Nothing's Changed
Turkey hunting is still stupid
Turkey hunting is stupid, and I can prove it. You get up at three frigging thirty in the morning, drive a hundred miles out into the country, and just as the sun is rising, you blow into in a contraption trying to sound like an owl. What you really sound like is a fat man getting out of his recliner. Then, you listen, breathlessly, and don’t hear a damn thing. So, you walk about a mile, try again, and a turkey gobbles back where you parked the truck.
Now you sprint back from whence you came, throw out some foam decoys that look like meth-addicted chickens, and pull on a face mask. The mask is to prevent the turkey bird from recognizing you as the world renown turkey hunting expert you are. An hour later your ass is numb, your decoys have fallen over, you’ve pulled two ticks from your nether regions, you’ve not seen or heard anything resembling a turkey bird. And of course, you have to poop. But your toilet paper fell out of your turkey vest during your early morning, mile-long run.
Turkey shotguns are almost as stupid. Sometimes, for some unknown reason, a turkey bird will walk in your direction. This has nothing to do with your calling expertise; turkeys – like all wild creatures – just like to walk around outside. Sometimes they’ll even walk close enough for you to shoot at them with a shotgun. When this happens, you’ll pull a trigger on a three-inch magnum packed full of hundreds of rare-earth mineral pellets. But somehow, someway, with you on the verge of a concussion, the turkey bird manages a Matrix-like contortion and slips through the cloud of death you’ve thrown his way.
Of course, these facts don’t discourage those who believe they’re participating in North America’s greatest outdoor adventure. They risk their jobs and marriages each spring, and they even max out credit cards trying to gear themselves to success. Just the other day my son, Bat, showed up like he was heading to a camouflage fashion show. He explained how his new Sitka turkey hunting outfit made of lightweight, moisture wicking, insect repelling, breathable fabric, had every stitch and pocket perfectly positioned to enhance his turkey hunting experience. He said that while wearing it, he was – literally – invisible to turkeys.
He also had a new camo-clad, semi-auto Mossberg 940 Pro Turkey shotgun, so devilishly compact and ominous, it resembled an entry weapon for a SWAT team. It came from the factory with a receiver cut for a miniature reflex sight and he had a brand new one already installed. He said the sight had a motion sensor to turn it on, an ambient light sensor to control dot brightness, and the batteries would last for 20,000 hours. He also had several boxes of turkey-killing shells that only cost $13.00 a piece. A, “turkey’s worst nightmare” is what he called it all. He asked me to shoot it. I agreed. Shot it once, and it gave me headache.
By the way, what masochistic fool designed three-inch magnum 12-gauge shells? Do you realize that a 7.5 pound shotgun loaded with a three-inch, 2 3/8-ounce shell, will recoil with more than 60 foot-pounds of force! Read that again: 60 frigging foot pounds of recoil just to kill a 25 pound bird. To put it all in perspective, a 7.5 pound rifle chambered for the 375 Holland & Holland Magnum, which is suitable for lions, buffalo, elephant, and probably stegosaurus, only recoils with about 45 foot pounds of force.
Bat said his partner in turkey hunting stupidness and him wanted to do a father and son turkey hunt. This of course meant I had to go. Worried I might have shaken something in my cranial vault lose when I fired his shotgun, I agreed, figuring if I was not in the hospital by morning, it would be a good day with my son.
We drove into the wilderness and parked. It was an hour before daylight, and they all stood around drinking coffee and bragging about all the stupid birds they’d outsmarted over their turkey hunting careers. I ate a chocolate chip muffin and some Tylenol. Finally, someone was moved into blowing an owl call and the timber came alive with gobbles. We made a plan, and sons with fathers headed out.
After hours of walking and calling, Bat said we had to move on a bird that would not shut up. So, we walked a mile in the absolute least direct route to where all the gobbles were coming from. An hour later, my knees were screaming at me, but the gobbler was too, just the other side of a briar patch where Brer Rabbit wouldn’t go. So, we threw out decoys and hid in what I’m sure was deer tick paradise. But no matter the enticements Bat scratched out on his hundred-dollar call, the bird would thunder back with what sounded to me like, “If you want some of this, come and get it.”
About that time a hen began calling behind us and I thought it was Will and his father. (It was.) Bat said, “That bird is not coming. I gotta go get him.” I told him he could not sneak up on a turkey bird in a briar thicket. He ignored me – nothing new – and vanished into the bramble. Moments later, while I was standing talking to Will and his father about important stuff — like rifles — Bat emerged with a big smile and a dead gobbler.
Driving home, it finally hit me what all this turkey hunting stupidness is really about. Turkey hunting is not really hunting. Turkeys are too stupid to hunt. They won’t come when you try to lure them with free sex, and sometimes they’re so irresponsibly retarded they’ll let you sneak up and shoot them in the face. Turkey hunting is just about getting lucky. It might be the ultimate search for luck. But because most hunters believe turkeys are so damned smart, this luck – when found – is masqueraded behind illusions of turkey hunting skill.
When I got home, I poured three fingers of whiskey, chewed a handful of ibuprofen, and took a nap. I woke up to my phone chiming. It was a text from my son, “You want to go with me again in the morning?”
I thought on it, and texted back, “If you really want me to.” Then I placed the phone on silent and rolled over. Drifting back to sleep, I realized my head had stopped hurting, and I was grinning.
Why was I grinning? Well, partly because the symptoms of a mild concussion usually disappear within about 48 hours. But also, partly because, there are few things as exciting as the thought that tomorrow you just might get lucky. Lucky enough to kill a turkey or win the lottery. (The chances of either happening seem about the same.) But most importantly — regardless of how stupid turkey hunting might be — lucky enough to get to spend another day hunting with your son.
If you pass on a chance to do that then you are as stupid as those damned turkeys. So stupid you could not count to three if someone gave you two of the numbers.
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