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"But, as he yelped the second time, the young bird fell
in love and was running to us like a pit bull in heat, crashing through
the palmettos and underbrush."
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Heading out to the river the other day, I couldn't help but notice
the bass were moving into the shallow, tannic canals that run adjacent
to the St. Johns River as they starting to brush out the silt from the
sandy river bottom with their tails, staking claim as they do every year
in early spring. This reminded me that I had been selected by lottery
for a spring gobbler hunt that was coming up in three short weeks.
Hating to admit this, but it would be the first, lets say, legal turkey
hunt I had ever participated in. Now, don't get me wrong, I have taken
my share of turkeys in the past, but not by using the front gate of
properties, or actually talking to the person at the check in station.
The key word here is past!
Checking my old Mossberg shotgun, oiling her up and making sure
everything was in good, working order, I began to think this would be a
good time to get the set of turkey decoys I've always wanted. So, after
a little sweet-talking to the wife, we loaded up the truck and off to
the local, big-box store we went, my two eager sons in tow.
As I was looking at the fold-up, foam turkey decoys, my two boys,
being inquisitive as always, begin asking me a hundred and one
questions, touching everything on the shelf in front of them. However,
they had no idea about the upcoming hunt, so I began to fill them in.
Now, instead of just touching everything they saw, it turned into,
"I think we need to buy this for the hunt!"… and this and
that and this, as they pointed in fifteen different directions. If you
have children, or grandchildren of your own, then you know that you're
not leaving any store without getting them something for the hunt. Not
only did we leave with some foam birds, but we also added a new choke
tube for the trusty shotgun, a box of turkey shells, and two or three
packs of turkey calls to our growing total. Over the next two weeks, as
the wife and I would sit and talk about our day, we would hear what
sounded like a turkey with a bad voice, running around the yard from one
end to the other as the boys tried to imitate Ol' Tom.
As the weekends came rushing in, it seamed like everything that could
come up just to keep me from getting out to the woods to do a little
scouting, did so; the only thing I could think of doing on the opening
day was to go to an area along the swampy banks of the St. Johns that I
had hog hunted previously. I had seen some signs of turkeys roosting and
hoped they were still there.
D-day, or actually "T-day" was here and, unfortunately,
with the first two days of the season falling on weekdays, the kids
would be in school. I was on my own to look for a suitable area.
Pulling into the front gate of the preserve, the sun had barely
pierced the blue-gold horizon, the glowing of the sunrise hidden behind
a dark, silhouetted tree line of pines, scrub oaks and palmettos. I
hoped that I was one of the first hunters to enter. My thoughts still
lingered with my boys as they readied themselves for school back home,
and I could feel their disappointment and their desire to be out here
with me.
After giving all the necessary information to the warden, I was
handed the magic ticket with the number five in the upper left corner,
not too bad, four others were already here and had their spots staked
out, and now it was my turn.
Driving in, I saw the first of the four with his car setting at the
outhouse and it looked like he was going to be there for some time. One
down, three more to go! Looking down the road, just past the outhouse, I
could see a bird standing about a foot off the shoulder. Upon closer
inspection, it was one of those foam turkeys that looked just like the
one in my backpack. I laughed to myself, then the laughing turned into
swearing when I looked up and there were two trucks parked exactly where
I was heading. Life goes on, I suppose, and so did I, right back down
the road to look at other areas.
I stopped and gathered my gear, then walked a trail where I had
previously seen some older turkey signs. There were no new signs of
birds, but the trail ended in a large canopy of old oaks with Spanish
moss draping down almost to the ground. A small, slow trickling creek
meandered through the trees. The area was full of what appeared to be
fresh tracks in the wet, dark mud along the creek. But still, no turkeys
to be heard or seen.
The next day would prove the same…nothing; didn't hear one bird all
day.
On Saturday, my youngest boy and I loaded up and headed to the same
spot in hopes of seeing turkeys. The excitement of a young boy permeated
the air in the cab. As we walked down the sandy trail, my boy wanted to
call to see if he could get a response. With some apprehension, thinking
about all the noises I heard him making at the house, I shook my head
and told him to go ahead. To my surprise he did a really good job, but
no reply. We decided to move to an area up the trail that was full of
ancient, mossy water oaks and large cabbage palms. He gave another
holler. To our surprise, a bird, still quite a way out, yelped back. At
first I told him not to move, it sounded like someone yelping back with
a cedar box call. But, as he yelped the second time, the young bird fell
in love and was running to us like a pit bull in heat, crashing  through
the palmettos and underbrush.
We didn't even have enough time to get off the trail and hide. Both
of us just laid down in the tall grass on the shoulder of the trail on
our backs just waiting for Godzilla to bust out on us. I told my boy not
to move and not to lie as low as me so he could hear me, but not to run
Godzilla off.
Then all I hear is my boy starting to laugh. Yep, I said laughing.
Next thing we see is this young, full-of-bull Jake blow out of the woods
about ten feet from us and starts yelping, looking around for his true
love. I told my son to give him another call to keep him yelping and he
may just pull in another bird, hopefully a lot bigger.
We lay there for about thirty minutes and then he just walked off
into the swamp like is heart was ripping out from his chest. We stood
up, still on the high and just loving it. I ask him why he began
laughing, and his only reply, still laughing and smiling from ear to
ear, was, "That's all I could do, it was so exiting!"
It was just then I knew it didn't matter if we got a bird or not, it was
all worth the trip just to have him call his first bird in on his own,
and realize also, not every bird is a shooter; even though we could have
taken him, what we took home was far more precious.
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About the Author:
 Matthew
L. Phillips is a true outdoorsman, and his love of the water and woods
goes back many years. In fact, the only time he usually got in trouble
with his mom and dad was when the teacher would send a note home
complaining that Matthew spent too much time writing his class essays on
fishing, and the teachers wanted him to "broaden" his
storylines on other subjects. Growing up fishing the tannic-stained,
fresh water lakes and rivers, along with the crystal clear, coastal
waters of central Florida, that was something that just was not going to
change. He now spends his days teaching and bestowing his knowledge of
the water and woods onto his two boys living in the small town of
Geneva, Florida nestled along the banks of the Saint Johns River.
Photos by George Lainhart
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