After being introduced to a new co-worker, who is a turkey fanatic of the first magnitude, I'm helplessly addicted.

Author: Frank Ross

Frank Ross hauls out his heavy gobbler.

I have often heard that great deeds are made up of preparation, patience and perseverance, but until I started tromping through Nebraska's Pine Ridge region, I didn't realize that the emphasis was on perseverance.

Until this spring, I had not been turkey hunting in 30 years. Fishing in the spring had always been a stronger draw for me, especially after having a bird shot out from under my nose. After being introduced to a new co-worker, who is a turkey fanatic of the first magnitude, I'm helplessly addicted. Are there any chapters of the THA (Turkey Hunters Anonymous) in Nebraska?

My rapid addiction started out with the "casual use" approach. We'd go opening weekend, bag a bird and that would be the end of it - I could get back to fishing.

Nebraska's turkey success story is one that has been admired by many other states. While ranking fairly low in habitat per-square-mile, Nebraska is ranked in the top 10 states nationwide for the harvest of wild turkeys. After a miscue in the late 40's, Nebraska's Game and Parks' officials planted 28 birds in the Pine Ridge area during February and March of 1959. Within four nesting cycles, the transplanted Merriams had prospered into a flock of 3,000 birds. Today, a few hoots or caws will often elicit numerous gobbles from several directions.

That's when my problem started.

After a preseason scouting trip to Chadron, we had several areas circled on the map designating "hot prospects" and were anxious for opening day. Opening weekend came with a meteoric drop in the mercury. Dawn found us huddled in 24-degree temps under ice-laden branches, with our calls falling on unresponsive ears. With two days of that experience, I could have gotten away clean and been back to fishing without any apparent scars. That was not to be.

The following day, the weather cleared, and the Toms were talking their head off. They wouldn't come, but that infectious gobble had worked its way into my veins. We went home without a bird, but I couldn't wait to get back to the Pine Ridge and have another dose of turkey talk.

Saturday morning, May 13, was D-Day, with the operative "D" being a diaphragm call. I had my Mother's Day shopping done, and we were scheduled to leave at 3:00 AM. The prediction again was not good, with temps for morning lows projected in the 20's, but we were committed to going regardless of the temperature.

As it turned out, the weather at daylight was tolerable. There wasn't any wind, and with our layered clothing, the cold was not a factor. We stepped out of the truck and Derek tried his hooting owl and crow with no results. On our last trip we discovered that Toms in this region were partial to coyote howls. I gave a few quick howls and we were off to the races. While I jammed shells into my gun, and checked the pockets of my vest for decoys and accessories, Derek was already 40 yards ahead of me, and he wasn't even armed. I told you he's a fanatic. Actually, Derek was on a mission of mercy, to help me get a bird.

My call arsenal included everything from a traditional box call and yelper to half a dozen diaphragm calls and Lohman's new Pump Action Yelper, but Derek is a 16-year master and I was content to have him hitting the hot licks. I could locate them, and I had confidence he could get one to respond.

We spent the next 45 minutes howling and chasing phantom Toms. Every time we got a response, these illusive Toms seemed to be one more hill away. They were moving, but we couldn't keep up. When you're pushing up and down steep hills at elevations between 3,500 and 4,000 feet, it takes a concerted effort to stay with the chase. Derek was hot on the trail, and I was constantly playing catch up between stops to blow.

After almost an hour of hot pursuit, we were left standing on a hillside looking very baffled. Derek gave several of his best COD (come over darling) calls in an area we were sure was right where that last gobble had come from. No response was forthcoming. We looked around and decided to mount one more hill to try another locator call. About 50 yards from the top of the hill we both dropped behind a large clutch of Yucca plants. On the knob of the hill there was a group of turkeys and at least three Toms were strutting and fighting. Evidently, a Tom who had corralled a harem of hens was being challenged by two younger birds. When we arrived, the fracas was going full tilt. Fortunately, we weren't noticed as we dove for cover.

I pointed my 12-gauge Bennelli, loaded with 3" mags, at their most likely route, while Derek blew sweet nothings. In between tagging in and out of the fight, one of the challenging Toms walked our way and raised his head over the Yuccas enough to scan the hillside. If we had taken time to put up a decoy he might have ventured down; but the lure of the fight and an ample supply of hens at hand were more than he was willing to forego. He charged back up the hill and weighed into the waiting brood Tom.

Much to my distress, they fought back and fourth like Ali and Liston, while both challengers took turns at the dominant bird trying to wear him down. We could see their tail feathers and occasional heads as they duked it out, but at 50 yards the shot was not realistic. I whispered to Derek to keep calling, while I tried to sneak up closer. Sneaking up on turkeys might be a fool's bet, but it had become painfully obvious that these birds were too immersed in the battle over the hens they had, and the prospect of another wasn't going to draw them away from a battle to control the entire brood.

Mounting hands and knees, I carefully picked my way through patches of prickly pear cactus and Yucca thorns. The noise of my camo bibs dragging through the brush sounded very loud, but I figured that if they couldn't hear my heart pounding, I might make it. After a twenty-yard sneak, I raised up on my knees to a sight that was almost more than I could stand. Up to this point all we could see were tail feathers and an occasional head. There, on the crest of the hill, were three large Toms pushing each other around like Sumo wrestlers. Their necks were entwined as the battle raged on. I waited impatiently for the right moment when I could take one bird without hitting the other two.

Finally, one Tom broke off and walked to the right, but he kept walking away until he was at the far limits of a prudent shot. I had a clear shot, but he was facing away and just too far. Suddenly he turned to get back toward the fight and walked several steps in my direction. Off to my left, movement in the brush caught my eye. I slowly peered in that direction, and saw three hens feeding as they made their way down the hillside. A young Jake shot out of the brush and started hustling an uncooperative hen. He was easily within my range, but he wouldn't raise his head. As quickly as he appeared, he slid back into the brush. With the three hens still feeding in the first rays of morning sun, I refocused my attention on the dueling trio at the top of the hill.

The Tom on the right inched a little closer to the fight, and stopped to wait for his chance to tag back into the foray. He raised his head and appeared to be making his move, so I decided to make mine. With the hens working their way down the hill, I had to do something or risk losing the opportunity. I could not sneak any closer for fear of blowing my cover, and the hens were working farther away from the area. I slowly raised up to take aim and immediately the hens spotted me. Sending up a cackle that would have raised the dead, the hens started down the backside of the hill crashing through the brush. Well, I thought, that ripped it.

To my surprise, the battling Toms seemed oblivious to anything except their own body slamming and spitting. The errant Tom raised his head again, and I released a volley of lead, but in my fervor, I either pulled the shot or shot completely over his head. When the gun went off, he took to the air and flew off to the right unscathed.

Posing with this Pine Ridge gobbler was a real pleasure.

My hopes were dashed for only an instant. The defending Tom quickly scuttled to the edge of the hill and craned his neck over a stand of Yuccas. He stared wide-eyed in my direction as if to say, "what was that noise?" In a fraction of a second he found out. My bird was down. Having a second tag, we looked for the escaping bird but found no evidence of him. It would not be a double day, but it was a great day. At ten minutes after 7, my first Tom was down for the count -TKO.

His beard measured 7-1/2 inches, and by the time we made the 50-minute hike back to the truck, I was sure he weighed 40 pounds. Once the bird was on ice, we went back out to get Derek's second bird of the season. For 11 more hours of sleuthing and stalking, we only managed to spook three more Toms that promptly tucked their tail feathers and ran for cover.

With aching legs from 13 hours of up this hill and down, we were both disappointed not to have had another chance, but we were very relieved to be headed home to a hot bath. As I rubbed my sore feet, I couldn't help but ponder the possibilities of my next trip. There is still one more weekend of turkey season and fishing can wait.

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