MADISON COUNTY WMA -- Of all the turkeys I've tagged in my life, the gobbler I killed Monday meant the most.
It was the first Ozark gobbler, and my first mountain gobbler. It was also the only turkey killed during the controlled hunt April 23-25 at Madison County Wildlife Management Area.
After a weekend of missed chances, bad decisions and poor timing, redemption smiled in the dawning minutes of the last day.
Madison County WMA sprawls across 14,700 acres of steep, rugged country about 15 miles north of Huntsville. Its hills aren't very high, but its hollows are very deep. Loose chert covers nearly every acre, just waiting to roll an ankle or wrench a knee.
Turkey hunting is allowed at Madison County WMA for only six days, in two controlled hunts that took place April 16-18 and April 23-25.
The Arkansas Game and Fish Commission awards a small number of permits through a computerized lottery, but some winners don't claim their permits. If you're lucky, you might buy an unclaimed permit in a special, first-come, first-served online sale.
I got really lucky. I got permits for both hunts in the online sale. I needed the second one because the first hunt was a bust.
On Saturday I hunted a different part of the WMA than usual. That was a big mistake. Saturday was warm and gorgeous, and sightseers from Fayetteville and Bentonville combed the area looking for waterfalls. They were not aware that a turkey hunt was in progress.
On Sunday, I went to a place where nobody ever goes. I saw turkeys there the first weekend, but none were legal to shoot.
Getting there required walking about three-quarters of a mile. I placed my seat against the base of a giant pine tree that gave me a good view of the bench from which the birds approached the previous week.
I barely settled when a turkey answered my call with deep, raspy clucks, like those of a guinea fowl, except much louder. They came from the wrong direction, and my tree obscured my vision.
The air was still and cool, and the clucks echoed among the trees. When the bird entered the clearing, the clucks became quieter and more plaintive. Then, they stopped.
Minutes later, a hen appeared to my right. She saw me, reversed course and clucked all the way back down the hill.
About 90 minutes later, a gobbler came in hot from the same direction. I clucked softly and purred twice. The tom gobbled three times and went quiet. I shouldered my shotgun and waited for him to crest the knob.
I held that pose for nearly 70 minutes. When I couldn't hold it any longer, I made the most elemental mistake in turkey hunting.
I quit.
When I stood, a big gobbler flushed like a grouse out of a blackberry bramble 60 yards away. It flew across the hollow, as if in slow motion.
I took a break and visited Bobby Wilson, the WMA manager.
"When a bird hangs up just out of sight for an hour and a half, what the Sam Hill is he doing?" I asked.
"He probably smells a little mouse," Wilson said, stifling a chuckle. "He's just out there, taking his time and checking things out. That's probably a very old bird, and he's old for a reason. I've waited like that until noon sometimes. Those are the most rewarding birds because they're the hardest to kill."
"Should I bother to go back after bumping him like that?" I asked.
"There's probably more than one tom in there," Wilson said. "He didn't see you. He just saw movement, so he'll be back."
So that's what the Sam Hill he was doing. That's his morning sunning spot where he goes to chill.
From that side, the ridge tapers gently into a deep hollow where several birds gobbled at dawn. That slope is an easy route for birds to travel in and out of the hollow.
At the edge of the thick woods is a giant pine tree with a blackberry bramble curling around its back like a horseshoe. I could sit against that tree and have a clear view of the hillside, and the bramble would shield me from behind. A bird would only see me if it walked in front of me, and it would be very close.
I walked all the way back to the truck and brought back a pop-up blind. I removed it from its bag and changed my mind. A pop-up isn't right for that spot.
I lugged it back to the truck and returned with my stealth chair. As I placed it against the tree, I noticed the little bag of stakes that had fallen from the blind bag.
It was providential, a sign to show me I was precisely in the right spot.
The outcome of this little adventure was ordained. All I had to do was be there. I left the chair, my backpack and decoys and a ghillie poncho so I wouldn't have to carry them in the morning.
Back at camp I whipped up a delicious stir fry of thinly sliced ribeye, fresh garlic, red pepper, yellow onion and mushrooms sauteed in olive oil. I washed it down with a cold Lagunita's IPA and plunged into a deep, restful sleep.
Next morning I brewed myself a big cup of coffee and began the long walk to the pine tree, but not before I accidentally hit the panic button on my key fob. All of the lights on my pickup flashed, and the horn got off six good blasts before I wrestled my keys from an elusive pocket that stubbornly repelled my frantic hand.
Every turkey in Madison County must have gobbled, including several from the direction of my pine tree.
The ground there is too hard and rocky to penetrate with a decoy stake, so I planted the dekes in two thick grass clumps. I draped the ghillie over my head and shoulders and called to a trio of distant gobblers.
To tickle their ears I needed a call with a high, sharp, dulcet tone. Two calls made by Eddie Horton in Camden were made to order. One is an Arkansas Razorbox, and the other is one I call "The Heirloom." It is made of red, blue and gray laminate with a mahogany lid. Eddie doesn't make it anymore, but it is the sweetest sounding call I own. I scratched out a few yelps from both, followed by clucks and purrs.
The breeze floated down the hollow, so I know the gobblers heard me. I put the calls down and waited.
At 6:50, a gobbler thundered a few yards behind the pine tree. It was loud enough to rattle windows, and it turned my heart to jelly.
I twisted to the right in my seat and shouldered my Remington V3 12-gauge. My ammo was 3-inch shells stuffed with 1 ½ ounce of Remington Hevi-Shot.
My nerves throbbed as a red, white and blue head bobbed toward the clearing on the other side of the blackberry. I could see that it was a legal gobbler, and another gobbler trailed him.
Five more steps, and the lead bird would step into the clear.
The second bird -- The Wingman -- clucked, and both birds turned to the woods.
I called them back with a silky purr.
The lead bird approached the clearing, but The Wingman turned him again.
"Don't go over there, Boss," he seemed to say, but I spun the Boss with a purr and cluck.
Again The Boss was about to step clear when The Wingman circled around the back of the tree and peered through the blackberry. He clucked nervously, with increasing tempo and volume. The Boss reversed, and I knew they were leaving for good. At 15 yards, I put a bird in the hand.
He only weighed 18.8 pounds, but his beard was 10 ½ inches long. His spurs were 1 inch and 15/16 inch.
I got on my hands and knees where The Wingman last stood and peered at bird-head level through the blackberry. The rising sun behind the blackberry splintered the light into a million glaring shards. The Wingman couldn't possibly have seen me, but he obviously sensed something he didn't like.
I got very emotional as I kneeled and said a prayer of thanksgiving, and I shared the moment by text with friends all over the United States.
Knowing I might never get another chance to hunt this place, I couldn't bring myself to leave. I stayed for hours and imprinted every sight, sound and smell to memory.
It was everything a turkey hunt should be, and that gobbler was the most meaningful I've ever hunted.
I've said the same about them all.
Sports on 05/01/2016