‘Carpe diem,’ Albert Paul call fools them again

By Mike Giles

April 18, 2008 12:53 am

— “I think I might have some good news for you,” offered my still young bride. For the life of me I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about so early in the morning. She continued uninterrupted, “I heard a turkey gobble three times while on my walk.”
By now my antennas had gone up and my ears were at full alert! “Where were you, where did you hear him, and when did you hear him?” These were just a few of the questions I had for her on this early spring morning.
Before I knew it I was back in the throes of this disease folks commonly call turkey hunting. Is there a more glorious form of hunting than hunting the king of the spring woods? I think not. The challenge of imitating a seductive hen and enticing a battle wise old bird is perhaps the ultimate hunting thrill.
After getting my bearing on the supposed whereabouts of this gobbler, I quickly made plans to hunt him. The crops would have to wait as I had a bird to challenge, and the battle would be life or death.

Memories revisited

As I climbed the steep slope my mind raced back 25 years when I chased other birds all over these same hills. Yes, the memories flooded back, but not a peep out of the gobbler that I hoped would still be in the same area where my wife had heard him earlier.
After a 25 minute jaunt up and over a few hills and hollows, I stood atop a ridge and strained to hear the king’s triumphant call. Alas, nothing would answer the many crows, owls and birds that were chiming in and greeting the new day’s brilliant orange dawning.
Since I had come this far I picked out a likely looking spot and pulled out my Albert Paul custom crafted gobbler box. With the wind kicking up pretty good, I knew that I needed a call that would carry throughout the lush green woods.
As I stroked a few sweet, sultry yelps on the box it sounded like a raspy old hen giving that come hither song to any available sultans. After a couple of yelps, I followed up with three crisp clucks. At the stroke of the second cluck a nearby tom belted out a voluminous gobble that almost scared the wits out of me.
The gobbler was only about 125 yards away, apparently in his strutting zone on the tip of a knoll outcropping that ran perpendicular to the ridge I occupied. The bird would have to circle and come in directly in front of me, or so I thought.

Silent treatment

Fifteen long minutes passed by and the bird never let out a peep again. Finally a distant train whistle sounded and he began belting out gobbles in response to everything. There was a log truck off in the distance, and then the bird responded to crows, and finally to a flock of geese honking overhead.
Playing hard to get, I just held fast and so did the wise old tom. After a few more minutes of his gobbling without moving, I purred twice and clucked a few more times and he cut me off. His thunderous gobble told me that he just couldn’t stand much. He had to meet this seductive hen.
A few minutes later the gobbler had cut the distance between us in half and I readied myself for battle. His last two gobbles were so loud I thought that he was going to jump in my lap any minute. Suddenly a white head peeked out between the huckleberry bushes and stared intently ahead.
After playing hide and seek for a few minutes the old bird peeked around a tree for the last time, as two ounces of copper plated number four shot laid him to rest. And he didn’t even flop. What a sweet hunt it had been. With the scouting help from my wife Kathy, and a beautiful Albert Paul box call to sing a sweet tune, my hunt had been a rousing success. Carpe diem! I had seized the day and made another lifetime memory!

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