In retrospect, I probably could have done three or four things differently to end my turkey season positively.
Instead, a few key errors prevented my first tag-out in the Natural State, but Lord, what a glorious failure.
I awoke alert and eager at 4:15 a.m. Monday for my last day of the season. The statewide season ended Tuesday, but I had other obligations.
The moment I stepped out the front door I knew Monday would be the best day of the season. It was cool, clear and bright, and the air was dead calm. It was a gobbling kind of day.
I rose a little earlier than usual because of a disaster that occurred Saturday. I entered a 120-acre parcel of woods where I have never known a turkey to roost. But, as my luck would have it, I walked right under the only tree in that whole 120 where a turkey roosted. My heart nearly stopped when it thundered out of the tree and crashed through the web of limbs in the darkness. That was the last sign of a turkey I heard.
On Monday, I circled wide around that area to avoid an encore. I settled into a good spot and made soft tree calls as I waited for dawn.
A hen yelped from the ground much earlier than usual, and I responded in kind. At 6:30 a.m., I heard the same screaming gobbler that two hens picked off at the last minute last Thursday. I called to him, and he gobbled in response, but he was going away.
With the season on the line, I resorted to a fighting purr, a frequent deal sealer for Rev. Mike Stanley of Highland. I simulated a protracted hen argument. The tom gobbled angrily and changed course. He was on his way.
I saw him from a distance coming through the woods, but dang it all, a hen yelped loudly behind me. I could not abide being jilted again, so I mimicked the hen’s every yelp, and cut her off in disrespect.
Furious, she clucked angrily as she approached from behind, and she was increasingly agitated at my insolence.
Hopefully, the hen and gobbler would arrive at the same time.
The hen was about 35 yards away when my brain finally processed the input from my ears. That wasn’t a hen behind me. A gobbler was making those deep, raspy clucks.
From my right appeared not one, but two gobblers. The dominant tom chased his subordinate in serpentine fashion, pecking him at every chance. They were well within killing range, but they were at a 90-degree angle that prevented me from shooting.
I expected them to cross in front toward my decoy, but the rear-guard gobbler ruined everything. His advance slowed as he neared the spot where the ersatz hen should be, and his clucks grew more spaced and tentative.
He finally stopped five feet behind me. That’s right, five. Five-zero. The clucks sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard, and I silently pleaded for him to just walk on by.
The other two gobblers stood erect, their eyes locked on the rear-guard gobbler, and thus, locked on me.
The rearguard gobbler smelled a rat and retreated quickly in alarm. That cued the other gobblers to run, and they were all gone before I could react.
Bro. Mike, my coach and mentor, apologized profusely in a text message. The one thing he omitted from his tutorials on the fighting purr, he said, is that dominant toms do not gobble at a fighting purr. They come in clucking, just as the rearguard gobbler did.
I should have repositioned when I saw the first gobbler coming through the woods, but if you can see a gobbler, he can see you better. I did not know how close the hen-turned-gobbler was at that point, so I froze when I should have adjusted.
Obviously, I should have spun around to face the rearguard gobbler as soon as I heard him. Even if it had been a hen, the other two gobblers would have joined it and probably given me a shot. Having been properly schooled, I won’t make that mistake again.
On the other hand, I have no regrets. I’ve never worked three gobblers at once in Arkansas. The eastern tom is the wariest of all, and to call one almost into your vest pocket means something.
My season did end on a positive note after all. It’s the best season I’ve ever had.