OnStand : The Sportsman's Watchdog

April brings many things to Arkansas. The beautiful white blossoms of the dogwood tree and the sweet fragrance and enticing color of Yellow Jasmine announce that spring is here and winter’s gray hand has been lifted.

The season also stimulates amorous instincts in the majority of wildlife found here. None is more evident than that of the Eastern Wild Turkey.

Hunting these birds is traditional in my family. My great grandfather was a turkey hunter and my brother, Tim, and I carry on that institution. I find nothing more thrilling than the gobble of an old “boss” tom at daybreak as he struts into gun range, seduced by my calls imitating a willing hen.

Tim and I normally turkey hunt alone until one of us is fortunate enough to kill one. After one of us scores he will try to help the other bag his bird. During this particular season I had been lucky and filled my tag while Tim was struggling with a real wise old gobbler. It became a team effort.

Tim was in charge of the hunt, as is the rule when one brother trails in the turkey-harvesting department. I could make suggestions about changing location or recommend calling to elicit a response from some unseen gobbler but the final decisions were Tim’s. If we failed in our hunt the blame would rest squarely on his shoulders.

The morning started slowly, our having heard but one turkey gobble early from the roost only to go silent once it flew to the ground. Thereafter we walked what must have been a couple miles through the hardwood bottoms of the Saline River and back to Tim’s truck without luck.

He had been hunting the same turkey for eighteen straight days while getting a sound beating from that bird. This morning it had put a whooping on us both.

We were close to giving up for the morning when Tim decided to try one more place. I didn’t even get out of the truck. Instead, I was thinking about getting back to the house, eating some groceries and taking a nap.

Tim got out and made a call. From less than a hundred yards away came a booming gobble that nearly knocked him down. We scrambled to gather most of our gear and ran a short distance from the truck and set up on the turkey.

Tim made a soft yelp with his mouth call immediately after we sat down. The turkey answered. We were sitting side-by-side facing a small clearing and the turkey was close enough we could hear him walking in the leaves but he remained invisible behind the brush.

The mosquitoes were horrible. They buzzed our ears and eyes, biting any portion of skin exposed from our camouflage. Turkeys have excellent vision and can detect the slightest movement so any attempt to swipe at the invading insects would ruin our chance of bagging this bird. The miniature vampires were given free reign over our bodies.

The turkey was within forty yards and in front of our position when I first saw his tail feathers sticking above the brush. I whispered to Tim that I saw him.

“Wait,” he replied. “I can’t see him.”

As is the natural order of things in the turkey world, the tom stood and gobbled for three or four minutes in one spot while strutting in all his glory. He presumed we were a hen and waited for us to come to him.

A few soft clucks from Tim’s call brought the turkey a few steps into the open. I had a clear view and the bird was within easy killing range.

“Do you see him,” I asked.

“No, wait,” was Tim’s response. “I want to kill him.”

Another gobble.

The turkey was in full strut and looking dead at us. I eased the shotgun’s safety off and Tim did the same.

“I can kill him,” I said.

“No. Wait, wait.”

The turkey gobbled again.

Then my brother let out the softest, most pitiful whine I had ever heard. It was just loud enough for me to hear.

I’m thinking to myself, what in Hell was that?

Had I turned my head the turkey would surely have seen me and spooked. Tim would have beaten me to death for scaring away the creature that had dealt him all this misery for the past eighteen days. Instead, I cut my eyes to look at Tim but could see nothing unusual.

The turkey gobbled again.

He was less than twenty yards out and looked close enough to touch. I couldn’t believe he didn’t see me and I was scared to look directly at him.

“Can you see him now,” I plead in a low whisper.

“No,” Tim said softly, followed by the whimpering sound again.

“I can kill him,” I said.

More whimpering.

I didn’t know why in the world he was making that noise. Frustration was a mild expression of how I felt.

“I see him.” More whimpering.

“I see him,” Tim said again, followed by another whimper. Then BOOM went his shotgun.

The turkey hit the ground and before the leaves and smoke had settled we were standing over Tim’s turkey celebrating our good fortune.

We relived the hunt from start to finish, excited in our victory after all Tim’s struggles and lasting endurance in the hunt. Then I remembered the whimpering noise Tim had made in the final moments before the shot.

“What was that racket you were making?”

“What racket,” he asked.

I demonstrated the whining noise as best I could.

“Oh, that,” he smiled.

It seems that amid the swarm of winged bloodsuckers a particularly dastardly mosquito had latched onto a portion of Tim’s anatomy that was more than just a little sensitive to its bite. The pain was almost more than he could bear.

As the villian inflicted pain on his most private places, the sweat poured from his forehead and into his eyes but Tim endured the “drilling” to avoid spooking his turkey.

Every time I’m reminded of that hunt I can hear Tim making that pitiful sound – and I laugh. The mosquito, no doubt, shares my sense of humor.