(Published in the December 05 Issue of Ultimate Outdoors Magazine)
Technology is a wonderful thing! My wife, two sons and myself are hopelessly addicted to all the toys and trappings that our advanced society has to offer. We have five TV’s, that’s one for almost every room in the house, hooked up to our Dual LNB satellite receivers complete with TIVO. Our home computer, with it’s 3.5 gadzookabyte hard drive, is connected to the very latest in broadband internet technology giving us our own personal fast lane on the information super highway. Our two sons have the very latest in home video game entertainment systems, heck even our car talks to us, it’s creepy!
So it stands to reason that our love affair with gadgets would spill over into my other passions, the outdoors and hunting. Luckily my love for all things outdoors is not lost on my two sons either. My oldest son Zachary is 17 and our 2001 Honda Recon ATV with its six speed 350 cc motor, when not parked in the basement of my parents farmhouse, is tearing up the backcountry roads every time we go to the farm. The gravel on their remote Bear Creek valley road stays smokin’ for most of the entire weekend as he zips up and down the roads at ludicrous speeds. My youngest son Spencer, who’s 13, also shares my love of turkey hunting and every chance we get, we go to Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World and look over the very latest in turkey hunting technologies.
Armed to the teeth with everything the modern hunter needs to be successful we felt that our chances in the upcoming 2004 Missouri Spring Youth Turkey Season were pretty good. The first morning of the season came early and after I had a couple of cups of hot Java to wake up, we were out the door before sun up and headed to the creek. We loaded up our Honda Recon, freshly equip with the "Game Silencer" stealth exhaust system on the rear and our vibration free "Fin Grip Pro" rubber coated gun rack mounted on the front, and headed out to our custom built heated and carpeted hunting blind located on the banks of our beloved Bear Creek.
Once in position, we mounted our "Feather Flex" polyethylene lifelike turkey hen decoy we affectionately named "Big Bertha" and waited for sun up. Daylight revealed a flock of seven Eastern’s milling about in an adjacent field across Bear Creek from us. I pulled out my "Redhead" 8 x 21 compact binoculars from my custom belt-mounted leather carrying case to survey the tactical situation. Realizing there was a slight mist from an overcast sky that morning; I decided the right call for the situation was my "Primos Titan 2000" waterproof Titanium slate. After about an hour of calling it became evident that they were paying me no attention. Nothing I tried was working and they acted like as if I wasn’t even there.
Being the consummate "Techno-Geek" I was determined to utilize every technological advantage at my disposal, I reached into my "Mossy Oak" Super Elite Turkey Vest and pulled out my "Cobra" 8-megahertz "Micro-Talk" walkie-talkie. Earlier that morning I had left the other unit back at the farmhouse on the table next to where my oldest son was sleeping in.
"Big Bird this is Chicken Little," I whispered into the mic, feeling just a little amused at myself and my cleaver fowl referenced codename joke, "Come in Big Bird!"
"What Dad!" he despondently replied, obviously not amused and probably thinking there was more "foul" than "fowl" in my joke! Typical teenager!
"Get in the Explorer and drive around the creek road until you see a flock of turkeys and honk," I whispered setting into motion my deviant plan to flush the flock over the creek and into gun range. After a few minutes I heard the familiar crunching of gravel under tires as he came around the corner and into sight. Just as planned the flock scattered with most of them sailing over Bear Creek and into the edge of our field just out of sight.
"We’ll wait a few minutes to let things settle down and try again," I whispered. After about 15 minutes the forest returned to normal and all was forgotten. Even the crows settled down and it was time to try again, this time, however, with very different results. With my first call two big Toms reacted immediately and with every succeeding call thereafter, the duo came closer and closer. The lead Tom was magnificent. An old Gobbler, whose color had long since dissipated leaving a snow-white head, was obviously the undisputed turkey king of the forest. The subordinate Tom though was not about to give up without a fight and they matched each other stride for stride and they quickly loped across the field at us. We could hardly believe our good fortune as the two Toms tried to out do each other in displaying their obvious affections for "Big Bertha" by spitting, gobbling and strutting all the while getting closer and closer into gun range.
"Man, it just doesn’t get any better than this," I whispered to my son as we watched the performance of Mother Nature in all her wonderful glory! He nodded his approval all the while starring straight down the barrel of his "Mossberg" 20-gauge loaded with a lethal barrage of "Federal Premium" #4 magnums.
With every moment that passed the competition between the two males brought them closer to the final moment of truth. "Take aim on which ever bird you want and shoot," I whispered to my young turkey hunting Jedi apprentice. He slowly nodded, released the safety and took aim.
"Ka-bang!" the loud shot broke the silence of the early spring morning and the old Tom hit the ground like a wet bag of feed! We had been successful for the second year in a row from the same blind! All that was left was the ceremonial scrambling out of the blind to obtain our trophy!
Just then the old Tom stood straight up, turned his head and looked straight at us as if to say, "Is that all you’ve got!"
Moments passed like hours as Spencer and I stared back at the unholy sight dumbfounded. Finally, I nudged him and said, "Shoot again!" He shucked the gun and a loud blast again ripped through the Ozark Mountains and again with no effect. At least this time he did turn and retreat like the other Tom had moments before him. A third shot rang out in the misty morning air and for the third time no effect!
As the old bird disappeared into the thick underbrush at the other end of the field, my son removed his camouflage facemask and hat and said, "What the heck just happened here?"
"Darned if I’m exactly sure myself," I said still stunned and at a complete loss for words.
He then looked at me and said, "Dad, I think we just saw…The Turkinator!"
So, in conclusion, I can only pass on this warning to my fellow turkey hunting brethren! Missouri hunters beware! The Turkinator still stalks the Ozark Mountains lying in wait for another unsuspecting hunter and all your technology will not save you! In my nightmares I still hear the sounds of his mutant gobbles echoing from the hills taunting me as if to say...
"I’ll Be Back!"
