May 16, 2025 • 27 mins
Brent’s taking one more swing at turkey season with a couple of good ones. A father shares a son’s firsts--that’s plural--from down in Texas and Brent’s got something hot off the press from the Show Me State. Double gobbles, double gobblers, and double barrels on this week’s “This Country Life” podcast brought to you by Case knives.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:05):
Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves.
From coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living.
I want you to stay a while as I share
my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented
by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you
the best outdoor podcast the airwaves have to offer. All right, friends,
(00:28):
grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some
stories to share. Double your pleasure, Double your fun O.
On my Turkey episode before we switch gears, the main
offering is from a hunt this year that was a
(00:50):
first for me and my friend Toby Neemeyer. It seemed
like we could do nothing right in the Turkey woods,
and then we caught a break. I'm gonna tell you
all about it, but first I'm gonna tell you this story.
(01:11):
This is from This Country Life listener Brady Johansson. Brady's
from the great state of Texas and said in this
one about chasing turkeys in the lone Star state. So,
in Brady's words, in my voice, here we go. Last year,
my eight year old son Porter and I had a
great day in the field for spring turkey season, a
(01:33):
red letter day. As my dad and his grandfather would say.
But before I get into everything that happened, I have
to explain a long standing family tradition that my brother
and I are committed to upholding, and one that we
cherish and our family. You must wait until you're ten
years old to kill your first deer and your first dove.
(01:56):
The two standard game animals and hunting seasons US Texans
look forward to every year now leading up to your
tenth birthday. Starting at about six years old, you're giving
a b B gun and you get to start tagging
along with Dad, and if you're the younger brother, you
get to go with your older brother too. Now, then
(02:16):
after you have mastered the BB gun and can show
the basics of gun safety, you're allowed to start shooting
at twenty two and also a twenty gauge. Then, after
you show proficiency with these calibers on targets, you advanced
to start hunting small game rabbits and varmints, squirrels, et cetera.
This typically happens around eight years old, and then finally
(02:40):
you graduate to a rifle large enough to kill a deer.
And our family, we have an old Remington Mom seven
hundred and six millimeter with the original Weaver scope on
it that was purchased when Porter's grandfather was ten years
old in nineteen sixty five. In fact, my fo killed
(03:00):
his first deer with this gun, as have my brother
and I and countless other guests and family members. So
by the time you're ten years old, you've been practicing
for quite some time with this rifle in anticipation of
your first hunt. But no matter how good you get,
you still have to wait all the way until you
pass your tenth birthday to finally make that first shot
(03:25):
on a deer. Now back to why all this matters
for my then eight year old son and I. Last
year he was showing some advanced proficiency with this rifle
and shotgun skills were pretty good too. And I should
also add that he's big, if not bigger than many
ten year olds I know, and he started asking about
(03:48):
when he gets to shoot a deer. Now, me having
already explained the family tradition to him multiple times, he
already knew the answer, but he is getting quite impatient,
and to be to be perfectly honest, so am I.
He is my oldest of three sons, so I'm not
sure who is excited more for that first deer, him
(04:09):
or me, but neither of us can hardly stand the weight.
In response to the extremely hard answer of no to
the deer hunting, he asked, well, what about pigs? Now,
we have a little wild hog problem here in Texas
where we currently hunt, but we did not where my
brother and I grew up hunting with our dad. So
(04:30):
this poses a bit of a gray area when it
comes to the family tradition. Now I think for a moment,
and I decided that a hog is not considered a
game animal in Texas, more like a varmit, as there
is no season or bag limit, or hardly any regulations
on killing them. So why not? Yeah, yes, son, hogs
are in play, I answering. His eyes light up. Then
(04:52):
he asked, what about turkeys? Now I have a real
problem because my reason for the hog approval, well, I
did not consider that he would ask about a turkey.
Once again, growing up, we didn't have turkeys in the
area my family hunting, so this it never came up.
There is also one other problem, and that is that
(05:13):
my father passed away seventeen years ago, so he's not
here to consult about the rules and the regulations of
this long standing family tradition. There's no board of directors either,
but there is my brother and Porter's uncle to consult.
So I started trying to justify my explanation to him, because,
to be honest, I wanted to take my son turkey hunting.
(05:37):
A quick phone called in a discussion that probably sounded
like a teenager trying to convince his parents let him
stay out late past curfew, and my brother gives his
blessings and says, yeah, turkeys can be taken prior to
the deer at ten. And with that endorsement, it's on now, buddy.
Opening the morning of Texas's youth turkey season, and we
(05:58):
head to our first spot and within five minutes of
getting set up and hitting that call a couple of times,
we hear a gobble. I hit the call and he
God was again. I told Porter to get ready and
be still. He's going to come in five minutes past,
another yep and another gobble. I don't blieve my eyes
(06:19):
when I see him about one hundred yards away. Bobbed
it weaven through the grass, coming in hot. He popped
up over a little hill and Porter lets him have it.
Maw the turkey goes down and sodas Porter. I swapped
his twenty gates from my twelve and a three inch
turkey load because I wanted to be sure he got
his first turkey and he didn't leave the situation with
(06:41):
the wounded or miss bird. Now I did mention that Porter,
he's a big eight year old, but he's so sure
he was ready for that. In hindsight, I realized that
was a little much, but he popped back up quickly,
and we celebrated and high fived and laughed and cried
over his first turkey. I explained to him, Now, you
(07:01):
kind of got spoiled on that first one, because it
never happens like that, especially the first time out, and
especially with a tom that was sporting eleven inch beard
and curved spurs that were well over an inch long.
If that was the end of the story, it would
have been a great one. Here's where the story gets
even crazier. That evening, we decided to give that little
(07:24):
honey hole to our hunting buddy and his son, and
we headed to a part of the ranch, and we
had never seen turkeys before, but we figured, what the heck,
we might as well try, so I pulled up in
the truck and told Porter to stay inside, not anticipate much,
and as I hit the box call, I didn't believe
my ears. A gobbler responded before I even got out
my fourth yep, and he was only about two hundred
(07:46):
yards away. Get out of truck, Porter, get the gun,
let's go. So we set up again, and once again
a gobbler is responding right away, and then we see
him one hundred yards out way across an open field
in full strut. Then, much to my surprise, two jakes
come charging right at him, and they proceeded to get
(08:08):
into a vicious two o one all out broad. They
are jumping and spurring and pecking and scratching, and eventually
disappeared back into the tree line. On top of that,
there was a hen up and further down the tree line,
right where they were headed. I started letting Porter down
gently and told him how cool that was to see,
(08:29):
but our hunt was probably over. But it's all right
because we'd already got one that morning. Once again I
was wrong. After a few minutes, he reappeared in full
strut and had a straight for our jac and hen decoys.
I guess he figured he just whooped two of them.
What's one more? And we got an absolute strut show
(08:50):
for all the time it took him to get within range,
and finally I tell Porter to let him have it,
and wham, Turkey number two goes down. More celebrations and
high fives and hugs that I explained once again, this
never happens like this, and how fortunate he is. But
I don't think he understood. And as the sun was
(09:12):
setting on that beautiful March evening, while we were taking
our pictures and selfies holding up Turkey number two our
fingers signifying the second bird of the day, I can't
help but to think that his grandfather was looking down
upon us. He might have had something to do with
sending us both of those birds, letting us know he
approved by the loophole that we'd come up with in
(09:35):
the new family tradition. And according to Brady Caller of Turkeys,
litigator for Youth Turkey hunters and father of Porter, the
Gobblers smashing baseball playing eldest Joe hadson tax deduction. That's
just how that happened. I had the pleasure of visiting
with young Porter during a FaceTime call, hearing him tell
(09:58):
me that story and another turkey tale that has his
tally up now to three. I'd be lying if I
told you any particulars about it that the last turkey
he killed, I was so distracted by how polite and
respectful he was and how good his manners are. I
feel confident his two younger brothers are a similar demeanor.
(10:21):
That's a good boy you got there, Brady. Thank y'all
for sharing your story, Toby said, I'll just go hunting
with you tomorrow. Job site is too wet to do anything,
and I ain't killed the turkey in thirty years. Well.
I was surprised, to say the least, but not shocked.
(10:44):
My Missouri born and bred brother by choice had been
hosting me for over twenty years now, and anyone who's
paid half attention has heard me talk about him numerous
times on here. His home was my home away from
home every spring. His family is my family every day
of the year. They're the kind of folks I don't
(11:04):
have to talk to every day, week, or even month,
even though I'm all for it. Our bonds transcend time,
space and frequency. I have a handful of folks like
that in my life, but none surpassed them. I love
these people. I didn't think twice when he said he
wanted to go with me. I did, However, when he
(11:25):
said I ain't got no camo to wear, I checked
my bag and found a leafy top I hadn't been
wearing yet this year, and I knew I had an
extra face mask in my turkey vest. Always told an
extra because before the season is over, it winds up
being the only one I have, because I've lost the
originals somewhere between the South and the Midwest. Fortune favored
(11:46):
Toby this time because I had yet to lose one.
He looked at me and said, I can't find any
camouflage pants. Well. My response was, you know how many
turkeys have been killed by folks wearing overalls? A lot
is tall. You've got on some brown jersey gloves, that
leafy jacket and a face mask. You'll you'll be good.
Just be still When four point thirty am rudely punched
(12:10):
me in the ear. The next morning, I stumbled out
of my room to see my new turkey hunting partner
dressed and pouring coffee. I told her we were going
to my regular spot and listen. It was my favorite
jumping off spot for hunting their family's land. I knew
it as well as my own, and had been standing
in that spot at daylight for the majority of the
last three decades. At Goblin time, we were there standing
(12:34):
the side beside, sipping coffee and listening to Missouri wake up.
And I add what I thought was a reasonable, if
not perfect, fac simile for barred owl leaning forward as
to catch the recoil of the coming gobbler, and dang
there fell on my face. When I got no response,
I dare that turkey not answer me? We waited a
(12:56):
few more minutes and have to hear nothing. We moved
out on foot. Toby, We're gonna go down to the
bottom field across the creek at your deer stand, and
listened in that other bottom field where they normally roosed.
We walked the five hundred yards along the edge of
the woods and slipped down past Toby's stand. We were
standing at the fence directly under the roof tree where
(13:18):
the day before I'd called four hens to me off
that roost. I sat up at the edge of the
field one hundred yards behind where we had just walked through.
But now it was well after flying downtime, No way,
they're still on the roost. I know this land, and
I know these turkeys. I told Toby, now, those hens
were roosted right here, right here, close yesterday. They flew
(13:40):
out in the middle of that field and they came
straight to me. They didn't roost here last night, obviously,
or we to heard him fly down. This morning, Toby
looked up to our left at a big sycamore tree
thirty yards away and said, there's a turkey on the
limb right there. I looked up and saw two turkeys.
I pulled out my bioes and confirmed one did have
a beard. But it was the beard and hen that
(14:01):
I'd called up the day before. They put it a
couple times and flew off. I out right behind there, leaving,
and a gobbler sounded off a long way in the
direction they flew for them leaving. Ain't gonna bother us nothing.
Let's slip across the creek and set up right over there.
They like to meet up in this spot and strut.
I've seen them do it a million times. I wasn't
(14:22):
kidding when I told him that I'd killed several turkeys
out of that bottom field over the years, my confidence
level had yet to wane. My plan was solid, and
all we'd scared off was a couple of Hens, which
more than likely was going to help us by eliminating
some competition. Because if there's one thing I know, it's this.
The turkey, you hear, goblin ain't the only one out there.
(14:46):
This is when patience and knowing the land comes into play.
I ain't a rookie at this. As a matter of fact,
I pretty dang good at it. That's what I was
telling myself when two gobblers blasted off the roofs across
the little bottom field, flying to what I can only
assume was Nebraska, followed by three more Hens. I looked
back at Toby. He was giggling in me like a
(15:09):
little girl. We changed directions. We sat up on the
edge of another field, and to make a sad story
shorter and even sadder, we couldn't convince six jakes an
hour later to walk up to our decoy. They ignored
me and her. I wanted to cry. Then it started
raining and we walked three quarters of a mile back
(15:29):
to the side beside, chasing something we felt we had
more control over. Breakfast. The waitress at the Pioneer restaurant
tried to kill me with eggs, pancakes, biscuits, and all
the coffee I could hold the tote in my pockets.
And for the next few hours we drove around looking
at turkeys middling around in the big open farm fields
as safe from us as they could get. Nothing short
(15:52):
of an artillery or lightnings Strake had harmed them, with
the latter being a greater possibility than the former. It
was storming then around three that afternoon, we drove by
a family friend's farm. A visit with the landowners saying
we were just killing time, riding and looking until the
rain stopped. Turned into a genuine invitation to hunt his property,
(16:13):
and his property is loaded with turkeys. He said, there
was five strutting down there by that gap this morning,
Y'allso to try that out in the morning. And I
asked Toby, why don't we just go this afternoon. You see,
we can get ahead start on tomorrow morning. What a
grand idea. So after driving around Muddy Mile after Muddy
(16:35):
Mile for a few hours, looking at turkeys all over creation,
we parked and made our way into our new hunting spot.
We started the layout on auax before taking off, and
I said, you see that field right there, Toby, that'd
be a great place for turkeys to be this time
of day after this rain. Well about six hundred steps
(16:55):
later we confirmed that being a great place for turkeys
to be. As we watched them spook out of the
field that we were trying to slip up on, Tobe
suggested we'd go home before we cause further calamity. That
made close to a dozen turkeys we'd spooked. If that
trend carried on, it would be like hunting turkeys on
Neptune by daylight. We walked down to the gap that
(17:18):
farmer told us about and scooped it out, kind of
picking out a place to set up the next morning,
and we left. Two hours later. The farmer sent us
a text, there's a whole pack of turkey strutting down
there by that gap. Are y'all down there? I hate
turkeys and everything they stand for, but tomorrow it will
(17:39):
be another day. Alexander Pope was a poet born May
twenty first, sixteen eighty eight, in London, England. And there's
no doubt in my mind that that dude was a
turkey hunter. Here's how I know. He wrote a poem
called an Essay on Man, and in that work he
wrote the line that every turkey lives by hope springs eternal.
(18:05):
The full quote is, hope springs eternal in the human breast.
Man never is, but always to be blessed. The soul,
uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a
life to come. The phrase suggests that hope is an
inherent part of human nature, a persistent and resilient force
(18:26):
that allows folks to persevere even when things seem bleak.
Now that's every turkey hunter I know, right up until
the season closes. Tomorrow is going to be better. Tomorrow
is another day. Now you need further proof. Alexander hunting turkeys.
Check this out. He died May the thirtieth, seventeen forty four,
(18:48):
at fifty six years of age. He stood four foot
six inches tall, and I soon measured the same in
his casket. But regardless, he died at the end of
the spring. Probably had a rough go in to turn woods,
and turkey hunting had obviously stunted his growth. The next morning,
I rolled out of bed for day three and beat
Toby to the coffee pot and in short order we
(19:10):
were on the way to our new spot. Our plan
was simple. We just sit inside the fence just down
from that gap, and that meant that before daylight I'd
have to slip out and job that he and decoy
up in the edge of the filled to give the
gobbler something to concentrate on. Due to the limited back
and cover we had, the trees were small where we
had to sit, and there was a five strand bobble
(19:33):
our fence that could become an obstacle, but we had
no choice. We had to sit right there because of
the cover or like thereof so picture in your mind
were sitting there, just down from this gap. We're on
one side of the fence, decoys on the other. God
in time came and went, and we heard one faint
gobble we estimated to be a half a mile away.
(19:57):
Time ticked away, and by eight thirty, after two and
a half hours, we hadn't heard anything else. Then directly
across the field a gobble. The lay of the land
and the rise of topography kept us from seeing directly
across in front of us, which was south or back
to the right on the west end of that eighty
acre opening. I called, and he responded. Then another unseen
(20:22):
gobbler gobbled further to the west, and that would be
the way it went. As they traveled away from us,
down to the right from the west end of that field,
out of sight and for the moment, out of our lives,
we were stuck, unable to move because we didn't know
where they were, or really where they were going. For
(20:42):
all we knew they could be making their way toward us. Yeah, right,
but that's the last place I expected them to be,
And unfortunately this time I was right. A more faint
goble confirmed that they relocated to the southwest end of
that field, a quarter and a half away. I slipped
up behind a tree right on the fence roll. When
(21:03):
I washed through the knockers, they strutted and gobbled and
walk could have passed for a turkey. Do you believe
that was taking place down there? They like they were
having a lot of fun. I wanted to go, they
didn't invite us. Then another turkey, God will do west
straight down the fence line from us in the northwest corner, Kobe,
(21:23):
we find to crash this party. We're gonna slip down
this fence one hundred and fifty yards and try to
work this other turkey. Now the only bad thing, and
I told him when we were moving so we couldn't
get that decoy without spooking every bird on that age
acre field. My reasoning was we'd call to this turkey
that was at the west end but on the same
side of the field as us, and the easiest way
(21:45):
for him to come to us was right down the
edge of the field where we'd be sitting. Then he'd
walk up the little rise between us and him see
that decoy that was way down back behind us to
the left, and he'd walk within a few feet of
me and the killing end of my double barrel. We
stopped one hundred and fifty yards or so west of
the decoy. I sat down against a small tree, but
(22:08):
in front of me on the fence row was a
cedar tree that I could see through but absolutely made
me disappear. Toby laid down to my left at the
ten o'clock position, his feet towards me and his head
right at the edge of the bottom strand of barbed wire.
Now I wouldn't have done that, and he was in
a terrible position to shoot a turkey, but at the
time I didn't think much about it, but I should have.
(22:32):
I could hear the gobler to our immediate right at
the northeast corner, and see the other one strutting out
at the southwest corner. I watched him until they faded
out of sight, drifting away further and further, I assumed,
to the southwest, away from us and that field. Fifteen
minutes later, the gobler on our side of the field
(22:55):
down at that corner quit answering me, and he never
got any closer. I pulled out my phone to look
it all next again and see about finding a way
to loop around toward where he was if I could
get him to answer me one more time. That's when
I caught movement from Toby. I saw him frantically pointing
with his hand down behind his leg and below the grass,
(23:16):
out toward the field. He looked back at me to
see if I was looking, and saw my eyes bug
out of my head as I saw gobbler's head poke
up above the rise in that field one hundred yards away,
And then another one, and then another one, and then
four jacos seven turkeys, the first one running point, the
(23:36):
second in full strut, the third one riding herd on
the four youngsters that were trying to work their way
up to pecking order, and they wasn't having any luck.
I whispered to Toby that that hen decoy was going
to wreck us. When the league gobblers saw it, they'd
make a bee line for her, and where they stood
right now, at one hundred yards, would be as close
(23:57):
as they'd get to us. And my street sweeper, the
strutter gobbling, the point man under his order, started making
tracks towards the decoy. Toby, blessed his heart, was now
looking back at me, unable to move, having to judge
everything that was going on by what I was doing
and how I was reacting. The vibe I was putting
off was desperation, because I had already done the math.
(24:19):
No calling in the world was going to compete with
the decoy sitting in the very spot they were heading
towards anyway, but I was going to try to do it.
I turned my head and I started purring and yepping
to the right, and that strutter started gobbling, still inching
his way to our left towards that decoy that had
gone about ten yards in the wrong direction, and I
(24:40):
poured it on him. It's best I could anyway, purring
and yeping, begging him to turn towards us and come
to me something he couldn't see instead of something he could,
And to my surprise, he did. He pivoted and started
easing in our direction. I kept turning my head and
calling him back over my right shoulder, and now he
(25:01):
was on a string, coming straight to us, and that
was bad. Toby was laying on the ground looking back
at me, but directly between me and the turkey rodeo
that was taking place in front of us. I wasn't
gonna be able to shooting unless I could get them
to fade more to the right around that cedar tree
(25:21):
that was hiding me. And I turned my head even
further as far as I could get to turn without
turning completely around, and I called some more. The strutter
gobbled and started moving more to the right. The point
man was now on the left edge of the group
and finally made his way directly in front of me.
Now it was safe for me to shoot. I let
(25:44):
him keep walking, and I picked out a hole in
the cedar tree at the one o'clock position that would
have me shooting away from Toby, away from where he
was laying. I used my shotgun and my shoulder. I
popped his safety off and took starvation aim at the
point man who was just left of the strutter. Bam,
I sent watermounted to a tablespoon full of poisoned seed picks,
(26:06):
right from the barrel of that four ten. It was
the last thing that went through that turkey's mind the
instant he dropped off the radar, Toby rolled over and
smoked the strutter the last one raised the four jakes
to see who could get across that field first before
they broke out and bullet holes themselves. Toby had missed
(26:27):
the whole show, but he had redeemed his poor choice
and shooting positions by making up for it with reflexes
so fast they would have kept Johnny Ringo around for
the end of Tombstone. It was that quick reva stick
a fork in turkey season. I'm done with them until
next spring, maybe, but I'm headed to have some fun
(26:49):
adventures this summer, and I have some other things that
I want to talk to you all about as well,
and it's all coming up here in the next few weeks.
Thanks for listening. We appreciate y'all. So much until next week.
This is Britt Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful.
Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves.
From coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living.
I want you to stay a while as I share
my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented
by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you
the best outdoor podcast the airwaves have to offer. All right, friends,
(00:28):
grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some
stories to share. Double your pleasure, Double your fun O.
On my Turkey episode before we switch gears, the main
offering is from a hunt this year that was a
(00:50):
first for me and my friend Toby Neemeyer. It seemed
like we could do nothing right in the Turkey woods,
and then we caught a break. I'm gonna tell you
all about it, but first I'm gonna tell you this story.
(01:11):
This is from This Country Life listener Brady Johansson. Brady's
from the great state of Texas and said in this
one about chasing turkeys in the lone Star state. So,
in Brady's words, in my voice, here we go. Last year,
my eight year old son Porter and I had a
great day in the field for spring turkey season, a
(01:33):
red letter day. As my dad and his grandfather would say.
But before I get into everything that happened, I have
to explain a long standing family tradition that my brother
and I are committed to upholding, and one that we
cherish and our family. You must wait until you're ten
years old to kill your first deer and your first dove.
(01:56):
The two standard game animals and hunting seasons US Texans
look forward to every year now leading up to your
tenth birthday. Starting at about six years old, you're giving
a b B gun and you get to start tagging
along with Dad, and if you're the younger brother, you
get to go with your older brother too. Now, then
(02:16):
after you have mastered the BB gun and can show
the basics of gun safety, you're allowed to start shooting
at twenty two and also a twenty gauge. Then, after
you show proficiency with these calibers on targets, you advanced
to start hunting small game rabbits and varmints, squirrels, et cetera.
This typically happens around eight years old, and then finally
(02:40):
you graduate to a rifle large enough to kill a deer.
And our family, we have an old Remington Mom seven
hundred and six millimeter with the original Weaver scope on
it that was purchased when Porter's grandfather was ten years
old in nineteen sixty five. In fact, my fo killed
(03:00):
his first deer with this gun, as have my brother
and I and countless other guests and family members. So
by the time you're ten years old, you've been practicing
for quite some time with this rifle in anticipation of
your first hunt. But no matter how good you get,
you still have to wait all the way until you
pass your tenth birthday to finally make that first shot
(03:25):
on a deer. Now back to why all this matters
for my then eight year old son and I. Last
year he was showing some advanced proficiency with this rifle
and shotgun skills were pretty good too. And I should
also add that he's big, if not bigger than many
ten year olds I know, and he started asking about
(03:48):
when he gets to shoot a deer. Now, me having
already explained the family tradition to him multiple times, he
already knew the answer, but he is getting quite impatient,
and to be to be perfectly honest, so am I.
He is my oldest of three sons, so I'm not
sure who is excited more for that first deer, him
(04:09):
or me, but neither of us can hardly stand the weight.
In response to the extremely hard answer of no to
the deer hunting, he asked, well, what about pigs? Now,
we have a little wild hog problem here in Texas
where we currently hunt, but we did not where my
brother and I grew up hunting with our dad. So
(04:30):
this poses a bit of a gray area when it
comes to the family tradition. Now I think for a moment,
and I decided that a hog is not considered a
game animal in Texas, more like a varmit, as there
is no season or bag limit, or hardly any regulations
on killing them. So why not? Yeah, yes, son, hogs
are in play, I answering. His eyes light up. Then
(04:52):
he asked, what about turkeys? Now I have a real
problem because my reason for the hog approval, well, I
did not consider that he would ask about a turkey.
Once again, growing up, we didn't have turkeys in the
area my family hunting, so this it never came up.
There is also one other problem, and that is that
(05:13):
my father passed away seventeen years ago, so he's not
here to consult about the rules and the regulations of
this long standing family tradition. There's no board of directors either,
but there is my brother and Porter's uncle to consult.
So I started trying to justify my explanation to him, because,
to be honest, I wanted to take my son turkey hunting.
(05:37):
A quick phone called in a discussion that probably sounded
like a teenager trying to convince his parents let him
stay out late past curfew, and my brother gives his
blessings and says, yeah, turkeys can be taken prior to
the deer at ten. And with that endorsement, it's on now, buddy.
Opening the morning of Texas's youth turkey season, and we
(05:58):
head to our first spot and within five minutes of
getting set up and hitting that call a couple of times,
we hear a gobble. I hit the call and he
God was again. I told Porter to get ready and
be still. He's going to come in five minutes past,
another yep and another gobble. I don't blieve my eyes
(06:19):
when I see him about one hundred yards away. Bobbed
it weaven through the grass, coming in hot. He popped
up over a little hill and Porter lets him have it.
Maw the turkey goes down and sodas Porter. I swapped
his twenty gates from my twelve and a three inch
turkey load because I wanted to be sure he got
his first turkey and he didn't leave the situation with
(06:41):
the wounded or miss bird. Now I did mention that Porter,
he's a big eight year old, but he's so sure
he was ready for that. In hindsight, I realized that
was a little much, but he popped back up quickly,
and we celebrated and high fived and laughed and cried
over his first turkey. I explained to him, Now, you
(07:01):
kind of got spoiled on that first one, because it
never happens like that, especially the first time out, and
especially with a tom that was sporting eleven inch beard
and curved spurs that were well over an inch long.
If that was the end of the story, it would
have been a great one. Here's where the story gets
even crazier. That evening, we decided to give that little
(07:24):
honey hole to our hunting buddy and his son, and
we headed to a part of the ranch, and we
had never seen turkeys before, but we figured, what the heck,
we might as well try, so I pulled up in
the truck and told Porter to stay inside, not anticipate much,
and as I hit the box call, I didn't believe
my ears. A gobbler responded before I even got out
my fourth yep, and he was only about two hundred
(07:46):
yards away. Get out of truck, Porter, get the gun,
let's go. So we set up again, and once again
a gobbler is responding right away, and then we see
him one hundred yards out way across an open field
in full strut. Then, much to my surprise, two jakes
come charging right at him, and they proceeded to get
(08:08):
into a vicious two o one all out broad. They
are jumping and spurring and pecking and scratching, and eventually
disappeared back into the tree line. On top of that,
there was a hen up and further down the tree line,
right where they were headed. I started letting Porter down
gently and told him how cool that was to see,
(08:29):
but our hunt was probably over. But it's all right
because we'd already got one that morning. Once again I
was wrong. After a few minutes, he reappeared in full
strut and had a straight for our jac and hen decoys.
I guess he figured he just whooped two of them.
What's one more? And we got an absolute strut show
(08:50):
for all the time it took him to get within range,
and finally I tell Porter to let him have it,
and wham, Turkey number two goes down. More celebrations and
high fives and hugs that I explained once again, this
never happens like this, and how fortunate he is. But
I don't think he understood. And as the sun was
(09:12):
setting on that beautiful March evening, while we were taking
our pictures and selfies holding up Turkey number two our
fingers signifying the second bird of the day, I can't
help but to think that his grandfather was looking down
upon us. He might have had something to do with
sending us both of those birds, letting us know he
approved by the loophole that we'd come up with in
(09:35):
the new family tradition. And according to Brady Caller of Turkeys,
litigator for Youth Turkey hunters and father of Porter, the
Gobblers smashing baseball playing eldest Joe hadson tax deduction. That's
just how that happened. I had the pleasure of visiting
with young Porter during a FaceTime call, hearing him tell
(09:58):
me that story and another turkey tale that has his
tally up now to three. I'd be lying if I
told you any particulars about it that the last turkey
he killed, I was so distracted by how polite and
respectful he was and how good his manners are. I
feel confident his two younger brothers are a similar demeanor.
(10:21):
That's a good boy you got there, Brady. Thank y'all
for sharing your story, Toby said, I'll just go hunting
with you tomorrow. Job site is too wet to do anything,
and I ain't killed the turkey in thirty years. Well.
I was surprised, to say the least, but not shocked.
(10:44):
My Missouri born and bred brother by choice had been
hosting me for over twenty years now, and anyone who's
paid half attention has heard me talk about him numerous
times on here. His home was my home away from
home every spring. His family is my family every day
of the year. They're the kind of folks I don't
(11:04):
have to talk to every day, week, or even month,
even though I'm all for it. Our bonds transcend time,
space and frequency. I have a handful of folks like
that in my life, but none surpassed them. I love
these people. I didn't think twice when he said he
wanted to go with me. I did, However, when he
(11:25):
said I ain't got no camo to wear, I checked
my bag and found a leafy top I hadn't been
wearing yet this year, and I knew I had an
extra face mask in my turkey vest. Always told an
extra because before the season is over, it winds up
being the only one I have, because I've lost the
originals somewhere between the South and the Midwest. Fortune favored
(11:46):
Toby this time because I had yet to lose one.
He looked at me and said, I can't find any
camouflage pants. Well. My response was, you know how many
turkeys have been killed by folks wearing overalls? A lot
is tall. You've got on some brown jersey gloves, that
leafy jacket and a face mask. You'll you'll be good.
Just be still When four point thirty am rudely punched
(12:10):
me in the ear. The next morning, I stumbled out
of my room to see my new turkey hunting partner
dressed and pouring coffee. I told her we were going
to my regular spot and listen. It was my favorite
jumping off spot for hunting their family's land. I knew
it as well as my own, and had been standing
in that spot at daylight for the majority of the
last three decades. At Goblin time, we were there standing
(12:34):
the side beside, sipping coffee and listening to Missouri wake up.
And I add what I thought was a reasonable, if
not perfect, fac simile for barred owl leaning forward as
to catch the recoil of the coming gobbler, and dang
there fell on my face. When I got no response,
I dare that turkey not answer me? We waited a
(12:56):
few more minutes and have to hear nothing. We moved
out on foot. Toby, We're gonna go down to the
bottom field across the creek at your deer stand, and
listened in that other bottom field where they normally roosed.
We walked the five hundred yards along the edge of
the woods and slipped down past Toby's stand. We were
standing at the fence directly under the roof tree where
(13:18):
the day before I'd called four hens to me off
that roost. I sat up at the edge of the
field one hundred yards behind where we had just walked through.
But now it was well after flying downtime, No way,
they're still on the roost. I know this land, and
I know these turkeys. I told Toby, now, those hens
were roosted right here, right here, close yesterday. They flew
(13:40):
out in the middle of that field and they came
straight to me. They didn't roost here last night, obviously,
or we to heard him fly down. This morning, Toby
looked up to our left at a big sycamore tree
thirty yards away and said, there's a turkey on the
limb right there. I looked up and saw two turkeys.
I pulled out my bioes and confirmed one did have
a beard. But it was the beard and hen that
(14:01):
I'd called up the day before. They put it a
couple times and flew off. I out right behind there, leaving,
and a gobbler sounded off a long way in the
direction they flew for them leaving. Ain't gonna bother us nothing.
Let's slip across the creek and set up right over there.
They like to meet up in this spot and strut.
I've seen them do it a million times. I wasn't
(14:22):
kidding when I told him that I'd killed several turkeys
out of that bottom field over the years, my confidence
level had yet to wane. My plan was solid, and
all we'd scared off was a couple of Hens, which
more than likely was going to help us by eliminating
some competition. Because if there's one thing I know, it's this.
The turkey, you hear, goblin ain't the only one out there.
(14:46):
This is when patience and knowing the land comes into play.
I ain't a rookie at this. As a matter of fact,
I pretty dang good at it. That's what I was
telling myself when two gobblers blasted off the roofs across
the little bottom field, flying to what I can only
assume was Nebraska, followed by three more Hens. I looked
back at Toby. He was giggling in me like a
(15:09):
little girl. We changed directions. We sat up on the
edge of another field, and to make a sad story
shorter and even sadder, we couldn't convince six jakes an
hour later to walk up to our decoy. They ignored
me and her. I wanted to cry. Then it started
raining and we walked three quarters of a mile back
(15:29):
to the side beside, chasing something we felt we had
more control over. Breakfast. The waitress at the Pioneer restaurant
tried to kill me with eggs, pancakes, biscuits, and all
the coffee I could hold the tote in my pockets.
And for the next few hours we drove around looking
at turkeys middling around in the big open farm fields
as safe from us as they could get. Nothing short
(15:52):
of an artillery or lightnings Strake had harmed them, with
the latter being a greater possibility than the former. It
was storming then around three that afternoon, we drove by
a family friend's farm. A visit with the landowners saying
we were just killing time, riding and looking until the
rain stopped. Turned into a genuine invitation to hunt his property,
(16:13):
and his property is loaded with turkeys. He said, there
was five strutting down there by that gap this morning,
Y'allso to try that out in the morning. And I
asked Toby, why don't we just go this afternoon. You see,
we can get ahead start on tomorrow morning. What a
grand idea. So after driving around Muddy Mile after Muddy
(16:35):
Mile for a few hours, looking at turkeys all over creation,
we parked and made our way into our new hunting spot.
We started the layout on auax before taking off, and
I said, you see that field right there, Toby, that'd
be a great place for turkeys to be this time
of day after this rain. Well about six hundred steps
(16:55):
later we confirmed that being a great place for turkeys
to be. As we watched them spook out of the
field that we were trying to slip up on, Tobe
suggested we'd go home before we cause further calamity. That
made close to a dozen turkeys we'd spooked. If that
trend carried on, it would be like hunting turkeys on
Neptune by daylight. We walked down to the gap that
(17:18):
farmer told us about and scooped it out, kind of
picking out a place to set up the next morning,
and we left. Two hours later. The farmer sent us
a text, there's a whole pack of turkey strutting down
there by that gap. Are y'all down there? I hate
turkeys and everything they stand for, but tomorrow it will
(17:39):
be another day. Alexander Pope was a poet born May
twenty first, sixteen eighty eight, in London, England. And there's
no doubt in my mind that that dude was a
turkey hunter. Here's how I know. He wrote a poem
called an Essay on Man, and in that work he
wrote the line that every turkey lives by hope springs eternal.
(18:05):
The full quote is, hope springs eternal in the human breast.
Man never is, but always to be blessed. The soul,
uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a
life to come. The phrase suggests that hope is an
inherent part of human nature, a persistent and resilient force
(18:26):
that allows folks to persevere even when things seem bleak.
Now that's every turkey hunter I know, right up until
the season closes. Tomorrow is going to be better. Tomorrow
is another day. Now you need further proof. Alexander hunting turkeys.
Check this out. He died May the thirtieth, seventeen forty four,
(18:48):
at fifty six years of age. He stood four foot
six inches tall, and I soon measured the same in
his casket. But regardless, he died at the end of
the spring. Probably had a rough go in to turn woods,
and turkey hunting had obviously stunted his growth. The next morning,
I rolled out of bed for day three and beat
Toby to the coffee pot and in short order we
(19:10):
were on the way to our new spot. Our plan
was simple. We just sit inside the fence just down
from that gap, and that meant that before daylight I'd
have to slip out and job that he and decoy
up in the edge of the filled to give the
gobbler something to concentrate on. Due to the limited back
and cover we had, the trees were small where we
had to sit, and there was a five strand bobble
(19:33):
our fence that could become an obstacle, but we had
no choice. We had to sit right there because of
the cover or like thereof so picture in your mind
were sitting there, just down from this gap. We're on
one side of the fence, decoys on the other. God
in time came and went, and we heard one faint
gobble we estimated to be a half a mile away.
(19:57):
Time ticked away, and by eight thirty, after two and
a half hours, we hadn't heard anything else. Then directly
across the field a gobble. The lay of the land
and the rise of topography kept us from seeing directly
across in front of us, which was south or back
to the right on the west end of that eighty
acre opening. I called, and he responded. Then another unseen
(20:22):
gobbler gobbled further to the west, and that would be
the way it went. As they traveled away from us,
down to the right from the west end of that field,
out of sight and for the moment, out of our lives,
we were stuck, unable to move because we didn't know
where they were, or really where they were going. For
(20:42):
all we knew they could be making their way toward us. Yeah, right,
but that's the last place I expected them to be,
And unfortunately this time I was right. A more faint
goble confirmed that they relocated to the southwest end of
that field, a quarter and a half away. I slipped
up behind a tree right on the fence roll. When
(21:03):
I washed through the knockers, they strutted and gobbled and
walk could have passed for a turkey. Do you believe
that was taking place down there? They like they were
having a lot of fun. I wanted to go, they
didn't invite us. Then another turkey, God will do west
straight down the fence line from us in the northwest corner, Kobe,
(21:23):
we find to crash this party. We're gonna slip down
this fence one hundred and fifty yards and try to
work this other turkey. Now the only bad thing, and
I told him when we were moving so we couldn't
get that decoy without spooking every bird on that age
acre field. My reasoning was we'd call to this turkey
that was at the west end but on the same
side of the field as us, and the easiest way
(21:45):
for him to come to us was right down the
edge of the field where we'd be sitting. Then he'd
walk up the little rise between us and him see
that decoy that was way down back behind us to
the left, and he'd walk within a few feet of
me and the killing end of my double barrel. We
stopped one hundred and fifty yards or so west of
the decoy. I sat down against a small tree, but
(22:08):
in front of me on the fence row was a
cedar tree that I could see through but absolutely made
me disappear. Toby laid down to my left at the
ten o'clock position, his feet towards me and his head
right at the edge of the bottom strand of barbed wire.
Now I wouldn't have done that, and he was in
a terrible position to shoot a turkey, but at the
time I didn't think much about it, but I should have.
(22:32):
I could hear the gobler to our immediate right at
the northeast corner, and see the other one strutting out
at the southwest corner. I watched him until they faded
out of sight, drifting away further and further, I assumed,
to the southwest, away from us and that field. Fifteen
minutes later, the gobler on our side of the field
(22:55):
down at that corner quit answering me, and he never
got any closer. I pulled out my phone to look
it all next again and see about finding a way
to loop around toward where he was if I could
get him to answer me one more time. That's when
I caught movement from Toby. I saw him frantically pointing
with his hand down behind his leg and below the grass,
(23:16):
out toward the field. He looked back at me to
see if I was looking, and saw my eyes bug
out of my head as I saw gobbler's head poke
up above the rise in that field one hundred yards away,
And then another one, and then another one, and then
four jacos seven turkeys, the first one running point, the
(23:36):
second in full strut, the third one riding herd on
the four youngsters that were trying to work their way
up to pecking order, and they wasn't having any luck.
I whispered to Toby that that hen decoy was going
to wreck us. When the league gobblers saw it, they'd
make a bee line for her, and where they stood
right now, at one hundred yards, would be as close
(23:57):
as they'd get to us. And my street sweeper, the
strutter gobbling, the point man under his order, started making
tracks towards the decoy. Toby, blessed his heart, was now
looking back at me, unable to move, having to judge
everything that was going on by what I was doing
and how I was reacting. The vibe I was putting
off was desperation, because I had already done the math.
(24:19):
No calling in the world was going to compete with
the decoy sitting in the very spot they were heading
towards anyway, but I was going to try to do it.
I turned my head and I started purring and yepping
to the right, and that strutter started gobbling, still inching
his way to our left towards that decoy that had
gone about ten yards in the wrong direction, and I
(24:40):
poured it on him. It's best I could anyway, purring
and yeping, begging him to turn towards us and come
to me something he couldn't see instead of something he could,
And to my surprise, he did. He pivoted and started
easing in our direction. I kept turning my head and
calling him back over my right shoulder, and now he
(25:01):
was on a string, coming straight to us, and that
was bad. Toby was laying on the ground looking back
at me, but directly between me and the turkey rodeo
that was taking place in front of us. I wasn't
gonna be able to shooting unless I could get them
to fade more to the right around that cedar tree
(25:21):
that was hiding me. And I turned my head even
further as far as I could get to turn without
turning completely around, and I called some more. The strutter
gobbled and started moving more to the right. The point
man was now on the left edge of the group
and finally made his way directly in front of me.
Now it was safe for me to shoot. I let
(25:44):
him keep walking, and I picked out a hole in
the cedar tree at the one o'clock position that would
have me shooting away from Toby, away from where he
was laying. I used my shotgun and my shoulder. I
popped his safety off and took starvation aim at the
point man who was just left of the strutter. Bam,
I sent watermounted to a tablespoon full of poisoned seed picks,
(26:06):
right from the barrel of that four ten. It was
the last thing that went through that turkey's mind the
instant he dropped off the radar, Toby rolled over and
smoked the strutter the last one raised the four jakes
to see who could get across that field first before
they broke out and bullet holes themselves. Toby had missed
(26:27):
the whole show, but he had redeemed his poor choice
and shooting positions by making up for it with reflexes
so fast they would have kept Johnny Ringo around for
the end of Tombstone. It was that quick reva stick
a fork in turkey season. I'm done with them until
next spring, maybe, but I'm headed to have some fun
(26:49):
adventures this summer, and I have some other things that
I want to talk to you all about as well,
and it's all coming up here in the next few weeks.
Thanks for listening. We appreciate y'all. So much until next week.
This is Britt Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful.
Host
Clay Newcomb
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