Two Minute Tom

The worst conditions make for the most memorable hunts

I had seen him cross the large open field behind the house two weeks ago and hadn’t seen him since. His beard resembled the anchor line on my duckboat, ¾” thick and dragging on the ground beneath his proud chest. I tracked him across the field with my glasses from my wife’s art studio, surrounded by tall windows overlooking the fields to the west. The Adirondacks faded into a heliotrope haze in the distance across Lake Champlain. As he swaggered across the field, I followed him with the binoculars, watching him disappear into the sugar woods. I circled the 300-acre farm where we live for two weeks, seeking him on rainy days when most turkeys will come out of the woods, employing the safety of their keen eyesight. Several times, young jakes would boldly step into the hay fields from the shelter of the early green canopy of oaks and ash, but the Boss would not be fooled by instinct. He would hold tight on the roost on the top of the hill behind the berry farm and wait until all the juveniles performed their raucous fly-down cackles, then gently set his powerful wings and glide downward onto the rain-soaked soil under the pines on the edge of the field. Never a sound. Like an owl swooping down silently on its prey, he found his warring rhythm reminiscent of Sun Tzu’s “Art of War.” He knew what it was to be hunted, he knew how to survive to win another day of our verdant Vermont spring. He was the Boss. When he gobbled on the roost, his deep-throated vocal thunder let his minions know that his royal station was unquestionable. When he finished his proclamation of dominance, no other bird would sound off after him. I had heard him a few times just as dusk had swept over the open fields behind the airplane hangar. But the echo resonated in a manner that deceived the listener about the location of his roost. He had learned to manipulate his stance in the high branches of a pine that allowed him to throw his voice in various directions, such that, even though only a couple of hundred yards away, his final vocalizations for the evening sounded like they were miles apart.

I scoured the property for any sign of him. The evening before Opening Day, my lovely bride returned from riding her flea-bitten gray Arabian. I had always thought that moniker was just a pejorative description of a “hayburner,” coined by one of those who don’t appreciate the equine world. I was lectured that the phrase “flea-bitten gray” was actually an acceptable description of the color on the equine artist’s palette. Upon riding into the back yard, my wife pulled her horse up to a “whoa” in front of me and looked down from her fourteen-hand pony. She was smiling and spoke excitedly, “Guess what I saw tonight?” Of course, now she had my rapt attention. “You know that big tom you’ve been looking for the last two weeks?” “Uh-huh?” “Well, as we rode by the edge of the field by the pines tonight, he spooked out of the tall grass, and I saw him fly up over the pines and into the swamp that you said is impossible to walk in. I stopped for a minute, and he gobbled so loudly that it spooked us.” Okay, now this was a serendipitous reconnaissance. I had an idea where to start for tomorrow’s Opener.

Before retiring for the night, I set out all my gear and took the diaphragm calls in the small circular Tupperware container filled with half water/half mouthwash out of the freezer to thaw on the counter. My trusted original Benelli Super Black Eagle, now 25 years old, was gently positioned by the door. 3 ½” 12 gauge number 4’s were in the turkey vest, along with my classic box call, a slate and glass hand call, and my favorite call, given to me by a friendly biker I had met years ago – a painted turtle shell with slate cover and a turkey wing-bone striker. All items in their proper pockets.

I could not sleep, of course, and when I finally did nod off, my bride, who is no slouch of a turkey caller, started in on her routine of gentle hen clucks. I shot upward in bed and looked around to see where I was. The joke may have lasted longer if I hadn’t heard her guffawing into her pillow. It was only 1:30 am. The rest of the night, I did the standard toss and turn battle for blankets that most domesticated men experience. At 3:30 am, I rolled over, looked at the luminescent numerals on the clock, and muttered an appropriate expletive, declaring it was useless to even try to go back to sleep.

I walked out the back door, headlamp ripping into the dark and silhouetting the garden as I walked by. I had been ruminating all night long about how I might approach this bird in the swamp that took no names, but swallowed many a boot. I decided to approach from the north end, through the pucker brush and cattails that lined the swamp. Not knowing exactly which tree the old boy had chosen for his roost, I stood in the dark, dank earth before stepping into the abyss. I would wait until he gobbled on his roost and gave away his position in what would become one of the best chess games of my turkey hunting career.

At precisely 5:12 am, he let out a roar and half a dozen other birds, all high-pitched jakes, imitated his majesty with gusto, but more of a contralto tone than the deep and powerful Verdi baritone of a master of opera. His call echoed a bit but revealed that it had come from the south end of the swamp. I would have to risk the boot-sucking morass of primordial ooze, jumping from hummock to hummock to cross through. It felt a bit like I was in a Monty Python classic, and like all those sworn into knighthood, I had to carry on. Time was slipping by at a quick pace as I lumbered toward the last call. I stopped a few times to catch my breath and noticed that hours had slipped by. I was not making solid progress. When I looked at my watch after wading across a small stream with roots and vines tangling me at every step, it was now 10:40 am. I reached into my right pocket, extracted my loudest diaphragm call, and cut loose, venting my frustration in volume. And what happened next was nothing short of absolute wonderment. I got an answer. I railed on the call again. And again, another vociferous reply, but from far, far away. I had to cover ground and decided that if it meant that water went over the top of my rubber Lacrosse boots, so be it. Discomfort might be the necessary ingredient in this match of wits. I put my mind into what my old friend Johnny called “bull and jam mindset.” Like a moose in a china shop (“bulls can’t do as much damage as a moose,”) Johnny used to say. I plowed through brush, tearing my shirtsleeves on brambles, prickers ripping at my thighs through the heavy canvas trousers, I was determined to get closer to “my bird.” At this point, I figured that if I had to work this hard and was willing to have my appendages torn asunder, I deserved to call this “my” bird.

It was now 11:00 am when I had finally pushed through the swamp to a small piece of high ground just inside the edge of the field. I positioned myself against the base of an old oak, which gave me a clear shot at about twenty yards if he came in from the field. I called again. Loudly. He screamed back before I had finished the crescendo. But how did he get on the other side of the stream that fed the swamp? I kept calling, and he kept answering. But any good turkey hunter knows that you can’t get a tom to cross a stream or a fence unless you’re not around to see it. I looked at my watch again. 11:35 am. And he’s on the other side of the stream, probably with the girl of his dreams. How am I supposed to get him to ditch her, jump over the stream, then come 300 yards down the field to me? And all in just 25 minutes? All I could do was try. I had never been successful with this strategy, but damn it, I paid for this bird with my own blood, so I’ll give it everything I’ve got. I called. He called back. Again, and again. Soon, the gobble began to get closer. Did he really cross that stream? More seductive dialogue, and he kept replying, getting closer each time. I looked at my watch again. 11:55 am. In Vermont, turkeys get a hall pass for the rest of the day if they haven’t met their match by noon. I clucked loudly, this time using the turtle call with the wing-bone striker. He replied again, even more enthusiastically. He liked that old turtle call. I looked at my watch again. 11:57 am. One more call and it’s over. As I was about to bear down on the slate one more time, I saw a red head peeking out from behind a deadfall. I raised my gun to my shoulder and sighted down the barrel. I twisted my left wrist to look at the watch one more time. 11:58 am. Two minutes. I drew a deep breath and surrendered my will. If he peeks his head out from behind that pine tree, I will take my shot. With a tick more than a minute left. I held my breath, chin on the stock, my right eye lined up with the bead at the end of the barrel. Peek-a-boo. BANG! The shot echoed around me. The King laid down his crown on the soft green moss of the musky earth.