s shells. They were low power, paper shells at least 65 years old.Through the years, moisture had swollen the shells so that they would stick in the chamber of the barrel.
I gave Randy my gun loaded with good, three-inch shells and we moved on. Hearing a bird in the far distance we moved toward him. I laid down in a dry creek so that I could peep over the bank. Randy stood behind a bush ahead of me and to my right.
I called and two gobblers appeared about 200 yards away. They walked out of a mott of trees and began to amble toward us, right down the middle of a wide-open field. They never got in a hurry, but just came right at us. I called again, just to keep them radared on us. It was a classic gobbler hunting situation. They were going to walk right into our laps. They began to look larger and larger.
Suddenly, Randy raised the shotgun and fired. They were still over 50 yards out. Too far away.
“I thought they were closer,” moaned Randy. “They looked so big.”
Randy didn’t get three strikes that day. Two and he was out.
Those two hunts and several others filled my mind on that rainy afternoon. But in a few days I won’t be walking down memory lane. I’ll be making new “turkey memories.”
