Brenda Valentine - Sat. May 4th 2002
This 26 lb., tom had tormented me all season. He was old and very smart. His home was a literal fortress. He roosted each night over a huge swamp tht was flooded by beavers. He flew down each morning into a 80 acre field with a clear view of the surrounding area. I had hunted him at all times of the day and from every scrap of cover available. At the slightest pressure he retreated to the flooded timber. The ever-present flock of resident swamp hens kept him content and busy enough that he never ventured far from security. Decoys and calling had been totally ignored all season. I was forced to sit and glass him proudly fanning much too far out of range for a 12 gauge.
Desperate and tired of being outdone by a bird, I donned hip boots and when the temperatures peaked at midday I took off after MR Smart Tom. I waded down the creek, well hidden below the steep banks and dense briars and brush. The mud and stick beaver dam slowed the water into a large lake full of dead standing trees.
The hip boots buried up in the oozing mud as the murky waters rose to my armpits. I held the Thompson Center shotgun high over my head and slogged on toward the shore of the old turkey's parade ground. I tried to slither up the bank quietly like the resident cotton mouth snakes but actually I hit the bank on a beaver slide and it took me three attempts to crawl up the slick-as-glass steep bank. On my muddy belly, in a patch of poison ivy I caught a glimps of the huge fan tips. The Encore Single Shot and Remington HeviShot No. 5's did a fine job.
Water gushed out of the boots with each step I took toward the downed bird. Finally I lay on my back with my feet in the air trying to drain more of the swamp water. At the check station I formed a puddle while waiting to check my bird in from the thoroughly soaked camo and underwear.
Moral to the turkey hunting story.
If they won't come to you, go to them !
