Episode #21: Stickbows & Turkeys

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome to the Code of Traditional Archery, brought to you by Primitive Stone Archery and the founder Grant Richardson. Welcome to the Code of Traditional Archery Podcast. I'm Grant Richardson, your host. We want to welcome all of our listeners to check out our exclusive traditional bow hunting app, now live for all things related to traditional bow hunting. More to follow at the end of the podcast. The original intent of this podcast was to bring back traditional archery and bow hunting to an older era where hunting ability met Archer, and together the two formed a bow hunter. There's a strong resurgence in shooting and hunting with recurves and longbows, which is more so an art and a skill set, not a product, but a process. This podcast is dedicated to all the hard hunting folks who chase wild turkeys with traditional gear. I hope you enjoy episode twenty one Turkeys and Stickbows. The poke at my feet startled me awake, and in the darkness I could make out the shape of my ten year old, standing there waving her arms and quietly whispering, Dad, get up, let's get going. She'd beaten me to the alarm again. The night prior she'd set out all of our gear in a neat and tidy row that even a drill instructor would have been proud of. Decoys, calls, clothing boots, and even her starter reaker was all arranged in a logical manner. Both our bird dogs sat quietly watching us load the truck, a sad, sullen arrangement of gray, fur, and amber eyes, knowing they would not be accompanying us today. We reached the gravel drive after a short way out of town, quietly exiting the vehicle we listened intently in the pre dawn darkness. Spring peepers greeted us, a small chorus tree frog that is a sure indicator of spring's arrival in our parts. The sky was dark above us with midnight blue accents, the sun still out of sight to the east, but casting its first light against the horizon as a warning of its presence, sure to come. From the darkness to the north a barred owl called out, its solemn hoots echoing across the opposing creek bank at the bottom of the low ridge we were standing beneath, and on and down beyond the adjacent tree lines further away, echoing its contact call for all to hear. On the lonely night hunter's third series of who cooks for you, an explosive gobble gobbles erupted the early morning air, directly north of us and only a mile or so above us on the edge of the adjacent fence line that ran almost the entire length of the property. Glancing over, I could see through the ambient light the grin crossing my daughter's face, wide eyed and excited. She bent closer, and said Roosted, near setup or farther? Hard to say, whispered back, but we should get moving. Below us on the large creek in Beaver Pond, we were serenaded onward by wood duck squealing and mallards, roosted on the water, waking to the morning. Spring symphony was starting, and the grand tenor we were waiting for had already announced through his shock gobbles his soon to be grand entrance onto the stage. We'd been out three times prior to this day's hunt for eastern wild turkey, a reintroduction success for the species in our province of Ontario, some thirty years plus. The birds had taken to the habitat well, and our population is healthy and growing, especially in some northern areas as well. Our property served as a nesting area over the years and was never a great roosting and strutting habitat until we began to remediate and work on some of the habitat over a decade prior. And this work proved to be successful. The front of the old farm extending all the way back to the swamp and the mid was now used not only as a feeding and roost area, but that midpoint was a classic eastern woods high point and stress zone. This would be the first hunt at our own farm after three unsuccessful attempts thus far at another property that is a turkey hunter's heaven. There were a lot of birds and land, but a lot of trespassers as well. The pressure was proving relentless there, and I'd have enough of that gong show for one year. We'd been saving our farm for that perfect day, the one turkey hunters dream of. Warm sunlight, tepid air, and plenty of lonely toms wandering around looking for the hens, who were, for the most part, sitting on nests at this point. We entered the first field slowly, the sun some forty minutes away from first light. We scanned the upper branches of the large stand of oak some three hundred yards across for balls of feathers still roosted from the night prior. Typically this was the satellite roofs of some of the area's birds, but none were there this morning. A waking crow cut the air with this racious calls from across the field, and we paused, sure the tom we'd heard minutes prior, was going to gobble in protest. However, nothing but the slight wind and spring peepers responded. Shrugging her shoulders, my partner asked, What now? I'll tell you what, I said, You choose. What do you mean, responding was whimsically to my answer? You choose where to sit, I said, You lead the way. Now she was not able to hunt yet, not until the following year, but she'd been following me around the woods and fields of the early eighteen hundreds farm now much overgrown, and she knew its nooks and crannies like the back of her hand, where the deer runs were, the historic rub lines and scrapes of the white tails, the hollowed out ash tree the sparrowhawks used every year to raise their young, the drumming logs at the edge of the swamp where King Ruff sounded off like an old Harley Davidson every spring, looking for a lady, and the fox and fisher's habits of running the fence lines for rodents and red squirrels. Today she would need to determine the roost of Tom, however, and she stopped and pondered looking back over her shoulder, with a wild intelligence at the sun beckoning now behind the morning's curtain. She turned her face back to me. Follow me, she whispered. She took a large circle, a wide one, almost a hundred yards west from the Tom's earlier announcement, and quickly made her way up to an old tote trail adjacent to a large stand of red pine, the soft needles muffling our footsteps in a morning silence now. We were farther away from the orchestra of tree frogs. She paused. Going to the maple opening, she pointed. It should be in between both roosts, she whispered and winked at me, and then pointed to the ground, and there muddied next to the trail, a set of large turkey tracks in the early morning darkness. To our north the barred owl called again. Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all? With a second owl responding, We do, we do to the west. The tom was closer this time, only around one hundred and fifty yards to the east. The small clearing echoed his thunderous gobble back in response to the owls, and we hurried over the makeshift line we'd arranged out of fallen pines and scrub and crossed into the dark shadows of large maple trees surrounding the clearing to the south like two ninjas. Another tom to our west sounded off, and for several minutes two more toms to the north chimed in with gobbles. They're all over, she remarked, barely able to contain her excitement. I hid mine, trying to act like I had my nerves together, but was overcome as well, and laughed silently with her in the darkness. They are, I said, scrambling to encase my recurve as she sat down on the folding chair she'd carried with her, and taking off her backpack, she arranged some treats for herself for later on. Decoy, she said, pointing to the two hens we had in a mesh bag she carried up from the house. Nope, I shook my head, let's just sit. The sun was now blazing on the horizon, and the woods eerily silent after the gobble battle fifteen minutes prior. And faintly behind us we could hear the raindrop sounds and soft quiet yelps of a hen, turkey tree calling. If you've never heard the sound before, it indeed does sound like large raindrops falling into a pool of water. And it is not easy to pinpoint with a forest amphitheater backdrop to showcase that call. Call dad, she whispered to me. I'm a fan of less is more when calling birds. I always have been, especially given our current situation that day with at least five toms all around that knoll clearing we were sitting on. However, I have learned as a dad and father to take suggestions like hers to heart, since she felt her input was important, and it got her invested in the game afoot. Slipping the diaphragm call out of my pocket and cradling the Amazouk Stripe Howard High Speed across my lap, I let out a series of soft yelps and a couple of low cuts. Nothing. Again, she urged. I'd barely let out the second yelp when the hen that was behind us let loose a cutting series of her own and a fly down cackle, evidently upset at the hen interloper in her area. She was heading our way cutting loudly and closing the distance quickly when movement came from our front, not fifty yards out on the other side of the fallen cedar rail fence line we'd brought up and crossed. A brilliant red and white head stood out staring across the clearing with a stern look and half raised strutting tail fan. But Tom had quietly snuck in from the roadside we'd walked up earlier, and was now looking for the schoolyard fight that was about to happen between the real hen and myself. He walked slowly now, head and neck straining, around forty feet to our front. I moved my eyes over to my daughter, and she was transfixed on the bird as well, and she knew one motion, one small movement, however slight, and the game would be lost. The hen sounded off again, and I let her come in now, a mere ten feet behind us. She charged into the clearing, running by my ten year old buddy from around only three feet and cutting the entire time. But my young pathfinder did not move an inch. However, her eyes were wide, and I said, in my mind, good job, projecting that to her as the hen walked to our close front enough close enough to lasso with a stout rope. The hen fussed around and I lost sight of the gobbler as she preened her tail and shook her wings as if not seeing the true hen she'd be arguing with gave her both pride and defiance at running it off. I had my bow up the entire time. Fingers tensed on the flemish twist string my father had crafted, with a relaxed wrist ready to draw tight on the brown and red twists. The sun cut across the clearing now, showcasing the riser of the vintage Damon Howitt recurve, and the hand finished work, dark red, browns, and oranges meeting each other in striking oppose. The hand matched the color showcase with her iridescence and rusty red band. A recipe of bow and bird waiting for the snapshot classic of the century that would befit the cover of any outdoor magazine in the world. He jumped up then, the Tom that is, onto the fence, directly to our front, still only forty feet out, offering a clear shot for a moment, but still out of my comfort zone for movement and time. The hen met him as he hopped down, coming into a full strut now thirty yards or less away, and she blocked a shot at that point, the only shot opportunity I would have, as she led him away further down the fence line, and we watched as he strutted around fifteen feet away, shielded from my surgical sharp pointed sticks. This carried on for around fifteen minutes until they departed south into the thicket of pine and buckthorn below us. A pair of cardinals flew into the clearing, and I glanced over to see a pair of tired but happy eyes blinking at me. She shrugged her shoulders and whispered next time. Grabbing a handful of what we call turkey snacks, she stretched and said, That was a huge tom, dad. But he moved too fast, eh? No shot, huh? She was excited as she was eating popcorn in a movie theater, and not in the least upset at my cautiousness in not shooting at the bird. We settled back and watched an ermine, a least weasel hunting for mice through the cedar railed fence to our front, until an audible squeak was heard, and much like a Canadian Rikki Tiki Tabby, he emerged from the fence, sitting in the sun a proud moment, with a plump bow in his mouth, eyes gleaming and red fur bristling his ferocity to the clearing, now filled with the sun's blaze, before scurrying off with his breakfast down the trail. I'm gonna close my eyes, Dad, she whispered. The cool air in the sun was having that effect on me as well. Try a couple yelps, she said as she got comfortable, and pulled a large pine bow across to shield the sun from the back of the blind and her head. I was sitting with the call looking down in front of the scrub when I heard it. A humming like the buzzing of bees, the unmistakable sound of a tom turkey strutting and drumming. I saw nothing, however, as I scanned the clearing carefully. I let out a series of low yelps just using my voice, and the woods to our left erupted with the hen again. She sounded crazed, fighting purrs and clucks and cutting emanated from the woodline as she ran towards us set up like a feathered dozer, and appeared again in the clearing, seemingly angry and ready to rumble. I cut back at her twice again as she was farther out this time to my left. I looked over and my hunting buddy was wide awake now and staring to my right. Moving my eyes only, a tom, like a ninja, had silently crept out at full strut from the nearest edge of the pine tree now only fifteen feet or so out to my right, and the hand turned to lead him away from her competition. I had the bow at that point across my lap and not raised. The arrow was still knocked, however, as the four blade broadhead gleamed in the sun, a reminder of his intended purpose. I resisted the urge to swing the bow, and waited until the tom's head went behind the nearest pine tree, raising the recurve slightly in slow motion and adjusting my position, sitting down now with both my legs out to one side. The tom strutted out, no idea that only ten feet away we were watching his feathered slow dance. The hen, however, had seen the bow come up and was standing still, head straight up and putting nervously in our direction. She began to walk through the gap in the fence to our front, and he followed slowly, still within my comfort zone. I shifted slightly, and his head came up to run, catching my slight motion. A burst of grey barred flesh lightning shot across the bright clearing, the shaft appearing at his wing pinion and vanishing through an iridescent light show. I had not thought as the outtook him, and he stumbled, took a jump into the air and onto the cedar rails, falling to the ground, his wings flapping in a dark rainbow dance, heralded by the morning sunlight. The shaft lay there beyond, embedded into one of the lower cedar planks, buried deeply, its task complete. Good shot, Dad. She stood. Can I? She paused. Go get him, dear. She stood and walked quickly to the fallen bird. He's beautiful, Dad, he's a big tom. You think bigger than last year's? For sure, I said, letting her have a moment. We thanked the bird, admiring his plumage and tail fan, tagged it, and sat with it for several minutes before I retrieved the arrow from the fence, where it was embedded deeply in the historic cedar planks. We did it, my daughter remarked. Excited, she hoisted the bird over her shoulder, insisting on carrying it back down, winked at me, and said, I got him, Dad, let's go show grandpa. Feathers filled the small clearing and rose into the air, meeting the canopy of the maple trees with all of their green spring life extending from their branches. We took our time walking back down the lane and chatted about everything we'd seen. This was our fourth hunt with around thirty hours of hunting time before we connected. If you follow any of my social media accounts, you know I'm a big fan of hunting wild turkeys with traditional bows. There's just something about going after these birds with all their wariness they have built into them and even close enough to take one with tennis ball sized vitals and at times unpredictable movement. Hunting them, whether from a pop-up line, brush blind, or my favorite, which is spot and stock hunting them in the fall, stick bows and wild turkeys just go together like peas and carrots, so to speak. Some folks think I'm nuts for pursuing them with traditional gear. It's easier with a shotgun, I'm told, over and over again. All the power to them. I have no issues with whatever gear folks use as long as it's ethical. I prefer a rear curve and always will. For a hunt that will take your learning curve to another level and challenge your shooting as a bow hunter, you've got to try well turkeys out. If anything, the experience will be one that you're bound to learn from. And hunting turkeys is a sure way to get the youth in your life involved and hooked on hunting. Thanks for joining us. If you haven't already, check out Compton Traditional Bow Hunters, the national traditional bull hunting organization, offering great membership benefits and ensuring the traditions of bow hunting with the stick and string is alive and well, not only now, but for generations to come. We are very pleased to announce the very first traditional bow hunting app is now live. If you're new to traditional bow hunting, you will find everything you need in one source all in the palm of your hand. Our app eliminates the need for multi-platform searches and is designed for you, the hunter-gatherer of today. If you're new or trying to get started in traditional archery or bow hunting, this app is for you. You can find it on the App Store and Google Play. For folks already involved, we have you covered. 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And finally, the Traditional Bow Hunters Meditation, an immersive meditation designed for you, the Bow Hunter. You can find the link in the comments. Thanks for joining us. We appreciate all the positive feedback we've been getting from folks all over the world. This confirms for us the intent we have on our platform message based on the three pillars of the code of traditional archery. Weapons proficiency with the stick bow, ethics to guide us on our collective journey, and conservation with stewardship in order to protect the wildlife woods, fields, and waterways we hunt as our themes are resonating. Thanks for listening in. We encourage you to immerse yourself in the art of the stickbow. Shoot straight and walk with us.