The Gobble Hobble

                At the start of the Fall of 2013 I was in a weekend flag football league with a couple of buddies from high school. In the midst of one of the games I attempted to lunge for an opponent’s flag. As I did so, I heard a loud “POP” and simultaneously felt a pain in my knee more excruciating than any pain I had ever previously experienced. Just like that, my short illustrious flag football career came to a screeching halt due to a torn ACL. More important than football, though, I was worried that I had just said goodbye to my hopes of killing my first buck that coming hunting season. I was about to enter my third season of being a hunter but when I got the news that I had indeed torn a ligament in my knee I could see my aspirations for the looming season slipping away like sand through a sieve.

                I scheduled a consult with an orthopedic surgeon who said he could fit me in 3 weeks from then or 6 days before Christmas. A little confused, I asked what he meant and why he wasn’t scheduling it for later that week. I came to find out that some people never get it repaired and that soon I’d be able to walk alright with a knee brace for lateral support but if I didn’t get the operation I wouldn’t really be able to run well anymore. All I heard as he was talking is, “you might still be able to hunt this season” (he didn’t say that but that’s how my mind translated whatever it was he did say). I opted for the date that was just before Christmas and was able to hunt that season although not as successfully as I had hoped. I had the surgery and braced myself for the long six month recovery.

                The weeks following the surgery found me on the couch all day every day and what does a hunter who is laid up on the couch during hunting season do? That’s right. Watch hunting on TV. I would literally have the Outdoor Channel or Sportsman’s Channel on from the time I woke up until the time I fell asleep that night…every day. Needless to say, my family got pretty fed up with it and would ask, “Didn’t you watch this episode yesterday?” To which I would respond, “Yes but I pick up on something new each time”. This was especially true for turkey hunting.

                Before my surgery I had never hunted turkeys or even really had a desire to. Whitetails were all that were on my mind. I began watching these guys out chasing turkeys at the crack of dawn as the sky would slowly change from black to red. I watched as they went out at night to hoot like an owl and locate roosted birds for the next day. I saw the passion they had when it came to pursuing these keen-eyed gobblers and it made me wonder why I had never tried it. I began paying close attention to the sounds they made when calling. Clucks, purrs, gobbles, cutting, spitting and drumming…all these terms were previously unknown to me. Oddly or coincidentally enough, my aunt who knew I had gotten into hunting found an unopened pot call from Knight and Hale at a yard sale and gave it to me that Christmas. I began to try to mimic the sounds I heard on TV paying close attention to the patterns, pitches, and speed that made up these calls.

                Before long I was up and moving around, albeit not well. My friend’s would good-naturedly call me “the gimp” and “Tiny Tim” (Since it was Christmas time) and any other clever name they could come up with. I laughed right along because it really was comical the way I had to walk and move around. As April approached I was getting around significantly better with a limp that was much less noticeable. The joking jibes had ceased (for the most part) and I began to get stir crazy. I found myself thinking about turkey hunting and practicing in my truck with mouth calls while getting strange looks from fellow drivers. I wasn’t able to hunt the first part of Virginia’s turkey season as I didn’t feel up to it but by the second leg I couldn’t take it anymore. I just had to get out there.

                The fifth Saturday of turkey season found me climbing out of my truck at a public hunting spot I had frequented during deer season a few months earlier. I hiked around a lake near the entrance and stopped staring at the steep slope of the mountain that towered in front of me. I thought maybe I had bitten off more than I could chew in my current condition. I decided to take it slowly and no matter what, I would reach that bench half way up the mountain. It took me much longer than I had hoped to reach that point so by the time I got there the sun was well on its journey across the sky.

                The pain in my knee was sharp and throbbing by the time I reached my destination and so I sat on a log and called. There was no noise except some chirping song birds and leaves rustling from a nearby squirrel searching through the underbrush for whatever he could find to eat. I sat on that log for about an hour before I felt I could get up. I stood and my knee was stiff and sore. I had done no physical preparation for a task such as this.

                Not even a minute after I stood I heard a noise off to my left and turned to see a man covered in camouflage from head to toe and toting a shotgun heading across the flat in my direction. He had a vest with pockets bulging with so many calls I didn’t know how he kept track of them all. Clearly this guy knew what he was doing. He came up and we began chatting. He told me how he had killed a Tom not 50 yards from where I was standing  the morning before and that there were birds aplenty in that area. This was reassuring to hear. He then went on to say that he was done with his hunt and was making his way back down and searching for morels. “Morels?” I asked. “What’re those”? He quickly reached in his bag that, until then, I hadn’t noticed and pulled out a mushroom-like plant unlike any I had ever seen before. When he learned that I was not familiar with them he explained that they are delicious and only grow in the spring right around turkey season. He went on to say that, similar to shed hunting, you have to train your eyes to spot them. He pointed some out to me and then told me to look around to see if I could find any myself. Suddenly I became aware that there was a plethora of them all around me. I thanked him, wished him luck, as he did to me, and he went on his way.

                As he made his way down and out of sight I glanced at my phone and saw that it was already 10 AM. I wondered if all I would get for my troubles were these newly-discovered, free and fresh mushrooms. I decided that after all that trouble I wasn’t going to just give up so I began calling. I would call, then walk 50 yards, and then call again. I was ready to call it a day but right as I reached the far side of the bench and looked down over the opposite side of the mountain I heard a noise that stopped me dead in my tracks; a noise that I was all too familiar with after the hours I had spent glued to the TV while I recovered from surgery.

                A chill ran down my spine and I felt a surge and excitement. The sound was faint and I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I had actually heard it. I scratched the surface of the slate I held one more time and before I had finished the sequence I heard it again. This time I was sure. A gobble - just like on TV but so much better. I quickly (Well, as quickly as I could manage) made my way over the edge and began my decent down the far side of the mountain. As I went I would call and every single time he would gobble back up to me. “So this is what they mean when they say that a bird is fired up”, I gleefully thought to myself. I went down about 150 yards and set up my hen decoy that I had just purchased the night before. I snuggled my back into what was left of a rotten oak stump and called. He responded but this time more faintly. I waited and then called one more time. The response was fainter, still.

                Dismayed, I realized that he was actually going away from me. The brush and leaves were thick so I had no real idea how far he was but I knew if I wasn’t aggressive I would never see him so I grabbed my decoy and moved down further. After another 80 or so yards I stopped and called again. Again I was greeted with an immediate response. I waited a minute and called again. The response seemed closer. I made my way down another 30 yards and set up again. After three more calls and three more quick responses I realized that he was moving away again. Why wouldn’t he come up to me? I went to stand up and got a painful reminder that I had had surgery and felt my knee buckle. My knee wasn’t ready for all of this sudden stress. I found that I needed to hold on to trees as I moved back down to my decoy to move yet further down the slope. I realized I needed to leave something behind and of course I wouldn’t leave my 12 gauge. I quickly dropped my pack where my decoy was and proceeded with just my call and shotgun. I eventually reached the bottom and found that it was strewn with rocks and water that separated it from the next mountain. I questioned whether or not to attempt to cross over so I called again. The response wasn’t immediate but was close and sounded more energetic than any gobble I had gotten until that point. That made up my mind and I began my painful and unsure crossing of the wide, rocky creek.

                When I finally reached the far side I sound myself staring up at what seemed to be an impossible climb. Fallen trees and rocks littered the slope in front of me and it looked steeper than I could climb. I thought to myself, “How is there a tom in among all that stuff?” I let my striker quickly and rapidly strike my slate in a clucking fashion that trailed off into a “cheep,c heEP, CHEEP, CHEEP” progressively increasing the intensity and then “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE”.

                The sound came from right over the knoll to my right and I saw a fallen tree between me and the top of that knoll. I scrambled over rocks and under fallen trees, with thorns and brambles scratching at my hands and face the entire way. I didn’t feel the scratches or pokes because my adrenaline was pumping so hard and my focus was so intent on reaching that log before I was spotted. I crouched behind the log and stuck my barrel out the right side of a tree that stood on the opposite side of my “blind”. Then “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE”. It was so loud it almost hurt and then there he was. I saw a red head practically flying towards me as he all but sprinted over the hill. He jumped onto a log approximately fifteen feet from me and his feathers billowed out and he proudly displayed his plume of tail feathers that gleamed in the late morning sun. To this day I can still visualize that moment with perfect clarity. I also remember with perfect clarity that suddenly I began shaking uncontrollably. I wanted to take the shot but I realized that I had set myself up facing out from behind the wrong side of the tree. I had no shot and if I didn’t do something he would surely see me.

                He let out one more gobbling sequence more magnificent and more ear shattering than any before and then quickly retracted his feathers. His body language showed clear concern and he turned to jump off the log and go back the way he had come. This was it. “Now or never”, I thought. Before I could think twice about it I whipped my gun back from the right side of the tree and swung it towards the left side. Now, If you have ever seen any action movies, as I suspect you have, then you know that move where there is a gun fight and someone inevitably jumps sideways and is firing two handguns mid air; well that is precisely what I did (minus the handguns). My body was positioned too far to the right of this standing tree so as I swung my shotgun to the left and simultaneously lunged off of my good leg in the same direction. I somehow managed to shoulder my shotgun and squeeze off a shot before falling back down behind the fallen tree that had become my blind.

                Unsure what had happened I pushed myself up and peeked over the log I had landed behind. Instantly I was filled with a sense of relief and joy. On the far side of the log where the bearded gobbler had stood I saw a flapping wing go still. As I limped around the fallen log and looked down at the bird I became aware that I was cheering and yelling, “I DID IT!! I DID IT!!” I truly felt a sense of achievement especially given the current state of my knee. After admiring the bird for a minute I grabbed his two legs and slung him over my shoulder to begin the long, arduous hike back to my pack and then over and back down to my truck.

                I made it down that mountain to the tom much faster than I made it back up there with him in tow and when I got to my pack I couldn’t help but jokingly ask myself if someone had tilted the mountain after I had descended. Exhausted and sore, I eventually crested the top to the bench and stopped to catch my breath and pluck some of those newly discovered spring delicacies. Once I felt rested enough and had a bag full of morels I made my way down the mountain. When I reached the bottom and came into view of the lake I felt like the conquering hero returning home. Evidently the lake had been freshly stocked with trout and there were quite a few people fishing. When they caught sight of the wings sticking out from behind me on either side, almost everyone reeled in their lines and came over to check out the bird and congratulate me. I was told that it was an exceptional bird and that the beard looked to be about eleven or twelve inches which is about what I had guessed it to be. I swelled with pride when they told me of the eight dejected hunters they had seen come down hours before me with most not even hearing a gobble. I truly felt blessed that I had gotten one that morning, with no help from anyone, and on my first trip no less. 

                One fisherman who looked to be about 50 commented on my limp and asked if I had taken a spill while up on the mountain. I told him no and explained my circumstances. He told me that he wished he were still in his twenties like me because he wouldn’t have been able to do that anymore at his age. The others, some older, some slightly younger all readily agreed. They all congratulated me for a final time and we wished each other luck for the future as I turned to leave and finish the last little part of my torturous yet triumphant trek back to my truck. Just before I passed out of ear-shot I heard one say to the others, “Look at the way that bird is bouncing like that [because of the limp]. That’s what I call the gobble hobble.”

 

             

 (He didn't look great as he made the two hour ride home sitting on ice but I was very proud of him all the same.)

First Blood

                For many, hunting is not just a hobby but a way of life. This was not the case for me growing up. I grew up in a suburban area just outside Washington, D.C. and hunting wasn’t a thing that people there really did. Yes, there were hunters around but since so few people did it, it wasn’t a topic that regularly arose.

                My dad grew up on a farm in Colorado and would tell me stories of his hunting adventures when he was a boy. He would tell me about walking through the fields with his single barrel break-action .410 and flushing pheasants up. He would tell me about sitting with his back against a tree staring out at prairie dog holes and picking them off with his open sighted .22 out to 200 yards. The ones that stuck with me the most, though, were the tales of chasing muleys in the Rockies.

                I remember hearing him describe how he would slowly stalk the edges of canyons with his dad and brothers as they scanned the far sides for deer. I remember hearing him fondly explain their tactic – they would look over into a canyon and if they bumped a deer they would back off from the edge and circle a couple hundred yards further up in the direction the deer had gone. Then they would look down over the edge again and the muleys would be looking back to where they had previously been, which gave them a chance for a clean shot. Even more than that, though, I remember the vivid picture he painted of the beauty of the mountains, the lush green meadows, and the crystal clear blue lakes they came across.

                After college he became a teacher and moved to Virginia but never got back into hunting. He always had papers to grade and tests to prepare during hunting season and was unfamiliar with Virginia’s hunting laws or where to hunt (This was long before the dawn of the internet age). On top of that he had started a family and, as you know, that is time consuming in and of itself. I had expressed an interest in hunting for as long as I can remember so one night he surprised me and asked if I wanted to go hunting in the morning and that he had heard of a piece of public land about 2 hours away. Without a moment’s hesitation I enthusiastically responded in the affirmative.

                Early the next morning, this sleepy eyed twelve year old and father duo set out on their first (and so far only) hunting trip together. I remember beaming as he handed me his old bolt-action .22 while he shouldered his 6mm – both Remingtons and both he had purchased many years prior with hard earned money from baling hay in Colorado. Virginia is different from Colorado as far as vegetation and terrain so this hunt might as well have been a first for, not only me, but him too. On top of that it began raining in the morning and rained off and on all day. We never did see anything save a single squirrel that I wasn’t quick enough to shoot but I remember every little thing about that trip and it stayed with me over the years.

                That was the one and only time as a boy that I hunted Whitetail deer but despite the cold and rain and lack of success, that one trip was enough for me to catch the bug. I never hunted again until long after high school because I didn’t have a vehicle to get myself anywhere to hunt and none of my friends hunted and there was nowhere in the immediate area to hunt. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to though.

                Fast forward now to 2012. I had gotten a pickup truck at the end of the summer right before driving to school for the fall semester and had decided that during Christmas break I was going to go hunting. This was the most anticipated Christmas I ever had. I spent hours leading up to the break reading up on whitetails and their behaviors and tactics for hunting them – really anything related to whitetails that I could find. My cousin had 15 acres and she and her husband had agreed to let me hunt there so the second my last exam was over I packed the truck and made the six hour trek home. Upon arriving home I went to Walmart and picked up my first ever hunting license and big game tags as well as some hand warmers and I was ready to hunt. That was the longest night I can remember as I tossed and turned waiting for my alarm to go off. I literally checked my clock every ten minutes to see if it was time.

                When I finally arose I grabbed my dad’s old 6mm rifle, a box of ammo, some granola bars, an apple, and a bottle of water before climbing into the truck. I was anxious to start so I found myself sitting on the old metal platform that was there so long it was now part of the tree and realized that legal shooting light was still two hours away. As it started getting light and birds began chirping I thought to myself, “Okay, here we go. This is it”. It was a clear, crisp morning and as the sun rose the shadows of the trees made the light seem like long, warm fingers reaching out to me almost as if to say, “Look at all I have and what you have been missing out on all these years”. I knew immediately that there was nowhere I would rather be.

                That first day I never once climbed out of the tree. I sat there from dark to dark without ever once laying eyes on a deer. I went out there time and time again. I would sit all day, sometimes in 15 degree temperatures with wind whipping through the trees and no feeling in my face or extremities, but I was still unable to shoot a deer. I had read many times that it wouldn’t be easy and not to get discouraged if I didn’t get anything but I guess I hadn’t fully taken it to heart because I was getting discouraged. I had been out hunting about 12-15 days, each time spending the full day out and I had still not seen a single deer.

                One morning I was feeling particularly discouraged and it was damp and cold and at 8AM I decided I was done. I got frustrated so I climbed down and went to my truck. Once there I began thinking to myself, “I’m not a quitter. This is hard but nothing worth having is easy. After all the time I’ve spent on this I can’t just give up.” I reluctantly picked up the rifle and began walking back to the stand. As I crested the hill overlooking the area the stand was in I stopped dead in my tracks. A wide 8-pointer was walking the creek edge about 100 yards from me but only 40 yards from the stand. I got a bad case of the shakes all of a sudden and my legs and arms felt like jelly. I dropped to one knee and tried to lift my rifle against a small sapling but my arms were slow to respond. When I finally got the rifle up and found the buck in my scope I could barely keep track of the buck as my crosshairs were shaking so much. Eventually I calmed myself enough to where I thought I could make the shot but when I shot it I jerked the trigger rather than gently squeeze it.

                That buck still haunts me to this day. When the bullet slammed into the tree in front of him he instantly disappeared leaving me with only the memory of a bounding white tail and a big white spot seven feet up a tree where the bullet had ripped into it and sent bark flying. I still wonder what would have happened if I had persevered and just remained patient. Would he have still come through? Would he have given me a shot? Was he with other even bigger bucks? With how badly I shook, would I have even been able to make that shot? As we all know, it does no good to ask these questions but as any hunter who has missed (and most have or are liars) will tell you, you can’t help but ask “what if…” Needless to say, I now have a good reminder not to get discouraged or lose patience while in my stand.

I thought I had blown my chance but that one encounter strengthened my resolve to stick with it and make it happen. I spent about 6 days out there over the next two weeks with no luck but two weeks to the day from that encounter I found myself staring intently through 300 yards of trees at a group of does that were slowly making their way in my direction. Upon realizing they were there and that I might get a shot I began to shake all over again – a shake that is all too familiar to me now after having many more encounters in the deer woods since. It was uncontrollable and I felt as though I would surely shake right out of the tree. At the time I knew nothing of safety harnesses and tying off so, out of fear, I hung up my rifle and had to hold on to the tree. They were moving slowly so I was able to collect myself and calm my nerves before they got to a range I felt comfortable shooting. When I finally took aim I still rushed the shot a bit. I don’t know if I shot high or low or to the side but I missed. To my surprise, the one I had shot at came running towards me. I quickly worked the bolt and chambered another. She stopped in a small clearing about 130 yards below my stand and I took my time, took a deep breath, and gently squeezed the trigger. I remember that the gun shot but somehow I can’t remember hearing the blast or feeling the kick – what I DO remember is seeing her take one stumbling step and topple over dead.

                It took a second for what had happened to sink in. I just sat there motionless and not knowing what to do. Then I was flooded with different emotions all at once. I felt elated that I had done it. All those cold days of sitting in the stand all day, all those evenings when I was tired and hungry but stayed out there, all the times I passed up going out with friends so I could hunt in the morning – suddenly it was all worth it. I felt pride in the fact that I had been able to do it on my own and that, yes, I did in fact have what it takes to be a hunter. The venison soon to be on our table would be proof. Amidst all these good feeling though, there was a twinge of sadness. I had shot small game before but this was the first time I had taken the life of something so big. Now that’s not to say that a deer’s life is any more valuable than that of a rabbit or squirrel or dove but it just felt… different. A minute ago I had been watching this beautiful, majestic creature walking through the woods and now there she lay at the bottom of the hill still a lifeless. It wasn’t the cheering and whooping I had expected and seen on hunting shows. Rather, it was a somber moment I shared with no one but God in which a got a reality check unlike any other.

                I climbed down and made my way to the side of the deer I had just taken and stood over her staring. She was beautiful and had been alive a mere handful of minutes ago. I realized then and there that life is fleeting. We live and we die – sometimes without a moment’s notice. I thanked God for my life and the life of this doe at my feet and prayed that I never take any life lightly or for granted. Most people grow complacent in their day-to-day routines but I realized that hunters do not. Not only do they see death on a more regular basis but also they cause death. This is no small thing. We as hunters are reminded constantly about the fragility of life and that our time here is short. Although sad, the reality of life is that some must die in order for others to live.

Since taking the life of that first deer I have found that I take more delight in nature. The sunrise is just a little more brilliant, it’s setting a little bit more colorful. The grass is lusher, the leaves are greener, the birds’ songs are more cheerful, and I’m more thankful for my time to enjoy all that nature has to offer.

                These days I am proud to call myself a hunter. I am proud that I am able to go out and harvest an animal for food to sustain me and my family. I am proud to call myself a conservationist and do what I can, not matter how big or small, to improve the lives and habitat of the deer that I have grown to love and deeply respect (the paradox of hunting). I am grateful that I have a new perspective on life. I am overjoyed to view nature with a whole new appreciation. And I am glad to count myself among the ranks of all hunters, both those who have gone before us and those I share the woods with today. May we never take hunting for granted and always be respectful of life and do what we can to pass along our heritage for generations to come.