Palouse Outdoors: A Timely Turkey Hunt

4:30 a.m. – I awake to the sound of crickets. "Thank God!" The classic iPhone alarm releases me from a fitful night of what felt like daggers being twisted in my lumbar spine. "Par for the course," I think, groaning as I stretch; my lower back straps begrudgingly limbering up. The concrete floor is cold beneath my feet as I shuffle toward the bathroom, flicking on the coffee pot, which Jack had thoughtfully prepped last night.

4:35 a.m. – I shuffle back to the futon and rummage through an oversized camouflage duffle that I found lying in the middle of the forest one long-ago grouse hunt. Today, it carries my turkey hunting and rain gear. 

The coffee pot dribbles out the oil-tinted secretions of black, acidic beans, flooding the room with the intoxicating aroma of modern American lifeblood. Jack emerges from his room, completely dressed except for his Crocks. He shoots me a glance that says, "We're about to make this hunt look easy." He then hands me a cup of coffee and asks, "Want to bet on how long it'll take to fill your tag?"

"Well, I assumed we would leave a couple for the neighbors. Wouldn't want them to feel envious of all the toms we kill at first light," Jack says with a cackle.

"Yeah, well, I hope the birds play along. We'll have a serious case of swamp-ass if we sit in that heavy grass for too long this morning," I offer, noting the steady overnight rain.

4:59 a.m. – "It's getting light out. We're already too late," I say, tipping my mug and sucking down the dregs. 

Jack jumps to his feet, throws on his coat, grabs my jake turkey decoy, and heads for the door. "I plan to be back here before the coffee pot shuts off," he says. The door latch clicks shut behind us.

We're but a few hundred yards from our ambush above a little two-track road that winds up the canyon bottom, surrounded by open slopes speckled with blooming canary-yellow biscuitroot, hummocks of rose, and random trees. The deciduous shrubbery glows chartreuse with fresh bud break. The thin layer of eroded granite soil crunches underfoot as we walk the road to the edge of the canyon. Here, we watched a half-dozen toms go to roost in the distant ponderosas last night.

Stepping off the road into the calf-high grasses sparked instant gratification in my decision to wear rain pants. The lush vegetation soaks our boots and pants immediately, but makes for a quiet descent. It's not far to our hideout behind a cluster of roses, and I'm feeling confident that we'll be set up just in time.

5:10 a.m. – Jack gets settled and sets up the video camera as I drop down near the road to set up the decoy. I'm 30 yards below my cover in the wide open, and birds are coming off the roost. It's still too dark to see the giant black birds sailing out of the ponderosas, but the wind whistling through their wings is evident as they glide toward the next canyon.

"Damn. Too late," I mutter to myself, shaking my head in frustration. "Those birds would be on the ground in this general area if I were already hidden," I thought. I snap my head up at the next rush of wings to see a big tom gliding toward the next canyon.

5:17 a.m. – The decoy is finally set, and I'm settled about 10 yards below and to Jack's right. Gobbles erupt from the distant hills, sending a wave of relief throughout my body. The birds that dropped from the roost appear as black specks as they crest the hill about 600 yards out. The sight of them leads me to scratch out a few hen yelps on my box call. The screeching yelps are cringeworthy, but to my surprise, five toms stop in their tracks, return excited gobbles, then sprint in our direction.

"I'll chalk that up to the decoy," I think.

The box call thumps into the grass as I ready the shotgun across my knee. I'll have a narrow shot window and want to be prepared well ahead of time. I've forgotten that it's wet out with a humid chill in the air. My heartbeat thumps in my ears, and my hands begin to tremble.

Wings rush in so close that I fear an attack as a hen piles into the hillside not 20 feet to my right. I'm wide open on all angles but in front. My heart rate spikes, and my face flushes.

BUSTED! She must see me trembling and hear the jacket fabric raking across my beard stubble. "Just be still," I tell myself.

I refocus on the toms that have stopped at 200 yards to cast a skeptical eye on this hillside. "Certainly, the gig is up," I think. They're all similar in size and beard length, but one bird appears to be one season older with a slightly larger beard and body. Surprisingly, he and two other toms peel off toward the decoy. 

5:34 a.m. – Legal shooting light. The trio of toms hit the road below the decoy and stroll directly toward it, delaying only for a quick gobble and strut. The show was so mesmerizing that I nearly failed to notice they entered shotgun range. Once below the decoy, it's apparent that they aren't coming up to meet it. I'll have to shoot while they're on the road.

5:40 a.m. – The toms are mere steps from being safely concealed behind the brush between us when the older bird stutter-steps, separating himself from the other two. My right hand tightens on the cold, black, synthetic shotgun stock. Pursing my lips, I make a "kissing" sound, stopping all three. They raise their heads in alarm, while my index finger squeezes the trigger. The old tom collapses beneath a cloud of mist jolted from his feathers. The other toms beat feet back toward their roost, shock-gobbling along the way. 

The hen that landed nearby was unsuspecting. I heard her wing beats in the echo of the shot. "How many mistakes had I gotten away with? Did I actually make mistakes, aside from setting up? Maybe the birds are just naïve. It's opening weekend." Analytical thoughts roll through my mind at the conclusion of the hunt, broken by Jack's laughter.

"Got 'er done just like we planned, eh?" Jack says with a smirk.

"Oh, absolutely! It takes skills to navigate all those land mines and still punch a tag. Only professionals could have made it happen this morning," I return, fighting to keep a straight face. 

"Had those birds been any earlier, we wouldn't have been able to shoot," Jack says, provoking a nod of agreement.

"How'd the video look?" I ask.

"Looked good to me, but we'll find out soon enough."

5:46 a.m. – I kneel beside the stunning old bird that fell within the 150-yard circle of all my spring turkeys. His beard is about 10 inches long and scraggly, like most others I have hunted here, but his spurs are longer and sharper. He's the oldest tom I have hunted yet. 

Brad Trumbo

Trumbo inspects the old Rio Grande turkey's beard length while marveling at its beautiful plumage.

The iridescent ruby and emerald hues gleaming from their plumage reveal the secret beauty that these birds carry. Unassuming from a distance, yet magnificent up close. As if the bird's true splendor can only be seen in death. My throat tightens as I give thanks for the riches of wildlife, wild places, and the friends that I am blessed to share these experiences with. I then notice the red light of Jack's video camera.

"Another 10-minute turkey hunt," I exclaim, hoisting the grand bird.

"Ten minutes? Couldn't have been that long," Jack says.

"Yeah, well, I want the viewers to think we worked for him," I say with a laugh.

6:11 a.m. – The turkey is tagged and hanging in the barn as the sun peeks through the clouds. Jack pushes open the basement door to the house and turns around with a smile. "The coffee pot is still on."