When I was a young boy growing up in Midville, wild turkeys were, for the most part, absent from the landscape. I went to school in Jenkins County and got on the bus in Herndon. My granny was the bus driver, so for at least a couple hours a day I was well behaved. After the bus made its rounds through the country loading children, we made our way back onto Highway 17.
There is a long straight away on the highway that is adjacent to the river swamp that holds one small field. I would see a flock of turkeys in that field with regularity. I was enamored to say the least. I would have my face pressed against the window, straining my eyes in an effort to see every detail of those magnificent birds.
One morning as we were making our way to school, there I sat in the back of the bus, looking for that flock of turkeys. The turkeys were there feeding in that field. My eyes lit up! What happened next was surreal. In the same instant that I saw those turkeys a net was deployed and caught them all.
After I picked my eyeballs up off the floor, I was trying to discern what I had just witnessed. I had read that the state was trapping turkeys and moving them all along the river and creeks in our neck of the woods. I had just witnessed wildlife management at its best from the backseat on that old bus.
After that incredible morning, I began to read all I could on the subject. In the next few years, I started seeing turkeys everywhere. It was a huge success for the state’s restocking program. The last turkeys were stocked in Irwin County in 1998, but by then there was a sizable population across the state.
Growing up there was a small number of dedicated men who hunted turkeys and I always had questions when I could capture their attention. Mr. Jimmy Hancock was always happy to talk to me and share stories of turkey hunting. The first turkey I ever saw that had been taken while hunting was in the back of Mr. Jimmy’s truck at Wayne Dye’s restaurant in Midville.
It was a grand sight for a young boy who was already enthralled with hunting. Mr. Jimmy used to tell me would go for weeks and only hear one bird gobble. I studied that old gobbler laying in the back of his truck all those years ago. I realized then how extraordinary those iridescent colors of the wild turkey truly are.
It would still be years later before I witnessed up close and personal in the woods. Around the mid-nineties I succumbed to the turkey hunting bug. I had a good friend, Steve Bunn, who was quite well versed on turkey hunting that gave me some invaluable knowledge to get me started on my quest to kill a wild turkey.
I remember the first turkey that I ever killed. That scene is forever etched in my mind’s eye. It was a Sunday morning, and I had ventured across the river over into Emanuel County. I was hunting by myself just trying to figure it all out. I was hunting in some mature planted pines that had been thinned and had a fair amount of underbrush interspersed in between.
A gobble! Dear Lord in heaven, I just heard a gobble! I made my way towards that glorious sound. I had barely managed to sit down against one of those towering pines and with hands shaking, I somehow managed to make what I hoped was an appropriate sound on my slate call.
I had no more yelped when I looked up and there was a gobbler walking by me only a few feet away. I threw my call on the ground and raised my gun. The first turkey walked on by, but right behind him was a gobbler in full strut with those gorgeous feathers all puffed up. I took aim and squeezed off a shot from my trusty 12 gauge automatic. There he was flopping on the ground!
I got up and walked to him. I sat down and admired his beauty. I ran my hands through his feathers which were glistening in that early morning sunlight. I had done it! I had killed my first wild turkey all by myself. He was a nice bird. He had a ten-and-a-half-inch beard and an inch and a quarter spurs. He was extremely nice for my very first one.
I flung him over my shoulder and walked back to my truck. I was headed to Midville to find my friend Steve so I could show off my turkey. I also needed Steve to show me how to clean him because I was a true greenhorn in the world of turkey hunting.
That was almost thirty years ago, but the memory is ever fresh in my mind. I was on fire to turkey hunt after that. I reached a point where I hunted almost every single day of the season. I practiced my calling. I bought better camouflage. I eventually gained respect in the turkey woods from others, and I was proud beyond measure.
In the last thirty years I have killed my share of turkeys. I have learned to talk turkey with a call. I have watched myself evolve as a turkey hunter, but more importantly as a person. In the last few years my desire to kill a turkey has waned.
I only use handmade calls. Box calls. Slate calls. Scratch boxes. I employ the practice of scratching leaves and beating a turkey wing on my leg. I hunt with a single shot four-ten shotgun. I call birds up to me that are only a few yards away and then let them walk. I almost never raise the gun to shoot anymore. I just sit there taking it all in while admiring my favorite colors of spring which adorns that old gobbler’s wardrobe.
