The Hallelujah Longbeard

If you've hunted turkeys for long, you've probably had at least one very memorable bird strut its way into your life. Whether it strutted back out or not may be part of the overall memory, but I tend to best recall the longbeards I was able to carry out over my shoulder. Here's one that was on the losing end of Devine Intervention. Really. After all, it's my story...

In 2007 my brother accompanied me on a trip to my favorite out-of-state turkey stomping grounds, Pulaski, Tennessee. Early in our trip, Ricky and I each killed respectable longbeards, but then the weather pulled off wet and cool, and the birds got tight-lipped. We spent a couple of days running-and-gunning various parts of Giles County, but to no avail. Late on a Saturday afternoon I took a forced march to a green field about a mile behind the house we were staying in, and retreated deep into my GoreTex as a late-day drizzle turned into something like rain.

Nestled under an old "wolf" oak tree on a pasture fence row, I let the frustrations of the past 2 days soak in. Truth be told, if I'd been back home in Indiana I'd have headed back to the house. But since I was on a turkey hunting trip, after all, and had paid the hefty cost of the out-of-state license, I guilted myself into staying put.

To occupy the time, while I prayed for day to fade to dark post-haste, I did my best to catch a nap. Try as I might, the incessant roll of raindrops off the bill of my camo baseball cap kept me suspended in that melatonin-hazed netherworld, just between wakefulness and full sleep.

After a few neck-jerking exercises, I started to pull hard toward full consciousness. With my eye lids balancing about 50-50 between open and closed, I started to rally around the thought that I was hearing far-off gobbling. Eventually my brain and ears collaborated on that distant noise and concluded that it was indeed gobbling I was hearing. After 2 days of sitting the bench, I was back in the turkey hunting game!

I hit my feet, grabbed my weathered 870 and headed toward the long, narrow-spined wooded ridge that I knew the bird was on. It was 30 minutes before sundown, and I suspected the overcast conditions would bring dark to the Tennessee hills just a little sooner than usual.

Knowing the terrain, I was expecting the gobbler to head right down the spine of the ridge he was on, ending up in a fairly broad and open flat at the ridge's northern terminus. And I knew that if I didn't double-time it I'd never make it there without him seeing me cross the pasture valley between "his" ridge and the one I was currently standing on.

As I stopped to catch my breath, and course the bird, I was encouraged to hear him still gobbling - alot. But it didn't take long to figure out that he was stalled out on the ridge, and already too close to the flat for me to get there. I was going to have to roost him and come back in the morning - or was I?

No sooner than I'd caught my breath, the gobbler turned and headed back south. Both his ridge and mine curved away to the west as they ran south, and I thought there might just be a chance that I could get around him and cut him off in the last 20-odd minutes of the day. I could stay put and roost him from a distance, or go after him and try to get the job done. If I didn't kill him, I'd at least get close enough to him to know which tree he was in for a morning set-up. I started the 1/2 mile end-around.

The first part of the run was easy - mostly down-hill, and all in open fields or on well-worn cattle paths. But getting back up the hogsback ridge that loudmouthed gobbler was on nearly popped the lungs on this Indiana flatlander. But with every gobble I felt more and more like I was being taunted, so on I went.

When I finally reached the top the bird was still gobbling, but it quickly became obvious that in going far enough past him to insure I wouldn't accidentally bump him, I'd blown any chance of killing him before dark. As that reality, like evening darkness, was settling in, the sound of distant wingbeats cut through the heavy, damp Tennessee air. Despite my heaving lungs, I held my breath, hoping I wasn't the cause of those wing sounds I was hearing. A few seconds of waiting allayed my fears - "g-g-g-g-o-o-o-o-o-b-b-b-b-b-b-l-l-l-l-l-l-e-e-e-e-e-e-". He was roosted, and no more than 75 yards from where I stood, panting.

I eased forward, slow and steady. Just a few yards down the old ridge-top logging lane, I spied him, all alone, and still singing his one-word song. Content with my afternoon's progress, I turned around and began the long walk back to my home-away-from-home. It was poker night back at the house, and with a lonley, loud-mouthed tom roosted, I was feeling plenty lucky!

The plan for the morning was simple. I was going right back to where I'd stood at dark the night before, and let my brother have the north end of the ridge in that open hardwood flat toms so enjoy strutting in. We figured that if I didn't kill him at flydown, he'd head back out the ridge, and right into Ricky's lap. Foolproof. Foolproof?

As the eastern horizon slowly brightened, I settled quietly into the fold of a ridgetop oak and waited for the show to start. As expected, the longbeard, still in the same tree - different limb - sounded off only slightly after the neighborhood songbirds started in. There I was, undetected and within 75 yards of a head that begged for jellying.

He didn't wait long to fly down. I somehow managed to keep my diaphragm call in my cheek until he hit the ground. Then I gave a soft series of yelps that was met with an instant, roaring response. I felt almost guilty; this was going to be easy.

This has become a long story, so let me hasten the ending a bit. Instead of walking into my lap, that longbeard "yo-yo'ed" back and forth between my brother and me, always staying just out of shotgun range of either of us. Just as I'd expect to hear my brother's gun break the Sunday morning stillness, I'd hear the gobbles coming back my way. We were being played!

Nearly an hour into the hunt I decided it was time to make a move. After all, I'd only stayed put this long because my brother was on the other end of the ridge. With my anxiety growing I reasoned that even if I bumped the bird he'd still end up in Ricky's vicinity. So as the sound of gobbles became ever-more distant, I made that bent-over shuffle we've all made, from tree to tree, cover to cover. I advanced my position about 75 yards and settled back in.

Sure enough, it wasn't 2 minutes before that darned bird reveresed course and headed right back my way. I gave him a few reassuring yelps, then stuck my call back in my left cheek, while bringing the gun to my right. And sure enough, here he came. I was going to get a shot - but as it turns out, it wasn't going to be easy.

About 50 yards up the ridge the old road split, with an almost undetectable old lane running west, downslope, toward a small pasture field. Instead of walking into my lap, the gobbler veered to his right and proceeded to edge off the ridgetop. I knew the distance was "iffy," but the woods was clean and clear, and I had him dead in my sights. With a squeeze of the trigger I sent a swarm of Federal Heavyweight #6 shot downrange. I was hitting my feet as the old ridgerunner was hitting the leaves.

This is where it get's almost surreal. The bird was flopping, and I didn't want his downhill momentum to give him any chance of escaping. With sleep-tingled legs, I stumbled my way to my feathered prize as fast as I could. I'd no more than gotten my hands around the longbeard's legs than, as loud and clear as if I'd been standing under a church steeple, the sound of the Hallelujah Chorus came spilling in over the south Tennessee hills.

Standing there, hands on turkey legs, I let out a whoop to reassure my brother that he could get up and head my way. Then I simply stood there while Handel's famous overture filled the air. The timing was so perfect that I figured the Good Lord must have willed this turkey into my life. Now I know, sceptics will say that Christ Himself wouldn't do such a thing, but if you'd been there that morning, praying like I was for the chance to put a tag on that longbeard's leg, you'd know Devine Intervention is possible, even in the turkey woods!

This is the church from my story - see the loudspeakers on top?!

To better explain the source of the music, one ridge over from where I was hunting stands a beautiful old country church. In fact, it's the one my friends Andy and Audra were married in. Each Sunday morning their loudspeaker system broadcasts beautiful praise music across the entire neighborhood before the Sunday services start. It just so happens that the first song that Sunday morning coincided with that longbeard singing his last praises; If I hadn't already been a convert, I can promise you I'd have become one that day!

Hallelujah indeed!

JAKE BREAK

I'm not too proud to say I've shot a jake (or 4 or 5) in my turkey hunting career.  In Tennessee a few seasons back I killed 2 on consecutive days.  I'm trigger happy, and make no apologies for it.  But I don't normally try to transfer my blood lust onto others.  I say that as preface to the video you're about to watch, taken on my 2009 trip to Tennessee.

The hunter is Sean Collins, and this hunt took place on his farm in Giles County.  Tennessee regulations allow a hunter to kill 4 spring birds, and at the start of this hunt, Sean had already tagged 3 April longbeards.  That previous trio fell to the miracle of modern smokeless powder; for the 4th, Sean was toting his Hoyt Alpha Max. 

When a gang of jakes showed up in our decoys spread, Sean decided, without any help from me, to thin the juvenile population a little.  But he needed 2 tries!

Hey, sometimes it's nice to take a break from the pressures of chasing limbhangers!

BLACK HILLS AND WHITE STRIPES

Several years back my brother and I took a May trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota to chase the subspecies of turkey named in honor of the late zoologist, Clinton Hart Merriam.

Meliagris gallopavo meriami, or the Merriam's wild turkey, is one of the 5 subspecies of wild turkeys that compose the slam most turkey hunters aspire to.  Our 2002 trip was the first time either my brother or I efforted to bag this beautiful, white-accented cousin of the Eastern subspecies we routinely chase back home here in Indiana.

While the weather was fickle, and the birds scattered, we did have a great time in the beautiful western hill country of South Dakota.  Ricky managed to tag a nearly-beardless 2-year old tom during a snowstorm, but try as I might, I couldn't connect.  It was an awesome trip, regardless, and I wasn't even back in Indiana yet when I started making plans to go back.

So in 2003 I returned to the Black Hills with another hunting buddy of mine, Andy Edwards.  Just 2 days into our week-long trip, Andy managed to connect on a beautiful bird that I had heard gobbling at dark the night before.  Andy and I spent the next few days driving around the Hills in search of another lonely longbeard, eventually ending up back at our jumping-off point near the town of Lead. 

The last day of the hunt Andy dropped me off, before daylight, in a spot that had proved to hold birds the year before.  His plan was to trout fish most of the day, but check in on me at noon, and every 2 hours after that, in case I killed a bird.  We had a designated meeting spot about 3/4 mile up the access road from where I was hunting, and Andy planned to spend about 15 minutes sitting tight each trip in, giving me a little flexibility for showing up.

At about 2:10 that afternoon, I was surprised to see my white Ford truck coming across the valley bottom I was watching.  I stood up and waved for Andy, and he quickly drove to meet me.  "Man, I was sitting in the truck playing tennis on my cell phone when a longbeard started up within 50 yards of the truck.  I figured I'd better come see if you wanted to go after him."

That's all it took.  By 2:20 I was sliding off the bumper while Andy drove on.  But try as I might, I couldn't seem to strike that bird.  I did a nearly mile-long end-around, covering the entire circumference of the roadside "bowl" Andy had heard him in earlier.  In disgust, I walked back down the logging road and stood at our pre-arranged pick-up spot to wait for Andy to come back.  The only problem was, in our hurry to get back to the bird before he shut up, we hadn't make any plan for exactly when Andy would return.

As it turns out, it didn't matter.  No more than I'd hit the bend in the road where I'd been dropped off, that longbeard lit up all on his own about 1/4 mile east of where I stood.  He was in a big cutover, full of a thick stand of pine regrowth.  I headed up-hill to get above him, hoping I could make him come back toward the road where Andy had heard him earlier.

My first set of yelps got a quick response.  By now the bird had been gobbling just fine on his own, but when I gave him the proper incentive, he started a darned-near maddening series of gobbles that would last until I pulled the trigger nearly 90 minutes later.

The hill I was climbing, now trying to cut him off as he streaked back my way, was the tallest and steepest around.  Try as I might, I couldn't get to the top, or even far enough around the side, to get in front of him.  Gobbling with every breath, that Merriam's longbeard proceeded right around me on the opposite side of the hill, then across the road and back into the bowl he'd been in when Andy first heard him.

I followed.  He gobbled.  I snuck closer.  He moved away.  I followed.  He gobbled.  I snuck closer.  He moved away.  This cat-and-mouse game went on for over an hour, with me worrying all the while that Andy would drive back up the road and bump the bird in the process.

Then, with only about 30 minutes of legal shooting light left, the tom crossed back over the road and started making his way east toward a mature stand of conifers.  I figured he was headed to roost, and I might just as well see where.  If Andy was willing, I could extend our trip by 1 morning, hoping to get a crack at this roosted bird.

So as the longbeard started putting ground between me and him, still gobbling his fool head off, I crossed the road and headed straight back uphill, hoping to get high enough to give him a good listen.  In over 70 minutes of chasing him, I still hadn't layed eyes on him.  For me, just seeing him was going to be a moral victory.

As I dashed toward the crest of the hill, I could tell the bird had changed his course a little.  Slowing down to get a better fix on him, I was stunned to figure out that he was actually getting CLOSER.  And, he wasn't wasting any time in doing it.  I parked my camoed hind end against the nearest pine tree, and heart racing, barrel swaying, pointed upslope toward the approaching turkey.

At about 40 yards that gobbler finally showed himself, strutting down off the edge of an old logging lane.  It took me a second to comprehend that he was actually standing there, in full bloom, with nothing between me and him but the clean cool May air of the Black Hills.  "Never shoot a strutting bird" did enter my mind - for a second - when I centered my sights on his slick, red, strutting head.

I did pay him the courtesy of letting him touch off one last gobble before I snapped that thin clean line between sear and firing pin.  As my payload arrived, feathers flew, and the gobbler started rolling downhill.  I pounced.  Only a couple of hours before I was facing the reality of going home from my second South Dakota trip without tagging a bird.  I wasn't about to let this one get his feet, or wings, under him. 

Post-mortem pictures show that, in my exuberance, that tom lost a few neck feathers.  About 4 days earlier I'd poked fun at Andy for "denuding" the bird he shot as it flopped toward the edge of a pretty deep ravine.  I knew the payback was going to stink, but with a huge "whoop" of relief I threw my partially-plucked longbeard over my shoulder and darn-near floated the 100 yards back to the access road. 

No sooner had my boots hit the gravel then Andy came driving up.  I figured he'd been waiting patiently back at the main road and heard my shot-and-holler.  Turns out, he was just coming back in to check on me.  Had he done so 5 minutes earlier he'd have ruined my hunt for sure.  As it turns out, his timing was perfect.

It was nearly dark before we could start snapping pictures, but I'm not sure there were 2 happier turkey hunters anywhere in the Black Hills that night.  As we drove back into Lead to get a hotel room - and a for-real shower (not just milkjugs of water dumped over our heads), we kept reliving the highlights of our trip.  As we dug deep into the back of the truck for our "going to town" clothes, I asked Andy where he'd put my gun.  Let's just say that Andy got the first shower that night.  I got to drive 30 miles back out to the top of a nice green hillside, complete with scattered, white-tipped feathers, to retrieve my favorite fowling piece.  It's a trip I'd make again in a heartbeat.

DEER DAZE

It's official - Indiana deer season is now closed.  The late archery season ended on Sunday, January 3.  In an earlier post I shared a few photographs from the 2009 season.  While looking around for some turkey images, I ran across a folder with several deer photos from years past, and thought I'd share a few.  Some day I'll scan in some images from the pre-digital camera era, if for no other reason than to prove that I once had a full head of hair!  Note: The photo comes first, the year/hunter/story after.

2007 - Archery: Randy Dickson (that's me)

This deer doesn't carry the biggest rack, but he did have great mass and was 5.5 years old (by tooth wear and replacement criteria).  He also happened to be HUGE of body.  We didn't have a way to weigh him, but I've killed 3 bucks that dressed over 200 lbs, and this one was far bigger than any of those.  He also had a really cool hole in the back of his right main beam, with the beam being porous way out toward the tip. 

2008 - Archery: Eric Sampson

Eric killed this deer while hunting with me in northern Indiana's Marshall County.  The buck nets right at 140, which is awfully solid for an 8-pointer.  As you can see, the deer had great mass throughout.  While we were taking pictures, my brother called to tell me he'd just shot a buck with his bow......keep reading!

2008 - Archery: Rick Dickson

Ricky shot this deer late in the morning, approaching noon, well after most guys have normally left the woods.  This is proof positive that when you're hunting good habitat in early-November, all-day sits should be the norm.  This deer grossed in the mid-160s.  He was absolutely worn out from chasing does - skin and bones - but his antlers didn't shrink any!

2001 - Archery: Randy Dickson

I killed this buck mid-afternoon on November 7 (my favorite day to be in a stand). He was with a doe that was coming into estrus, but hadn't quite made it yet.  After pushing her around, out of range, for nearly 2 hours, the doe finally walked past my stand.  He wasn't so lucky!  It was nearly 70 degees that day - don't let a little thing like warm weather keep you from hunting (especially when the rut is kicking in).

2005 - Archery: Rick Dickson

A good, clean harvest of a nice 3.5 year old buck.  My brother has since learned to pass these 120 inch bucks up - I'm not quite there yet!

2002 - Shotgun: Wally Palmer

This buck came out of standing corn to a ground blind set-up Wally had on opening day of the 2002 Indiana firearm season.  The buck was approaching Wally's decoy, with bad intentions, when Wally sealed the deal.  This is one of those deer that proves net score doesn't always measure the quality of a buck.

2003 - Archery: Randy Dickson

This is by no means a monster deer.  But that's a monster smile on the face of my nephew, Brandon.  I settled into a fresh stand at 12:30 p.m. on a cool early-November afternoon.  By 1:00 p.m. I was walking out, having heard this buck "crash up" in standing corn boardering the woodlot where I'd just shot him.  Talk about quick!  When I drove to dad's to see if he'd give me a hand, my brother and nephew happened to be there.  It was great to have 3 generations of Dickson deer hunters go make the recovery!

2008 - Shotgun: Baleigh Dickson
And in the air of saving the best for last, this is my niece with her first-ever deer.  She killed it on opening day of the '08 Indiana firearm season.  It was a perfect double-lung shot at 40 yards, and the buck piled up in the thick stuff about 30 yards from where he was standing when Baleigh let fly.  The buck was a heavy-based 2-year old 9-point, and as the smile shows, Baleigh was happy to take him.  And the best part of all (for me) was that I got to be in the tree with her when she pulled the trigger!  The smile behind the camera was as big as the one in front of it!

There you are - a few of the deer that helped make the memories that drive me, my family, and friends back to the deer woods each fall.  If you aren't part of the grand deer hunting fraternity, you probably don't understand why we cherish these moments so much!

OF WOOD STOVES AND DECOYS

When the weather is nice, I tend to keep busy outside. Mounting turkeys in the confines of the basement workshop doesn't seem like much fun when I could be squirrel hunting, gardening, fixing fence, managing food plots, cutting firewood - you get the point. But now that winter weather has really kicked in here in northern Indiana, spending evenings and weekends in the shop - 10 feet from the wood stove - seems like a pretty good alternative to making snotty "beardcicles" while shoveling out the driveway.

In December, I finished mounting the last of my client orders for 2009. Now I'm mounting turkeys that I killed, or were donated to me by family and friends. Once finished, these birds will be: 1) sold; 2) donated to NWTF functions; 3) used in the upcoming spring season. And the reality is that unless winter lasts until August, I'll never get around to mounting all the turkeys I have in my freezer. Right now I'm thawing out my 2009 spring Indiana bird. Once he's finished there will be a roughly12 more wild bird capes left to go, plus a few wild-colored domestics.

My 2009 Indiana tom - the next bird to become a Thrill Kill Decoy!

Last week I finished a bird donated by good friend and hunting buddy, Sean Collins. Sean lives in Giles County, Tennessee, and was kind enough to let me kill a good tom on his farm in 2009 (another one I haven't "decoyed" yet). When we finished that hunt, Sean said he had a bird in the freezer he'd been saving for me if I wanted it. I've learned never to pass up a wild bird in good condition.  Turns out, not only was it in great shape, but the bird had extraordinary color. It's the prettiest bird I've mounted in a long time.

So as I finish each successive decoy, I'll post a few pictures.  If I was involved in the demise of the bird, I'll even share the hunting story that goes with it.  For the next several weeks I'll keep warm - and busy - in the basement, all the while wishing spring would hurry up and get here!

Snow might be flying outside, but in my mind I see decoy spreads and spring weather!

Beardzilla Lives!

I mentioned in a previous blog that my niece and I video taped, on the opening day of the 2009 Indiana deer firearm season,  a tom turkey with an unusually wide beard.  I won't describe him any further - the video can do all the talking.  Let's just say, in Bill Winke fashion, that this one will be on the "hit list" come April, 2010.

And the follow-up good news is that Ricky (brother) and Brandon (nephew) saw this bird and his running buddy on December 12 while checking muskrat traps.  They let me know about their sighting in a very simple text message - Beardzilla Lives!

I will note, if you listen to the audio, that this bird initially fooled me.  I thought he had multiple beards, but that his overall beard length wasn't exceptionally long.  By the time he left the field I'd come to my senses.  I think he has just one really wide beard, and that it's easily longer than average.  Doesn't really matter - he's a hoss!

Head Case!

As mentioned in a previous post, I think there are lots of reasons that a well-constructed full-mount decoy out-performs all other types of deeks.  But it all boils down to realism, and one of the principal components in making a decoy look life-like is the head. 

Thrill Kill Decoys are built using cast heads, as opposed to freeze-dried heads.  We do this simply because we feel the cast heads are more durable and thus last longer.  They're also fairly easy to repair (when your niece puts holes in them while gunning down her spring longbeard).

A finished hen head and an unpainted tom head

Taxidermists that use cast heads can purchase pre-painted heads, or choose to paint their own.  For me, it takes about 90 minutes to complete a paint job, start to finish.  (Full-time taxidermists can probably cut that in half.)  Comparing the value of my time and materials to the added cost of a pre-painted head (about $25 more than an unpainted head), I feel I benefit financially from doing my own painting.  But more than that, using an airbrush to recreate a head color scheme that fools live birds is professionally rewarding, and that's hard to put a price on.



An unpainted head comes to the shop as an essentially white casting, with ultra-realistic glass eyes pre-set.  We prep the head to insure our laquer-based paint will readily stick, and then begin the painting process.  When we've finished, we clean the eyes of overspray and let the head dry before spraying a sealer on it (normally about 24 hours post-painting).  It's amazing how a decoy head "comes to life" once the overspray has been removed from the eyes - another reason why full-mount decoys are so much more realistic than cheap plastic birds.

A wide range of paint colors are needed to paint a turkey head - tom or hen

A small "hobby" compressor will easily drive an airbrush

If you have any artistic ability, you might want to give head painting a try.  If nothing else, you can use an airbrush to repaint the heads on your plastic deeks.  After all, plastic decoys are mass-produced, which means they are "fast-produced", and in the overseas shops that most deeks are made in, quantity, not quality, is the objective.

After all, if you were a wary old gobbler (or hen), which one would most likely fool you?