shaman
01-10-2007, 06:14 AM
Me and Mister Natural I
I always say that you either have to come back from an adventure like this with either a trophy or one heck of a story. Whenever somebody looks at the big bare spot on the wall, representing my 2003 hunt they want to know what happened. That's when I tell them about Mister Natural. I've got lots of stories. I can tell you about Silent Bob and the Two Jakes. I can tell you about how I bagged old 2-Beards. I can rattle off dozens of stories about turkeys and turkey hunters. Still, the story of my first year going after Mister Natural is the one that haunts me.
"Aye, aye! It was that accursed white whale that razeed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!" Then tossing both arms, with measureless imprecations he shouted out: "Aye, aye! and I'll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition's flames before I give him up. And this is what ye have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out."
-- Herman Mellville Moby Dick
Yep, that's me. Ahab had a white whale. I've got Mister Natural. It all started Opening day of 2003. I had moderate success out on Gobbler's Knob at flydown. For whatever reason, the 5 or so gobblers that answered me that morning moved on down into Yellow Willow creek without showing themselves. That's okay. That's just Opening day for you. After working another tom in Hootin' Holler, I got into my ghillie suit and waited for Mister Natural to come strutting out by Broken Corners. He came out to strut in the pasture by the far barn every day at noon, and I figured I'd be in the bushes waiting for him. I'd been scouting these guys for over a month. Mister Natural was the biggest of the bunch. He was big. He was elegant. He was regular as grandma on prunes, and that was going to be his downfall. At least that was the plan. When I arrived at 10, Natural was already there waiting for me and took off towards Hootin' Holler. I took up station anyway. There were at least two other gobblers that came out with the hens to dust themselves inside the barn.
http://www.blackholecoffeehouse.com/brokencorners.JPG
About an hour into the wait, I looked up towards the farmhouse and saw some guys drive up and park. They started peering in the windows, which drove the dog nuts. I watched them through the binos, and the more they tromped around the house, the madder I got. Finally, I busted from cover, threw off the ghillie suit and stomped towards farm, determined to cause these intruders sincere grief. One was a sawed-off Mexican and the other was tall and skinny, both wanted in the house. I had 3 rounds of #4 jacked into the Mossberg, and 5 more in my shirt pocket. Nothing was getting away. It was only when I got about 50 yards from the house that I realized the little Mexican was actually Cousin Tim, one of the in-laws. He'd come out to drop off a refrigerator in the barn; he was moving back home and needed a place to store stuff.
I looked out towards Broken Corners about a half-hour later, and there was Mister Natural, dancing around my decoys, at one point he went up and walked on the ghillie suit that was laying out in the field. Oh well, it's just Opening day, right?
I tried to calm down and get involved in something that would get my mind off all the disruptions. Plumbing. That's it! Plumbing would do the trick. I had to install an outside faucet. No problem-- quick two hour job and then I'd go out and scout for tomorrow. Three days later, I finally stopped all the leaks. What I had not counted on was that in order to install the faucet, I was going to have to put 13 joints in a space of only 2 feet. A few of the joints would have to be done blind. I was not up to the task, and had to grow tremendously as an amateur plumber before surmounting the feat. Meanwhile, I was plagued with drips and spurts that would not go away. Furthermore, it's a pump-fed system, so the pump was turning on every few minutes to make up for the leaks. I could not get the problem out of my head, and I could not concentrate on turkey hunting. I'd go in early to work on the pipes and spend the rest of the day soldering, cussing and making trips into town for parts.
The leaks finally succumbed on day 3, but by then turkey hunting was a shambles. It got cold and rainy. I went out on day four in fog and drizzle-- had a remarkable morning that nearly had a payoff, came in for a quick cup of coffee and then it was going to be out to the barn at Broken Corners and my appointment with Mister Natural. On the way back in, I saw turkeys in a pasture, and had to lay flat in wet grass to glass them without being seen. I spent half an hour waiting for a gobbler to show, and finally gave up. That made me a wee bit wet, but not too bad. I was now in a hurry. I gunned down a quick cup of joe and left.
It's funny how little things can really make or break a hunting trip. At 2:30 AM, I'd rolled over and looked at my fancy Timex alarm watch to check the time. The watch had decided at that moment to stop working. I'd been forced to stay up, because I could not trust myself to go back to sleep without an alarm. Not wearing a watch hunting is usually not a huge problem. This day it was.
I'd been up since 2:30. I was damp. It was getting colder and the wind was picking up. I was sheltered in the barn, but I still got cold. In the gloom of the fog, I lost track of time. I was resolved to stick it out until noon, and the appearance of Mister Natural.
A few hens came by to dust at various intervals. That kept me on my toes. I watched the clouds. I shivered. I looked out at the gloom and listened to the spurts of rain on the tin roof above me. I shivered. I got up and moved around, got myself pretty well warmed up, and then sat down and waited. I shivered.
Finally Mister Natural appeared. He strutted out into the middle of the field, saw my decoys and walked on over like he had spied the town whore on a barstool-- no rush, she ain't going anywhere. I brought my gun up.
It could have been that I was too cold, or too tired, or my blood sugar was non-existant. All I know is that I muffed an easy shot, and Mister Natural went sailing away towards Hootin' Holler, and I nearly passed out when I stood up.
When I got back to the house, it was 2:30 PM. I'd been out there 6 hours with no food, and the temperature was down in the forties. I ate. I warmed up. I cursed the heavens for toying with me and then went to get my watch fixed.
The lady at the Radio Shack didn't have a clue how to change the battery, but she held me up just long enough to miss the jeweler, who left early. That forced me to drive clear back to the city to a Walmart, where they replaced the battery and got the watch working again. It worked fine until bedtime, and then stopped and never worked again. The pieces of that watch are scattered about the house.
Girlfriend brought me an old watch with an alarm from home, and the weekend brought a modicum of luck, though no payoffs. Hootin' Holler was productive. The bottoms of Yellow Willow Creek were active. The ridge we call The Boonies was crawling with gobblers. #2 son and I had several good mornings.
By Monday of the next week, I was sick. I'd never fully recovered from the long vigil out at Broken Corners. Doc declared it Bronchitis and gave me pills, but I was not up for hunting until the weekend.
By the next Saturday, I had a new watch, my lungs were functioning again, and the plumbing had held at the farmhouse for a week without leaking. I went out and found a Zero. Zip. Nada. It wasn't until I ventured down into the bottoms of Yellow Willow Creek that I found what had happened to all the gobblers of Gobbler's Knob.
All the gobblers had retreated to the sycamores along the creek. I was treated to a spectacular concert on Sunday morning as I sat and listened to the gobblers sound off. I could not count the number of voices in the chorus, but one old boss would erupt, and a wave of gobbling would pass up and down the creek and then pass back up like a ripple in a bathtub. It became obvious to me that hunting in the intervening week had made the turkeys withdraw to this safe bastion in towering trees. It irked me that my turkeys were in there too, that probably meant someone had been poaching, but it was too late to do anything about that.
(Continued)
I always say that you either have to come back from an adventure like this with either a trophy or one heck of a story. Whenever somebody looks at the big bare spot on the wall, representing my 2003 hunt they want to know what happened. That's when I tell them about Mister Natural. I've got lots of stories. I can tell you about Silent Bob and the Two Jakes. I can tell you about how I bagged old 2-Beards. I can rattle off dozens of stories about turkeys and turkey hunters. Still, the story of my first year going after Mister Natural is the one that haunts me.
"Aye, aye! It was that accursed white whale that razeed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!" Then tossing both arms, with measureless imprecations he shouted out: "Aye, aye! and I'll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition's flames before I give him up. And this is what ye have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out."
-- Herman Mellville Moby Dick
Yep, that's me. Ahab had a white whale. I've got Mister Natural. It all started Opening day of 2003. I had moderate success out on Gobbler's Knob at flydown. For whatever reason, the 5 or so gobblers that answered me that morning moved on down into Yellow Willow creek without showing themselves. That's okay. That's just Opening day for you. After working another tom in Hootin' Holler, I got into my ghillie suit and waited for Mister Natural to come strutting out by Broken Corners. He came out to strut in the pasture by the far barn every day at noon, and I figured I'd be in the bushes waiting for him. I'd been scouting these guys for over a month. Mister Natural was the biggest of the bunch. He was big. He was elegant. He was regular as grandma on prunes, and that was going to be his downfall. At least that was the plan. When I arrived at 10, Natural was already there waiting for me and took off towards Hootin' Holler. I took up station anyway. There were at least two other gobblers that came out with the hens to dust themselves inside the barn.
http://www.blackholecoffeehouse.com/brokencorners.JPG
About an hour into the wait, I looked up towards the farmhouse and saw some guys drive up and park. They started peering in the windows, which drove the dog nuts. I watched them through the binos, and the more they tromped around the house, the madder I got. Finally, I busted from cover, threw off the ghillie suit and stomped towards farm, determined to cause these intruders sincere grief. One was a sawed-off Mexican and the other was tall and skinny, both wanted in the house. I had 3 rounds of #4 jacked into the Mossberg, and 5 more in my shirt pocket. Nothing was getting away. It was only when I got about 50 yards from the house that I realized the little Mexican was actually Cousin Tim, one of the in-laws. He'd come out to drop off a refrigerator in the barn; he was moving back home and needed a place to store stuff.
I looked out towards Broken Corners about a half-hour later, and there was Mister Natural, dancing around my decoys, at one point he went up and walked on the ghillie suit that was laying out in the field. Oh well, it's just Opening day, right?
I tried to calm down and get involved in something that would get my mind off all the disruptions. Plumbing. That's it! Plumbing would do the trick. I had to install an outside faucet. No problem-- quick two hour job and then I'd go out and scout for tomorrow. Three days later, I finally stopped all the leaks. What I had not counted on was that in order to install the faucet, I was going to have to put 13 joints in a space of only 2 feet. A few of the joints would have to be done blind. I was not up to the task, and had to grow tremendously as an amateur plumber before surmounting the feat. Meanwhile, I was plagued with drips and spurts that would not go away. Furthermore, it's a pump-fed system, so the pump was turning on every few minutes to make up for the leaks. I could not get the problem out of my head, and I could not concentrate on turkey hunting. I'd go in early to work on the pipes and spend the rest of the day soldering, cussing and making trips into town for parts.
The leaks finally succumbed on day 3, but by then turkey hunting was a shambles. It got cold and rainy. I went out on day four in fog and drizzle-- had a remarkable morning that nearly had a payoff, came in for a quick cup of coffee and then it was going to be out to the barn at Broken Corners and my appointment with Mister Natural. On the way back in, I saw turkeys in a pasture, and had to lay flat in wet grass to glass them without being seen. I spent half an hour waiting for a gobbler to show, and finally gave up. That made me a wee bit wet, but not too bad. I was now in a hurry. I gunned down a quick cup of joe and left.
It's funny how little things can really make or break a hunting trip. At 2:30 AM, I'd rolled over and looked at my fancy Timex alarm watch to check the time. The watch had decided at that moment to stop working. I'd been forced to stay up, because I could not trust myself to go back to sleep without an alarm. Not wearing a watch hunting is usually not a huge problem. This day it was.
I'd been up since 2:30. I was damp. It was getting colder and the wind was picking up. I was sheltered in the barn, but I still got cold. In the gloom of the fog, I lost track of time. I was resolved to stick it out until noon, and the appearance of Mister Natural.
A few hens came by to dust at various intervals. That kept me on my toes. I watched the clouds. I shivered. I looked out at the gloom and listened to the spurts of rain on the tin roof above me. I shivered. I got up and moved around, got myself pretty well warmed up, and then sat down and waited. I shivered.
Finally Mister Natural appeared. He strutted out into the middle of the field, saw my decoys and walked on over like he had spied the town whore on a barstool-- no rush, she ain't going anywhere. I brought my gun up.
It could have been that I was too cold, or too tired, or my blood sugar was non-existant. All I know is that I muffed an easy shot, and Mister Natural went sailing away towards Hootin' Holler, and I nearly passed out when I stood up.
When I got back to the house, it was 2:30 PM. I'd been out there 6 hours with no food, and the temperature was down in the forties. I ate. I warmed up. I cursed the heavens for toying with me and then went to get my watch fixed.
The lady at the Radio Shack didn't have a clue how to change the battery, but she held me up just long enough to miss the jeweler, who left early. That forced me to drive clear back to the city to a Walmart, where they replaced the battery and got the watch working again. It worked fine until bedtime, and then stopped and never worked again. The pieces of that watch are scattered about the house.
Girlfriend brought me an old watch with an alarm from home, and the weekend brought a modicum of luck, though no payoffs. Hootin' Holler was productive. The bottoms of Yellow Willow Creek were active. The ridge we call The Boonies was crawling with gobblers. #2 son and I had several good mornings.
By Monday of the next week, I was sick. I'd never fully recovered from the long vigil out at Broken Corners. Doc declared it Bronchitis and gave me pills, but I was not up for hunting until the weekend.
By the next Saturday, I had a new watch, my lungs were functioning again, and the plumbing had held at the farmhouse for a week without leaking. I went out and found a Zero. Zip. Nada. It wasn't until I ventured down into the bottoms of Yellow Willow Creek that I found what had happened to all the gobblers of Gobbler's Knob.
All the gobblers had retreated to the sycamores along the creek. I was treated to a spectacular concert on Sunday morning as I sat and listened to the gobblers sound off. I could not count the number of voices in the chorus, but one old boss would erupt, and a wave of gobbling would pass up and down the creek and then pass back up like a ripple in a bathtub. It became obvious to me that hunting in the intervening week had made the turkeys withdraw to this safe bastion in towering trees. It irked me that my turkeys were in there too, that probably meant someone had been poaching, but it was too late to do anything about that.
(Continued)