Member Stories: Killing Big Gobblers After Work
As the hot afternoon sun beat down on my face, a burning bead of sweat rolled its way down my forehead and found its way into my eye. It was unseasonably warm mid-May afternoon in Idaho. I just hustled home from work, jumped into my camo ninja suit, and ran up the mountain to my honey hole, where I hoped to bag a late season gobbler. I reminded myself to simply enjoy the afternoon in God’s big beautiful country. After all, I’m pretty fortunate to have the opportunity to hunt so close to home, and sometimes you just gotta hunt when you can. Plus, as I was about to be reminded, you just never know what will happen in the turkey woods.
After hiking up to a spot where an old logging road rounds a point under some tall ponderosa pines, I caught my breath and made my first call. My raspy yelps echoed down the draw blanketed with thick timber.
From where I stood, I could see for miles, overlooking lakes and distant snow capped mountains which served as a reminder that, despite the heat, winter wasn’t all that long ago. Not too surprisingly, I did not hear even a single distant gobble in response. It was just so dang hot!
Faithfully, I continued onward, walking down the grassy road towards the back of the big drainage, stopping to call along the way. Nothing responded, but it was still early, maybe 4pm. This time of year, it doesn’t get dark until after 8pm. I figured in a couple hours it would cool off, and the birds would start heading to the roost. If I stayed in the woods, I just might intercept a gobbler looking for a hen to spend the night with. I continued my sweaty march further up the mountain, determined to enjoy the evening no matter what happened.
The old road cut into a nice, shady, cool corner. I’ve had success in this particular spot before, but always in the morning. I walked just far enough out of the corner so I could hear any gobbles over the bubbling creek. With no expectations, I made a few quiet yelps. Nothing. I waited about 30 seconds before calling with a little more volume.
“Yelp! Yelp!”
Again, no response to my desperate pleas for turkey love.
“I guess I gotta keep hiking.”
I started walking, and after about two steps, I thought I heard the faintest of gobbles. At first, I did not believe my ears and figured I was imagining things. I continued walking when a second gobble echoed down the canyon just a little louder than the first but loud enough to let me know it was not my imagination. While I was excited to hear a tom, I wasn’t getting my hopes up. But, at least I had something to work with!
The tom hammered me with another gobble before I could even think about making a call. A good sign! I have seen birds fly off mountains in pursuit of love, so I knew anything was possible. This turkey had a deep and raspy rolling gobble, which I believe to be an indication of a mature gobbler. I waited impatiently for about 20 seconds before I responded with some yelps. The tom continued talking… Gobble! Gobble! Each gobble sounding closer. Things seemed to be working out, and I began looking for a place to set up and await the love struck bird’s arrival.
I’ve heard from several old timers that you only get about 20 gobbles from a tom before he either commits and comes in or gets frustrated and leaves. I’ve never personally counted gobbles to prove this theory, but it is always in my mind when calling to distant birds.
I worked this tom for about 45 minutes, and he definitely closed some distance. However, he eventually hung up a couple hundred yards up the steep hill, which was also covered in some fairly thick underbrush. Even worse, the once hot to trot turkey seemed to be cooling off, his gobbles becoming less frequent. After all, he had been telling me (the hen) to hurry up and join him, and I wasn’t listening.
It was getting late in the day and late in the season. I had a decision to make, and I wanted to fill my last tag. The only way to kill this gobbler was to climb up the mountain after him. I knew I needed to get in his personal space to show him I was willing to meet him halfway. If I could get close enough and give him an easier path, I knew I could get this gobbler to commit to the rest. I slowly climbed up the steep brushy mountain towards the last gobble. I tried to be sneaky, but the thick brush was lound.
Crunching and crashing, I stopped along the way to assess, not wanting to get too close and bust the bird. As I waded through the brush, I found a few open grassy patches with some fresh bright green turkey droppings. “This is it!” They obviously like to be here. My setup options were not good. The hill was steep, and the open bench I was on was small and surrounded by thick brush, but it was all I had.
I let out a couple soft yelps to see if I could locate the gobbler. GOBBLE! His big old hoarse voice rang loud and proud just up the hill. He was close! I didn’t have much time. So, I dropped a hen decoy in the middle of the small opening where the fading sunlight shone on it. I sat opposite of the side of the tiny clearing which I believed he’d make his appearance. My position was not good. I had nothing to lean against, but I had nowhere else to go where I could sit down and still get a shot over or through the brush. My abdominal muscles were about to get a workout. I knew I couldn’t hold this position long, and I knew this gobbler wouldn’t give me much of a chance when he got a look at my poor hasty set up.
After sitting down, I called, just a few soft clucks and yelps. GOBBLE! The woods exploded with the gobbler’s big voice. He was on the move! “OK.” I thought. “He’s coming in over there. No, wait! Maybe over here?” The gobbles kept coming, but they seemed to surround me. I couldn’t tell for the life of me exactly where he was going to come in from. A feeling of panic and regret about my decision to set up where I had started to sink into my soul when a big gobble exploded straight up over my head up the steep slope, practically a cliff. I didn’t know if the turkey could see into my hole or not, but he sounded as if he could.
With nothing left to do, I made a risky move, slowly swinging the barrel of my Mossberg 28ga to the right over 90 degrees. I leaned back and had to practically aim straight up to the sky. GOBBLE! Yup, the bird was just above me and just barely out of sight. I sat in my awkward contorted position, shaking from the strain. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I caught a bit of movement. I saw a tiny brown beady eye surrounded by rubbery red skin peering down through the brush in my direction. The old gobbler was moving cautiously. He peeked through the brush as if he suspected a trap to spring any second, but he couldn’t control his hormonal curiosity. He had to know!
There isn’t much doubt this bird had been in this situation before, as his home was a heavily pressured piece of public ground. The gobbler was within range, and I knew who he was, and I knew he was about to figure out who I was… or wasn’t. So, I lined up my sights on his eyeball and squeezed the trigger.
With the roar of my shotgun,the turkey disappeared from sight. Only a perfectly round hole in the bush remained where the gobbler once stood. No flopping occurred, and the steep angle of the mountainside concealed where I hoped the gobbler lay dead. I hurriedly stood and climbed the mountain grabbing brush to keep myself from toppling backwards.
The excitement and suspense was immense, and I could feel it in my stomach as I climbed the short distance. As I got closer, the mountain side began to reveal the distinct brown and white stripes of a turkey’s wing feathers. I arrived where the bird had been, and down in a small depression on the ledge was a gobbler which exceeded my expectations. I simply sat down next to the old warrior, thanked him, and I thanked God.
By North Idaho standards, he was a fine gobbler. He weighed a hefty 22lbs, had 1 ¼ inch spurs which were broken, and a thick 10 inch beard. I was thrilled as this was the biggest turkey I had ever killed, and what made it better was the chess match I had to play to earn him. While this particular gobbler was ready to go, he still played it cautiously. I had to adjust my calling, make several moves, and be on top of my game to make a bad setup work. It was a dang good hunt!
This hunt sparked my love affair with afternoon turkey hunting. In fact, I almost prefer it to early mornings, minus the lack of gobbling action from the roost. Afternoons are great for several reasons. One, there are typically less hunters in the woods. Most folks leave the turkey woods by 9am and don’t return. Also, hens are often still in the nest, leaving gobblers lonely and wanting. Whatsmore, as the evening draws near, toms begin meandering their way back to their roost. Often, they are hoping to find a hen to roost with for the night and with whom to breed in the morning.
This “round up” time can be magical if a hunter finds himself in the turkey woods late in the afternoon. It gets even better if you’ve done your homework and know a few roosting spots. All this to say, I enjoyed sharing my story, and I encourage you not to wait for the weekend to chase America’s gobbling spring quarry. Get out after work and take advantage of those longer late spring days.
Good Luck!
Good luck this Spring and remember to send any success pictures or stories from the field to [email protected]. You could be featured on our website or in our magazine. If this article or any of our articles have helped you become a better hunter or conservation steward, become a member of the Mule Deer Foundation or Blacktail Deer Foundation for only $35 dollars a year. Click here to join: https://muledeer.org/product-category/membership/
Tom Walton
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Tom Walton is an avid outdoorsman in the backcountry of Idaho and a police officer. When not chasing critters or bad guys he enjoys taking children and veterans afield to share his passion for the outdoors.
