Why is it so hard to just believe? Why is it hard to accept what we know is true even though we can’t see it? Why can’t we trust our experience or past information? I guess that is where the saying, “Seeing is believing” comes from.

Turkeys make me toil with such questions every Spring it seems. They make me ponder and conclude on their existence or disappearance annually. Even with the habitat, fall sightings and their return each Spring I still doubt. Is this going to be a year where I completely strike out? Why is it this way? I don’t know but I do know that when I am in turkey sign up to my neck I usually don’t see any but when sign is sparse I seem to run into them at every turn. Such, was the hunt I am about to lay out before you.

I have been listening for several weeks hearing a few gobbles on or near my turkey haunt, which was encouraging. However, as the season drew closer I heard less gobbling and couldn’t find a turkey track. “Have they been trapped and taken away again?” “Had the large amount of adjacent hardwoods being clear cut caused them to seriously migrate?” were questions causing the doubt.

Just as in years past one day they appear seemingly out of thin air. Such was the case opening weekend. All of a sudden a gobbler and hen track appeared on a sandy road. 3 jakes traveling down the gravel road mid-morning and a hen coming to investigate my yelps answered all the questions posed above. This made me ready to come back at daylight one day soon, which turned out to be Monday morning.

The cardinals started singing and at 6:44 a.m. I heard a gobble to the ESE. A minute later a gobble to the WNW but half the distance as the first. The first bird was gobbling heavy. The second bird a lot less but consistent enough for me to head his way with the back up plan to go after the loud mouth bird later, if necessary.

I eased through the oil well clearing and down the pipeline towards him. He was on the adjacent ridge near the top in some tall pines. I had called in a hen right behind that oil well location on Sat. and figured I could get to him the same way she had come. However, the woods were too loud so I got back on the pipeline to get as close as possible without being spotted. I made it to within 150 yds. from him and directly across the creek from him.

I could shoot to and across the creek and down the pipeline. I hoped he would come out to the pipeline to strut or be headed to the food plot 250 yards behind me where I had seen the gobbler track Sat. He, of course had other plans.

About 7 a.m., with enough light for fly down I attempted to end the hunt quickly. I was hoping for my tree yelps to produce lusty gobbles, followed by wing beats ending with him landing down my barrel. Not likely. He didn’t respond. A few more tree yelps and a fly-down cackle to my left produced a gobble but looking back I think it was coincidental. A few minutes later all was quiet.

I occasionally clucked and scratched in the leaves. In fact, I raked a big pile next to me for this purpose realizing he wasn’t very responsive and maybe the subtle approach was in order today.

After a soft series of yelps about 7:30 a.m., I received the same back from about 50 yds. out in front of me. We traded yelps as they got closer. I was licking my lips thinking even if he won’t gobble maybe she is dragging him by here.

I caught movement in the bottom and a dark turkey was walking directly towards me followed by a second. “Hmm, dark like gobblers, no red wattles and yelping coarsely.” I heard them fly across the creek and shortly 3 jakes popped out on the pipeline and traveled right by me up the ridge behind me. They all had grey heads and were not excited at all or maybe just staying submissive.

Due to the lack of gobbling, I wondered if he was still there or if the jakes had been the one’s gobbling. “Surely not. He had a booming gobble and they had no color at all.”

At 8 a.m. I stood to stretch and considered making a move. “But where? All I know is that he hasn’t come out onto the pipeline. The woods are noisy and he could still be right there.” Out of no where a gobble rings out from the same spot at daylight – he was still in the tree. Directly I heard wings and limbs as he pitched out to the ground beneath his roost tree near the top of the ridge.

I gave few minutes and yelped to get no response. A little later I scratched in the leaves and he gobbled from 150 yds. Occasionally he would gobble at crows or hawks or my scratching but never my calls. With him on the ground I felt a little more confident in moving but I figured he could see to the creek, which was right in front of me. I stayed put. We continued this until about 9 a.m. when he gobbled from higher on the ridge. I knew I could move undetected now and figured he had my position pegged and movement would do the trick.

I scratched and purred my way down the ridge and across the creek about 20 yds. I sat against a big red oak and made a few yelps. I expected a booming gobble down the ridge with him strutting down shortly afterwards. I was met with more silence only to be broken by him gobbling at my leave scratching or a hawk or blue jay but almost never my hen talk. His gobbles continued to sound from the ridge top.

I scratched and purred my way up the ridge higher and higher. About half way up and almost to where he had been roosted, he gobbled from just over the crest. I determined then I could get away with more movement. As long as my purring, clucking, scratching and walking sounded like a real hen I would be fine – unless he popped back over to inspect!

Without much regard to the dry leaves I walked up the ridge toward him occasionally scratching and purring stopping every 20-30 yards or so. Near the top the brush was thicker and I contemplated circling around it but knew he had just gone through it and I needed it to hide behind.

The anxiety level was increasing with every foot of elevation I gained going up the tall ridge. I slid out of my vest 30 yds. from the top to give me more maneuverability. He continued to gobble at my scratches and false steps in the leaves made with my hands. He was 50 yds. away and spitting and drumming constantly back and forth. I pressed on towards the top daring to go to the edge. His lack of response made me realize he was never coming and expected me to come up there. So I was going to accommodate him as best as possible.

At this point, I only moved after he revealed his location with a gobble. I was now 10 yds. from the crest of the ridge. If he popped his head over for a peak and my gun wasn’t on him this whole deal was going to end with putts and wind beats. I dared not go any farther. I lightly scratched with my foot and he boomed back – Gobble! He was just over the crest of the ridge still but sounded to be more in a little hole.

There was a slight dip in front of me and it sounded like he was a little lower so I crawled on hands and knees through the dip to a grass patch 7-8 yds. from the ridge crest and barely sat erect while holding my gun at the ready. I could barely see a small shelf on the other side of the ridge but no gobbler.

I sat in silence for several minutes. I started concluding I had moved one to many times and then Pffftttttt…dmmmmmm still just over the ridge crest. “Yes, we are still in the game.” I softly scratched with my foot – GOBBLE!

Leaves crunching and drumming seemed closer than at any time previously. I nervously scanned the ridge crest for movement knowing my gun needed to be on target. Movement down the ridge caught my attention. He regally appeared on the ridge with my at 20 yds.

My gun was only off about 10 degrees and as he walked towards my brush obscured his view and I adjusted. He walked into a gap in the brush where I could see everything above his beard. “Take your time. Don’t flub this. Down the barrel.” BOOM!

I jumped up and he was rolled over a mere 15 yds. away flapping. I rushed to him. The surge of adrenaline and long intensity had me shaken. I tossed my hat and fell down next to him. I looked up into the blue sky and offered thanks to the Lord. It was almost 5 minutes before I inspected his beard or spurs. I didn’t care. This had been an epic battle and I won. The measurements are secondary at best.