We have just endured several days of nasty weather. Cold temperatures, blustery winds and drenching rains have me worried about the prospects for the upcoming turkey hunt.
I've been skunked the last couple of years. Worse yet, the weather gods apparently didn't get the memo about my having a permit for the second period of Wisconsin's 2009 spring turkey season.
The math is working in my favor, however. The hunter success rate statewide during the record-setting 2008 season was just more than 25 percent, so it should be about my turn. And those guys who shot one of the 52,428 birds harvested last year couldn't be better than I at calling in that big gobbler, they were just luckier. If only it worked like that.
Sleep is fitful the night before. I keep waking up, expecting the sound of rushing wind and dripping rain. There is only silence, however, and the spirits rise to the occasion.
I'm a bit late arriving on station. The sun is already spreading a glowing red and orange blush over the horizon, and the Pecatonica River bottom is alive with the noisy chatter of a thousand songbirds and waterfowl. The dew on the fresh spring grass sparkles white as I set out the dekes - two hens and a jake. No wind, clear skies, temp in the 40s - perfect!
I engage the Steve Kundert-fashioned box call at 5:30 a.m. on the button. It's perfectly-tuned modulation prompts a quick response from three different directions - one from the bluff above, another from across the river, and a third due west.
I drag the striker once more in a series of yelps and cutts. Wow, these boys are ready for some action.
I call again - more gobbling, but they are no closer now than before.
I spot the outline of a turkey against the horizon on the bluff. It appears to be a hen, and she's heading in the direction of one of my players. Rats!
6:15 a.m.: Two of the birds haven't budged, but the fellow to the east is getting closer, responding with gusto to every cutt/yelp combination.
6:30 a.m.: Uff-da! He's right behind me, across the river and loud. Will he cross over?
Thoughts are racing - there are those who claim a turkey will likely hang up if it has to cross a body of water. Others insist toms won't go up a hill to a hen - or is it down a hill? No matter, it's time for a short series of softer purrs and clucks.
6:40 a.m.: Strutting tom coming in from the left in full display. Kundert, you're a frickin' genius!
The gobbler goes through his ritual dance, spitting and weaving back and forth, sending a strong message that he is the undisputed boss of the river bottom.
He moves momentarily out of sight behind the corner of the blind. Uh oh, the box call emits a slight chirp as I set it down. Why didn't I put that sucker away sooner? Where is he? Why hasn't he come out yet?
6:45 a.m.: There he is, at 15 yards! A couple of steps further and the Franchi over-and-under barks. The bird flutters up briefly, then settles back to earth.
Tale of the tape: 23.3-pound, 10-inch beard, one and one-quarter-inch spur on one side and one and five-sixteenths-inch on the other.
I'll need to document the event of course, and that's where my disinterested, non-hunting photographer comes in. She does a great job with a camera, getting the perfect angle from the sun and framing things just right.
But I can do without the sarcasm. She agrees to help, but only if I haul her down on the Kawasaki Mule. Upon arrival, she immediately takes note of the array of decoys and the camouflage ground blind. "No wonder you got one, you tricked him."
Having entered Randy Steiner's Big Turkey contest at Four Seasons Resort near Yellowstone Lake, I take it in for measurement. That it won't be the winner matters little. It's all about sharing the moment and documenting the harvest of one of Wisconsin's most elusive game birds.
Life is good!
Lee Fahrney is the Times' outdoors writer. He can be reached at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
I've been skunked the last couple of years. Worse yet, the weather gods apparently didn't get the memo about my having a permit for the second period of Wisconsin's 2009 spring turkey season.
The math is working in my favor, however. The hunter success rate statewide during the record-setting 2008 season was just more than 25 percent, so it should be about my turn. And those guys who shot one of the 52,428 birds harvested last year couldn't be better than I at calling in that big gobbler, they were just luckier. If only it worked like that.
Sleep is fitful the night before. I keep waking up, expecting the sound of rushing wind and dripping rain. There is only silence, however, and the spirits rise to the occasion.
I'm a bit late arriving on station. The sun is already spreading a glowing red and orange blush over the horizon, and the Pecatonica River bottom is alive with the noisy chatter of a thousand songbirds and waterfowl. The dew on the fresh spring grass sparkles white as I set out the dekes - two hens and a jake. No wind, clear skies, temp in the 40s - perfect!
I engage the Steve Kundert-fashioned box call at 5:30 a.m. on the button. It's perfectly-tuned modulation prompts a quick response from three different directions - one from the bluff above, another from across the river, and a third due west.
I drag the striker once more in a series of yelps and cutts. Wow, these boys are ready for some action.
I call again - more gobbling, but they are no closer now than before.
I spot the outline of a turkey against the horizon on the bluff. It appears to be a hen, and she's heading in the direction of one of my players. Rats!
6:15 a.m.: Two of the birds haven't budged, but the fellow to the east is getting closer, responding with gusto to every cutt/yelp combination.
6:30 a.m.: Uff-da! He's right behind me, across the river and loud. Will he cross over?
Thoughts are racing - there are those who claim a turkey will likely hang up if it has to cross a body of water. Others insist toms won't go up a hill to a hen - or is it down a hill? No matter, it's time for a short series of softer purrs and clucks.
6:40 a.m.: Strutting tom coming in from the left in full display. Kundert, you're a frickin' genius!
The gobbler goes through his ritual dance, spitting and weaving back and forth, sending a strong message that he is the undisputed boss of the river bottom.
He moves momentarily out of sight behind the corner of the blind. Uh oh, the box call emits a slight chirp as I set it down. Why didn't I put that sucker away sooner? Where is he? Why hasn't he come out yet?
6:45 a.m.: There he is, at 15 yards! A couple of steps further and the Franchi over-and-under barks. The bird flutters up briefly, then settles back to earth.
Tale of the tape: 23.3-pound, 10-inch beard, one and one-quarter-inch spur on one side and one and five-sixteenths-inch on the other.
I'll need to document the event of course, and that's where my disinterested, non-hunting photographer comes in. She does a great job with a camera, getting the perfect angle from the sun and framing things just right.
But I can do without the sarcasm. She agrees to help, but only if I haul her down on the Kawasaki Mule. Upon arrival, she immediately takes note of the array of decoys and the camouflage ground blind. "No wonder you got one, you tricked him."
Having entered Randy Steiner's Big Turkey contest at Four Seasons Resort near Yellowstone Lake, I take it in for measurement. That it won't be the winner matters little. It's all about sharing the moment and documenting the harvest of one of Wisconsin's most elusive game birds.
Life is good!
Lee Fahrney is the Times' outdoors writer. He can be reached at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
