Yesterday Steve O and I did a morning turkey hunt. Steve was running late from switching vehicles, so I made an executive decision on which side of the property I would hunt. The ranch we hunt is not overly large (around 160 acres), but it's dominated by a steep wooded creek bottom on one side and relatively open hills on the other. The creek bottom offers concealment and potentially closer shots, while the open country holds big flocks of moving birds with the ability to see them from great distances and formulate a stalk.
I saw a tom strutting in the open and worked towards him using the little hummocks as cover. As I closed to within 150 yards, I was greeted by a bobbing head to my left at about 20 yards. There was another flock of toms that was hidden behind a row of oaks and I walked right into them. I took aim with the Texan .308 and thunked one of them. Feathers, dust, and a flopping bird....until he stopped flopping. The tom jumped up and ran off down into a creek bottom and like so many before, disappeared. Of course, every other bird around ran for their lives and after seeing so many birds around me with numerous opportunities, I was left holding my d**k in my hand looking foolish. Little did I know my hand and my d**k would get to know each other pretty well as the morning progressed.
I spent about a half hour with an electronic coyote call (may as well since I had pushed all of the birds out) and then headed out to the creek area to see how Steve O was doing. As Steve approached the truck, he was chirping with his diaphragm call a bit. He couldn't see it, but some toms came walking right out of the creek bottom and straight at him. I frantically waved, hissed, and gestured and he seemed to get the message. I got to watch him stalk, call and work into shooting position from my perch by the road. Unfortunately, he missed a head shot inside of 50 yards (kudos for going for the head shot vs. a body shot, which was easy but risky)
We decided to drive around to where I had seen wounded the tom earlier. Sure enough, we spotted a group of toms at @ 100 yards. Steve made a couple of shots with his MKIII that missed and the birds started to walk off (miracle that they stood there after the first shot) I took the Texan out of the backseat, closed the distance about 10 yards, and went to a knee. Using the other knee/elbow as a rest I put the cross hairs on the closest tom walking away and sent it. The PLOP! sound echoing back and the kicking and flopping bird meant the shot was true. Now here's where things got interesting.
Shooting turkeys is relatively easy. Planting them and not wounding them is harder than you would think. I reloaded and we could no longer see the flopping, but we watched as the flock of toms ran down the hill. I sprinted after them trying to find which one was wounded so I could put another in him. I must have run about 250 yards straight down the hill, but the birds outpaced me and I had to make the dejected stroll back up the hill. Poking around where I had shot the bird, I found the feather pile. Right about then, SteveO goes, 'Hey, there's the bird right there'. The tom had crawled under a log, and before we could dispatch him, he ran out and down into a slash pile of oak limbs. He didn't go far; maybe 20'. I couldn't see him, but he HAD to be in there. Steve took my gun and I proceeded to pull limbs and crawl my way in. The bird busted out of there and ran up the little draw out of site again. Frustrating. We both climbed out and resumed the search.
I started to get not only really frustrated, but downright pissed off. I HATE wounding birds, and it seems that lately it has happened far, far too often. I purposely switched out the lovely MKII to the Texan for turkeys just to hopefully avoid this very issue. We knew the bugger couldn't have left the little jumbled patch of brush, but it was brutally full of berry bushes and nettles. Not exactly the easiest stuff to wade through and find a camo'd bird. After a good ten minutes I was about to lose hope when I saw the unmistakable stripe tail feather sticking out from a nettle patch. I scaled down to about 10' from the bird and I had SteveO hand me the Texan. I aimed at the middle body (couldn't see its head) and shot it again. The bird did the typical 'tense up, and then relax' which is common to a dispatching shot like that.
After handing SteveO the Texan, I went to in grab the bird and drag him out. To my shock and horror, the tom stood up and hopped out of the nettle patch, up and over the lip of the gulley, and once again scrambled to try to escape. Being down low I couldn't see, and SteveO is holding two guns on the top of the ditch. The bird wobbled out of sight for the third time. At this point, I started losing my s**t. How the hell can a zombie bird take that much punishment, be at arms reached THREE DIFFERENT TIMES, and still escape from two guys with guns? We looked and searched for @ 30 minutes. I threw a temper tantrum and let all of the frustration come spilling out ('I should just quit hunting if I can't kill 'em', 'Why me?', 'What the f**k did I deserve to be cheated like this?' 'I'm gonna break this p.o.s. Texan over my f**king knee!') Poor Steve had to endure my ranting tirade (picture the Tasmanian Devil losing his mind on Looney Tunes) and he worked so hard to help me find the bird. We knew he wasn't far and probably dead, but at some point after you've looked in every conceivable nook and cranny, you have to admit defeat and give up.
This was perhaps the most frustration and deflating hunting experience I've had in a long time. As an outdoorsman and a sports guy (both watching and playing), I understand that failure is part of the experience. We don't always harvest game; we miss shots, we make errors, we go 0-4 in a slow pitch softball game (that will cost a lot in beer), we lose big fish right at the boat, etc. Today was like that feeling when you let the game ending ground ball go between your legs, miss a winning layup at the final buzzer, miss a 2' putt to win a match, or knock off the fish of lifetime with the net. I've done all of these, and they HURT! I'm passionate and competitive and I put a lot of money, time and effort into my activities. I felt (and still feel) like the stupidest, most inept, and foolish turkey hunter on the planet.
It's one thing to miss a shot, lose a fish, etc. because nothing is REALLY hurt. Disappointing, sure, but when the result is obviously a mortally wounded game animal that is lost and not recovered it's just brutal. It's happened to me a lot lately, some through my own fault (using a .25 cal for turkeys or bad shot placement) and some not. It's been a while since I've lost my s**t that bad on a hunt. Big props to SteveO for putting up with my ranting, raving, whining and bitching. I'm still not over it, and I will need a serious attitude adjustment before the next outing. On top of everything else, the upper sling stud tore out of my Texan when I was hiking out and the gun slammed into the ground muzzle first. Sigh.
Some days you're the dog, some days you're the tree. Today I was definitely the tree. I'm posting this because not every hunt is a success, things don't always go right, and disappointment and defeat make success and victory sweet when it happens. We all post our hero stories, but without some 'zero' stories the hero stories are diminished.
I saw a tom strutting in the open and worked towards him using the little hummocks as cover. As I closed to within 150 yards, I was greeted by a bobbing head to my left at about 20 yards. There was another flock of toms that was hidden behind a row of oaks and I walked right into them. I took aim with the Texan .308 and thunked one of them. Feathers, dust, and a flopping bird....until he stopped flopping. The tom jumped up and ran off down into a creek bottom and like so many before, disappeared. Of course, every other bird around ran for their lives and after seeing so many birds around me with numerous opportunities, I was left holding my d**k in my hand looking foolish. Little did I know my hand and my d**k would get to know each other pretty well as the morning progressed.
I spent about a half hour with an electronic coyote call (may as well since I had pushed all of the birds out) and then headed out to the creek area to see how Steve O was doing. As Steve approached the truck, he was chirping with his diaphragm call a bit. He couldn't see it, but some toms came walking right out of the creek bottom and straight at him. I frantically waved, hissed, and gestured and he seemed to get the message. I got to watch him stalk, call and work into shooting position from my perch by the road. Unfortunately, he missed a head shot inside of 50 yards (kudos for going for the head shot vs. a body shot, which was easy but risky)
We decided to drive around to where I had seen wounded the tom earlier. Sure enough, we spotted a group of toms at @ 100 yards. Steve made a couple of shots with his MKIII that missed and the birds started to walk off (miracle that they stood there after the first shot) I took the Texan out of the backseat, closed the distance about 10 yards, and went to a knee. Using the other knee/elbow as a rest I put the cross hairs on the closest tom walking away and sent it. The PLOP! sound echoing back and the kicking and flopping bird meant the shot was true. Now here's where things got interesting.
Shooting turkeys is relatively easy. Planting them and not wounding them is harder than you would think. I reloaded and we could no longer see the flopping, but we watched as the flock of toms ran down the hill. I sprinted after them trying to find which one was wounded so I could put another in him. I must have run about 250 yards straight down the hill, but the birds outpaced me and I had to make the dejected stroll back up the hill. Poking around where I had shot the bird, I found the feather pile. Right about then, SteveO goes, 'Hey, there's the bird right there'. The tom had crawled under a log, and before we could dispatch him, he ran out and down into a slash pile of oak limbs. He didn't go far; maybe 20'. I couldn't see him, but he HAD to be in there. Steve took my gun and I proceeded to pull limbs and crawl my way in. The bird busted out of there and ran up the little draw out of site again. Frustrating. We both climbed out and resumed the search.
I started to get not only really frustrated, but downright pissed off. I HATE wounding birds, and it seems that lately it has happened far, far too often. I purposely switched out the lovely MKII to the Texan for turkeys just to hopefully avoid this very issue. We knew the bugger couldn't have left the little jumbled patch of brush, but it was brutally full of berry bushes and nettles. Not exactly the easiest stuff to wade through and find a camo'd bird. After a good ten minutes I was about to lose hope when I saw the unmistakable stripe tail feather sticking out from a nettle patch. I scaled down to about 10' from the bird and I had SteveO hand me the Texan. I aimed at the middle body (couldn't see its head) and shot it again. The bird did the typical 'tense up, and then relax' which is common to a dispatching shot like that.
After handing SteveO the Texan, I went to in grab the bird and drag him out. To my shock and horror, the tom stood up and hopped out of the nettle patch, up and over the lip of the gulley, and once again scrambled to try to escape. Being down low I couldn't see, and SteveO is holding two guns on the top of the ditch. The bird wobbled out of sight for the third time. At this point, I started losing my s**t. How the hell can a zombie bird take that much punishment, be at arms reached THREE DIFFERENT TIMES, and still escape from two guys with guns? We looked and searched for @ 30 minutes. I threw a temper tantrum and let all of the frustration come spilling out ('I should just quit hunting if I can't kill 'em', 'Why me?', 'What the f**k did I deserve to be cheated like this?' 'I'm gonna break this p.o.s. Texan over my f**king knee!') Poor Steve had to endure my ranting tirade (picture the Tasmanian Devil losing his mind on Looney Tunes) and he worked so hard to help me find the bird. We knew he wasn't far and probably dead, but at some point after you've looked in every conceivable nook and cranny, you have to admit defeat and give up.
This was perhaps the most frustration and deflating hunting experience I've had in a long time. As an outdoorsman and a sports guy (both watching and playing), I understand that failure is part of the experience. We don't always harvest game; we miss shots, we make errors, we go 0-4 in a slow pitch softball game (that will cost a lot in beer), we lose big fish right at the boat, etc. Today was like that feeling when you let the game ending ground ball go between your legs, miss a winning layup at the final buzzer, miss a 2' putt to win a match, or knock off the fish of lifetime with the net. I've done all of these, and they HURT! I'm passionate and competitive and I put a lot of money, time and effort into my activities. I felt (and still feel) like the stupidest, most inept, and foolish turkey hunter on the planet.
It's one thing to miss a shot, lose a fish, etc. because nothing is REALLY hurt. Disappointing, sure, but when the result is obviously a mortally wounded game animal that is lost and not recovered it's just brutal. It's happened to me a lot lately, some through my own fault (using a .25 cal for turkeys or bad shot placement) and some not. It's been a while since I've lost my s**t that bad on a hunt. Big props to SteveO for putting up with my ranting, raving, whining and bitching. I'm still not over it, and I will need a serious attitude adjustment before the next outing. On top of everything else, the upper sling stud tore out of my Texan when I was hiking out and the gun slammed into the ground muzzle first. Sigh.
Some days you're the dog, some days you're the tree. Today I was definitely the tree. I'm posting this because not every hunt is a success, things don't always go right, and disappointment and defeat make success and victory sweet when it happens. We all post our hero stories, but without some 'zero' stories the hero stories are diminished.
Here's my own recent experience 
: How to mess up a sure shot the stupid way: 