Published in the March 2006 issue of Ultimate Outdoors magazine
My youngest boy Spencer, who if you read my previous story “The Turkinator” would be familiar to you, was beginning to feel a little blue. He had a point blank shot last turkey season and was robbed of the generations old tradition of walking back to the house with a bird over his shoulder.
I tried to explain to him that it was not his fault. That an unholy circumstance born not of this earth was at work here. For the first few months after that incident, jokes of alien spawn and devil birds seemed to appease him and turn his gloomy mood to happy. But, I soon realized this would not work forever. So it was up to me to keep my hunting buddy in good spirits and keep the dream alive until next season. Nothing accomplishes this better for a teenage boy than the likelihood of unlimited unabated aggression at the end of a framing hammer. Teenage eyes light up when you give them a can of nails and a big hammer along with unlimited parental blessings to beat the snot out of a poor defenseless unsuspecting 2 x 4.
So with wood and tools in hand we set off on a cool October day to begin construction of the “Turk-a-dome! This was going to be our greatest effort ever. Built on four six-foot 4 x 4’s this unbridled monument of turkey slaying obsession would tower over the rest of our previous construction undertakings. Plans included a carpeted floor, padded bench and covert peepholes in nearly every direction for undetected turkey counter surveillance tactics.
The perfect spot was chosen at the edge of a field nestled among a white oak grove with good visibility in all directions. Multitudes of the illusive feathered foe had been spotted in that area carelessly milling about as if without a care in the world. If we had our way, once the “Turk-a-dome” was complete this “devil-may-care” attitude would come to an abrupt and earth shattering halt at the end of a Mossberg 12-guage.
After a few weekends of sometimes-questionable construction skills, and more nails than I believe is currently allowed by state law, the “Turk-a-dome” was finally taking shape. I was at this time fully convinced that this blind would rust long before wood rot set in. Now, speaking strictly as a Father, you have not lived until you have witnessed a 14 year old boy driving nail after nail into a piece of lumber sporting a eerie, unsettling, sometimes maniacal almost serial killer look on his face toward the task at hand. I am fully convinced that if Rambo had chanced upon a teenage boy with a framing hammer in one of his movies he would have retreated screaming into the underbrush. "Some manly man you are Rambo. The only thing you ran up against was malevolent dictators bent on world domination and their evil hordes of AK-47 wielding madmen. Try being a Father!"
As usual our now yearly tradition of sitting on my Mom’s deck the night before opening morning with a glass Sassafras Tea was finally upon us. The only deviation to this yearly family event was the addition of Spencer’s best friend Matt. Spencer had decided to share our yearly trek with his school buddy after many months of regaling him with hunting stories of seasons past.
Teenage boys as I have already established, are a two-headed monster. On one hand they provide you with a never-ending supply of enjoyment and entertainment and I am sure will be the subject of many more stories in the future. On the other hand, if you think one boy can create countless mischievous moments try putting more than one of them together. Top that off with a fully gassed up ATV, 10 miles of creek valley and a sugar high from numerous glasses of sweet tea and you have a recipe for premature gray hair on the old man! To demonstrate this theory I must deviate from our story momentarily to explain what led up to the now quiet moments on my Mom’s porch listening for turkeys. My tranquil spell that evening was utterly warranted for the day was not always so relaxing.
The valley where my Mom and Dad live is full of streams and branches that all dump into our beloved Bear Creek. Some streams run continuously and some are fed by wet weather springs that run only during times of heavy precipitation. It just so happens that this particular weekend was preceded by a couple of days of rain and the streams were gurgling with thousands of gallons of fresh spring rain runoff. Just below my parent’s house on Bear Creek road is a culvert that intersects one of the aforementioned spring branches. Under normal circumstances the pipe under the culvert could accommodate the surge of water coming down from the Ozark hills, but the previous rain had been more than the crossing could handle and 3 or 4 inches of fast rushing water heading downstream now covered the road. This is normally no problem for the folks that live in the area, as they have become accustom to such things and ford the stream as if they were bone dry. But to a teenage brain this is a completely different sight. In their eyes they see an inexhaustible journey of epic proportions rivaling that of any traveling carnival ride ever made.
When we first arrived at my parent’s farm that afternoon as usual, the first thing the boys did was start up the ATV. My only stipulation was to stay out of the lower fields bordering the creek as not to scare off our unsuspecting prey and impair opening morning success. After about two hours of visiting with my folks I realized that I had not seen the boys for a while. I had heard them buzzing around on the roads nearby so I new they were O.K. but they had not come back to the house for a drink or a snack so I new something was transpiring that I would probably not endorse. So I decided to take a stroll down to the branch crossing to see what was going on. When I arrived the boys had discovered that if they run the Honda 350 cc full blast in sixth gear into the stream they resulting blast of water would nearly blow hair off of whoever was standing in the stream at the moment of impact. They were now taking turns blasting each other with the high velocity cold mountain water. Now, I’m not a physician but I do know that blue lips and chattering teeth are not a normal anatomical manifestation. As we used to say in the Navy, "zero-dark-thirty" in reference to the pre-dawn condition, would be coming early so I decided to play "bad cop" and put an end to their bone chilling, wrinkled skin fun in lieu of warm dry clothes and a hot supper. Now sitting on the deck at sundown stuffed full from a homemade meal of fried chicken and fresh garden greens and enjoying the sounds of a host of Eastern Turkey Gobblers employing their springtime vocation was my payoff for the hectic day.
Now, to get back to our story, the alarm set for 4 a.m. did indeed come early and after a complete pot of hot java the game was afoot. While walking down to the "Turk-a-dome" with Spencer’s buddy Matt, a novice hunter, we spent the time briefing him on the tried and true hunting techniques of patience and stealth. Matt acknowledged that he indeed understood and as we arrived at the blind everyone was quiet but excited with anticipation. Once comfortably settled in the blind however, that ever-present teenage exuberance kicked in and all bets were off. After numerous jokes, stories, snickering and the occasional gaseous bodily discharge we looked up and discovered that daylight was breaking and it was now time to start calling. Gobbles from waking Toms seemed to be coming from every direction and it wouldn’t be long before we would be fully immersed in exciting turkey hunting action.
After about an hour of calling though, no feathered takers had revealed their presence and the frosty edge began to wear off. So, the boys once more began to fidget. Once again the jokes, slightly off color noises and bodily emissions began emerging from that corner of the blind. Since the hunting action was less than exciting, even I began to get sucked into their teenage world. With no Wife or Mother to be offended we quickly regressed into the male dominated world of nauseating noises and disgusting smells.
All of a sudden we looked up and three toms with two hens in tow began loping across the field. Their focus of amorous attention was our old friend “Big Bertha” our beloved family decoy who was now starting to show a few frayed edges after nearly five years of deceptive turkey romances. But her sex appeal was still obviously quite alluring, for an old gal, and a new band of enthusiastic suitors were once again calling.
The jovial mood turned serious in a heartbeat. As every second passed the feathered interlopers came closer and closer to their date with destiny. The game plan was clear, each boy would pick out the turkey they wanted and the shots would be simultaneous. But, as anyone with teenagers knows the best laid plans don’t always pan out. As soon as the birds were within range the countdown started. "O.K. on three," Spencer whispered as both boys released the safeties.
"One…Two…Three!" As the shots rang out the result became readily apparent, as both boys knew in a split second they had both singled out the same unfortunate Tom. For one fleeting moment, which almost seemed to move in slow motion, a cloud of feathers hung in the cool morning air as the ill-fated foul was instantaneously reduced to an unrecognizable pile of feet, beaks and feathers.
Irony is truly a cruel mistress, because for a second year in a row Spencer would again be deprived of the traditional walk back to the house with a trophy over his shoulder. This was painfully evident, as upon further inspection it would seem that there was nothing left to carry. The good news, though it seemed, was that Spencer had made history. The gentlemen at the check in station noted that this was the first time in his 10 years of assisting the Missouri Conservation Department that someone had actually brought in their trophy in a bucket with the tag taped to the outside.
The official weight topped out at 19 pounds 8 ounces but I’m positive 3 or 4 pounds of that was plastic!
