by Greg Koelker
I had a great turkey hunt on the final day of my season last week, on Earth Day as it were. I took the Ranger up the ridge and parked it by what we call “the downed barn” an ancient grain storage barn that fell into disuse and finally succumbed to Ma Nature, slowly collapsing in on itself over the last half century or so. There are a few tall trees that shade the spot and plenty of camo to hide the side by side. I never tire of the views from the downed barn. They range from just pretty rolling farm country to spectacular panoramas. One can see the over the Grouse Hollow down into Proksch Coulee, the former Clements’ farm silos, the high bluff across the coulee that slopes down just right to frame a view of Stoddard, a glistening big river, and the far distant Minnesota bluffs. I have always thought it would be cool to put up an Amish cabin with a deck for taking in sunsets. But then one could just take some chairs and a cooler up in the Ranger with much less trouble and expense.
Anyway, after parking the Ranger, I loaded my Browning .12 gauge, shouldered my belted seat pack, and grabbed Leonard and Penney my jake and hen turkey decoys. I walked through soybean and hay fields to the south end of our fields. I set up Penney looking away from me with Leonard just behind her doing his best to look like a suitable suitor; hopefully, making a randy tom jealous with rage. I set up my fully camouflage body against a jumble of fallen trees a dozen yards into the woods. After listening for half-an-hour, I tried a lonesome hen call. Nuttin’ honey. Eventually, I tried a gobble call. That attracted some attention. I shut up. The gobbler was not far down what we call the Stairway hollow. It gobbled a second time. I froze. My senses heightened a bit and the hair on my neck started to stiffen. There were song birds flitting about. I scanned the field edges to my left. Then an angry bushy tail set off the alarm, right above me, chattering loudly. After a while, say twenty minutes at least, this got old. Rocky doesn’t know how close he came to meeting my shotgun. I held tight. Then there was a gobble. Much closer. A small bird started chirping, “neener neerner” over and over again nearby. A good thing I hoped. I realized that the tom was spitting and drumming a bit. Close. I slowly, I thought glacier pace like, shifted my shotgun and pushed off the safety. Then it happened. “Putt pause Putt pause …” from the field in front of me. RATS with big tails! I was so intent on the tom in the woods, I didn’t notice that a hen had dropped in on Leonard and Penney. @#! Shakespeare is said to have coined the phrase, “The jig is up!” indicating the end of the show. That was all she wrote for me too. I was stiff, in need of voiding my bladder, and in need of another cup of coffee. When you are 74, getting up from the ground after a nearly three hour sit is not pretty. I managed to push myself up onto the log I had been lounging against and eventually enough blood flowed back into my feet. Out in the field the sun was getting hot. Next time. No turkey dinner, but another great hunting memory for me.
Until next time, get out – I gotta shout out to my sister Diane. She turns really old today (April 24). Hope you have a great birthday Sis.
Oh, our cousin Susan Uppena sent this turkey hunting story: “after reading your column this morning, I thought I’d share Carl’s turkey story. He and our grandson Beckett were sitting in a blind during the youth hunt last Sunday. They had put a decoy out a ways from the blind, and suddenly an eagle swooped down and attacked it, then spent some time walking around it. One confused eagle, I’m sure. They said it was pretty funny to watch. Needless to say, with eagles around they did not get a turkey.”
Great hunt I’d say. Thanks Sue.
Pray for peace.
One pic is of the view from near the downed barn. I took it
The other is of Earth Day morning at our place. I took that too.
Greg Koelker is a lifelong resident of the Driftless region along the Mississippi River. He is the acclaimed author of the “Grouse Hollow Journal,” a column that celebrates rural life, nature, family heritage, and the traditions that bind communities together. While technically focused on the “outdoors,” his writing often explores broader themes of community values and education.
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