Sunday, January 12, 2003

Time in woods worth it for more than one reason

By MARK TAYLOR OUTDOORS EDITOR

   Brandy led us into the woods, as always.

    For the feisty Boykin spaniel, this fall turkey hunt wasn't any different than the others. It was simply another opportunity to catch the scent of a gang, chase them down and scatter them.

    The stakes were higher for us human hunters. This was the final day of Virginia's fall turkey season.

    My first fall in Southwest Virginia, J. Carson Quarles invited me on a fall turkey hunt. Then the chairman of the game department's board of directors, the Roanoker wanted to welcome me to the area. He also wanted to show off his beloved Brandy, a crack turkey chaser.

    We've gotten out for at least one turkey hunt each fall since, but the streak looked in doubt this year. We had a hunt planned for the week before Christmas, but I had to cancel when my toddling twin girls got sick. I was pleased when Carson invited me to hunt with him and his son, James, on Jan.4.

    We got started a little after 9 a.m., Brandy leading us along a heavily wooded, north-facing hillside.

    Hunting conditions were far from ideal. It was crisp and clear, but the wind was blowing hard. It wouldn't be hard for Brandy to catch the scent of turkeys, but it would be difficult for her to pinpoint the gang's location. Even if she did scatter birds, it would be hard for them to hear our calls, and hard for us to hear them approaching.

    We worked our way along the hillside, swung over the ridge and walked along the south-facing slope of the same ridge. Carson and James stayed about 200 yards below the ridge. I stayed high, in case Brandy were to chase a gang over the ridge.

    At 10 a.m. my radio sounded.

    "Brandy's in turkeys," Carson said.

    I made sure none were headed my way, then slipped down the hill.

    We were building blinds when Carson's radio buzzed again. His friend Gerald Austin had just gotten to the hunting area with his two Boykins and wanted to join us.

    We were set up by 10:45 a.m. Carson and James were in one blind, Gerald and I in another about 25 yards away. James and I were the shooters. Carson and Gerald would do the calling.

    Having turkey hunted together more than 30 years, Carson and Gerald are a lethal tag team. Sometimes the best calling won't get the job done, however. By noon, it appeared this was to be one of those times.

    Then I heard a hoarse, distant yelp in the deep hollow to my left.

    Over the next 20 minutes the turkey was plenty vocal but didn't come closer. Suddenly, it grew quiet. After 20 minutes of silence, I was starting to think the jig was up.

    Then, more yelps, this time closer.

    Gerald stopped calling and whispered into his radio. "Drag 'em by us, Carson."

    For 15 minutes the turkey stayed put, but then the yelps and clucks suddenly got a lot louder.

    "He's coming in," Gerald hissed.

    A couple minutes later the red head of a male turkey slid into view, about 10 yards to the right of where I expected it. When the turkey walked behind a tree, I shifted. When the bird reappeared, at a range of about 25 yards, I pulled the trigger.

    A moment later the turkey was in the air, flying down the hillside.

    I was stunned, and so was Gerald.

    "Did you miss that bird?" he said incredulously.

    I stood, my legs stiff from sitting for more than two hours in the cold.

    "I didn't think so," I said, feeling more sorry for the callers than for myself.

    Stepping from the blind, I took a few steps down the hillside, intending to check for signs of a hit. I soon saw them. Lying dead on the ground was my first fall gobbler, its 8-inch beard standing out against the fallen oak leaves. The other turkey apparently had been just downhill and out of sight when I shot.

    I hefted the bird and looked toward James and Carson. James gave me a thumbs up.

    I didn't hoot or holler. I was too wrung out. In 30 seconds, my emotions had gone from an extreme high to an extreme low and back to an extreme high.

    It's the kind of emotional rush that fuels a hunter's desire, and one others just can't understand.

    The day wasn't over yet. For nearly two hours Gerald and Carson tried to call in a bird for James. We didn't hear a peep so, at 2:30 p.m., we called it.

    "I'll be honest, I wouldn't have bet a plug nickel that we would have killed a gobbler in these conditions," Carson said, shaking his head and smiling. "I hope you realize how fortunate you are."

    I did, and not just because I was carrying a nice turkey from the woods.

    Cold, stiff and smiling, we headed down the mountain, Brandy leading the way.

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