The first hen approached, wings cocked, head on a swivel, and practically shaking with rage, then passed me by at five steps. Soon, a single file of six more highly agitated and determined hens followed in her steps. They were ready to scrap it out with that irritating hen they’d been listening to. Then that was insulting and talking a great deal of smack. They didn’t know I was there. They didn’t know that the hens they sought were me.
On the opening morning of spring gobbler season, I was settled in to guide a pair of gentlemen from North Carolina: Pastor Von Ramsey and his 17-year-old son, Logan. I had placed them in a ground blind nearby and began calling after the turkeys left their roost and flew down from their roost. I’d heard a few lazy gobbles and knew at least one good Tom was in the area, gathering his flock of hens.
I could hear the hens calling from his direction, but despite my most lovesick calling, it was obvious that the old gobbler would not be leaving his harem of hens to go hunting one unseen in the woods. I was growing frustrated until I remembered the advice I’d received years ago from an old-timer on how to deal with such a situation.
He told me, “Pick a fight with the lead hen! His advice was to get her so mad that she’d come in to whip and run off the offending hen and that the rest of the flock would follow, dragging the gobbler along behind.
I listened to the hen talk and mimicked what sounded like the dominant hen. Every time she’d call, I’d cut her off with the same calls. It’s kind of like that annoying game we played as kids when we’d repeat every word and sound someone was saying. and just irritate the snot out of them.
It began to work. Each time I replicated her voice, she would become enraged, increase in volume, and become more ecstatic. In no time, I could tell they were moving closer; it was working! Once they were near, I stopped calling and froze. The hens passed me by in their angry little parade; sure enough, old Tom was trailing.
I just saw the gobbler before the roar of a shotgun scattered those hens, and my young friend Logan claimed himself a beautiful Osceola gobbler. His gobbler was a true trophy-caliber bird, which I estimated to be a five-year-old tom.
That big, beautiful bird weighed 18.4 lbs and sported an eleven-inch beard and inch and a half spurs as sharp as sewing needles! He’s going to score high in the record books and is now on his way to North Carolina to be immortalized as a full-body mount by a skilled taxidermist. All in all, the hunt lasted about an hour, and by eight o’clock, we were sipping coffee at Bree’s Provisions in Istachatta, enjoying some great fellowship.
I’m headed back every day for the next forty days with my clients, but I’m looking forward to hearing some of your own success stories. So give me a shout at [email protected]. God bless and good hunting.
As always, if you have any questions or comments about today’s article or perhaps would like to try one of my favorite raccoon recipes, reach out to me at [email protected]. God Bless, and good hunting!
