ET1775
AH enthusiast
I have been trying to teach myself how to call in gobblers (with little success so far.) I must be speaking a foreign dialect. It has not been without exciting moments, a lot of promising call and response, but the old toms have repeatedly decided there was something more pressing in the agenda than walking in front of my blind. I have primarily been out with my bow because I enjoy the added challenge of archery. Not that turkey hunting needs any more challenge!
I have a few birds that have been traversing BLM near my place in Central Oregon and I have seen a few good toms from time to time. I eventually got tired of sitting in a blind and decided for a walk yesterday to check for fresh tracks. Spot and stalk and still hunting are definitely my preference and I typically only sit in a blind when I must.
I opted to bring my light and fast, 20g, CZ Bobwhite G2, SxS shotgun on my walk as I like to shoot Collared Doves when I find them. They are a bit closer in size to pigeons than Morning Doves and taste just as good. Because they are an exotic, invasive species in Oregon, they are open season.
The weather was perfect at about 56 F, sunny, and calm wind. I had been walking for only about 20 minutes when I spotted a vivid, red and blue, mottled head, keeping watch about 50 yards up a gradual incline from my position. The tom was among low rabbit brush and sage bushes with interspersed juniper of varying maturity. He definitely knew I was there but did not immediately run so I positioned a juniper between us and began my stalk. The wily, old, tom began to side-hill, as he ambled, unhurriedly away from where he had last seen me. I got to my hands and knees and would crawl quickly toward him whenever his eyes would get behind a shrub or tree. As he was not alarmed at this point and lost track of my position, he stopped and rose up to his full height to try to locate me. I had been able to close the distance to approximately 30-35 yards from the tom over the last 10 minutes. Lying low when he was watching and crawling toward him when he was moving. Now, lying on my belly behind a rabbit brush I prepared my strategy.
I had my tighter choke in my left barrel and was full up with 2 rounds of Heavy Bismuth #5 shot. It is all I had on hand that wasn't dove loads so I was ready to test it out. I rose to one knee as I simultaneously shouldered the shotgun. In the very moment I was pressing the trigger rearward, willing my shot to break and connect with his crimson, featherless head, this tom decided that I was entirely too close for his liking and not where he had expected me to be. The report of the shot broke the stillness of the afternoon and the tom remained, standing, unfazed, 6 inches to the left of the malevolent swarm of pellets as they passed impotently behind him. He had ducked forward and begun to trot out of the general vicinity when he saw me appear. I had no second shot on account of the undergrowth, he loped past me toward steeper country, not flying in a panic, but not stopping to figure out what my intentions were either.
I knew the general direction he had headed, and initially uncertain if I had connected at all, I began to cut for spoor. Hoping for a blood trail and finding none, I spent the next hour working along the route I thought was likely he went. Every bush, bramble and dead-fall became a potential hiding place, every shadow and play of light looking like a patch of feathers. The last thing I wanted to do was leave a bird to potentially languish in the forest to die, and still convinced that my aim was true... I pressed on.
I worked my way toward an area with sandy soil where I suspected he would leave tracks as he moved toward high ground. I found no blood trail but found a couple tracks in the soft soil confirming my instinct that he would press this way. Based on the story his trail was telling, he was in no mood to stay in the area but if wounded, it was not mortal and was not telling in his gait.
I stalked my way up a sandy hillside, investigating every possible hiding place. I kept my gun at the high ready. With fresh shot shells in the chambers and the local birds and insects quieting, there was a sense that he was close. The tom jumped up from behind a bush 10 yards uphill to my 9 O' clock and began to run toward my right. I was ready for him and took a couple large steps to clear a juniper from my line of fire and prepare the ambush. I readied my shotgun and as he passed from behind another sage brush so he passed from this life. My shot broke, clean and true, and the turkey arched his back and neck, legs stiff as if he had been electrocuted. Then he cartwheeled backward, end over end, coming to rest in a bush 20 yards down the hill.
There were a few futile, sympathetic kicks of his nervous system still trying to outrun the inevitable, then all was still. I killed my first turkey. Within moments, the birds and insects began once again to raise their daily chorus. I took stock of the scene and gave thanks to God for such an incredible animal and for such an experience. I took him home to weigh him, then got him plucked processed and frozen. Bone broth is rendering on the stove and we will have a couple wonderful turkey dinners in the coming weeks!
Once the bird was plucked I noticed a couple things, there was a large hematoma in the base of his left wing and several pellets in his head and neck. Best I can figure is that my initial shot that was aimed for his head patterned around his head and he was non-fatally hit in the left wing along the humerous (if that is the right term in a bird) this caused significant, local internal bleeding but then stopped itself when the mass of blood put enough pressure to tamponade the flow. There was no blood trail and very little blood from that wound, but would have kept him from flying when I closed with him later. My second shot put pellets in his neck and head, killing him instantly.
Never give up on the stalk!
I have a few birds that have been traversing BLM near my place in Central Oregon and I have seen a few good toms from time to time. I eventually got tired of sitting in a blind and decided for a walk yesterday to check for fresh tracks. Spot and stalk and still hunting are definitely my preference and I typically only sit in a blind when I must.
I opted to bring my light and fast, 20g, CZ Bobwhite G2, SxS shotgun on my walk as I like to shoot Collared Doves when I find them. They are a bit closer in size to pigeons than Morning Doves and taste just as good. Because they are an exotic, invasive species in Oregon, they are open season.
The weather was perfect at about 56 F, sunny, and calm wind. I had been walking for only about 20 minutes when I spotted a vivid, red and blue, mottled head, keeping watch about 50 yards up a gradual incline from my position. The tom was among low rabbit brush and sage bushes with interspersed juniper of varying maturity. He definitely knew I was there but did not immediately run so I positioned a juniper between us and began my stalk. The wily, old, tom began to side-hill, as he ambled, unhurriedly away from where he had last seen me. I got to my hands and knees and would crawl quickly toward him whenever his eyes would get behind a shrub or tree. As he was not alarmed at this point and lost track of my position, he stopped and rose up to his full height to try to locate me. I had been able to close the distance to approximately 30-35 yards from the tom over the last 10 minutes. Lying low when he was watching and crawling toward him when he was moving. Now, lying on my belly behind a rabbit brush I prepared my strategy.
I had my tighter choke in my left barrel and was full up with 2 rounds of Heavy Bismuth #5 shot. It is all I had on hand that wasn't dove loads so I was ready to test it out. I rose to one knee as I simultaneously shouldered the shotgun. In the very moment I was pressing the trigger rearward, willing my shot to break and connect with his crimson, featherless head, this tom decided that I was entirely too close for his liking and not where he had expected me to be. The report of the shot broke the stillness of the afternoon and the tom remained, standing, unfazed, 6 inches to the left of the malevolent swarm of pellets as they passed impotently behind him. He had ducked forward and begun to trot out of the general vicinity when he saw me appear. I had no second shot on account of the undergrowth, he loped past me toward steeper country, not flying in a panic, but not stopping to figure out what my intentions were either.
I knew the general direction he had headed, and initially uncertain if I had connected at all, I began to cut for spoor. Hoping for a blood trail and finding none, I spent the next hour working along the route I thought was likely he went. Every bush, bramble and dead-fall became a potential hiding place, every shadow and play of light looking like a patch of feathers. The last thing I wanted to do was leave a bird to potentially languish in the forest to die, and still convinced that my aim was true... I pressed on.
I worked my way toward an area with sandy soil where I suspected he would leave tracks as he moved toward high ground. I found no blood trail but found a couple tracks in the soft soil confirming my instinct that he would press this way. Based on the story his trail was telling, he was in no mood to stay in the area but if wounded, it was not mortal and was not telling in his gait.
I stalked my way up a sandy hillside, investigating every possible hiding place. I kept my gun at the high ready. With fresh shot shells in the chambers and the local birds and insects quieting, there was a sense that he was close. The tom jumped up from behind a bush 10 yards uphill to my 9 O' clock and began to run toward my right. I was ready for him and took a couple large steps to clear a juniper from my line of fire and prepare the ambush. I readied my shotgun and as he passed from behind another sage brush so he passed from this life. My shot broke, clean and true, and the turkey arched his back and neck, legs stiff as if he had been electrocuted. Then he cartwheeled backward, end over end, coming to rest in a bush 20 yards down the hill.
There were a few futile, sympathetic kicks of his nervous system still trying to outrun the inevitable, then all was still. I killed my first turkey. Within moments, the birds and insects began once again to raise their daily chorus. I took stock of the scene and gave thanks to God for such an incredible animal and for such an experience. I took him home to weigh him, then got him plucked processed and frozen. Bone broth is rendering on the stove and we will have a couple wonderful turkey dinners in the coming weeks!
Once the bird was plucked I noticed a couple things, there was a large hematoma in the base of his left wing and several pellets in his head and neck. Best I can figure is that my initial shot that was aimed for his head patterned around his head and he was non-fatally hit in the left wing along the humerous (if that is the right term in a bird) this caused significant, local internal bleeding but then stopped itself when the mass of blood put enough pressure to tamponade the flow. There was no blood trail and very little blood from that wound, but would have kept him from flying when I closed with him later. My second shot put pellets in his neck and head, killing him instantly.
Never give up on the stalk!
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