Iowa: World-Class Whitetails, Premier Outfitters, and Expert Application Assistance

If it was the weekend in Orchard Park, New York back in the late ’80s or early ’90s, there was a high school party going on somewhere, and Bev and I were typically in attendance. Not this time. Bev came rolling up in his cherry red 1970 Ford pick-up at 4:45 a.m. on the dot. I set my shotgun behind the seat and jumped in. We discussed how neither of us had slept a wink and devised a plan of attack.

We decided to drive down Knob Hill Road, hit Middlebury, and park at the dead end. This would save us a long walk through the spooky, pitch black, haunted forest. Instead, we would take the long way and walk the tracks to the dominant tom’s roost.

We finally arrived. It was still pretty dark when I hit the owl call. We were rookie turkey hunters, but again, that ol’ tom let out a thunderous gobble high from his perch. Bev’s eyes opened wide. “Wow, he’s right there!” he whispered.

It was an extremely steep bank off the railroad rock apron leading down into the hardwood bottom where the bird was perched. We were whispering back and forth, trying to figure out how to descend from the tracks to the forest floor without making a racket. Just then, way off in the distance, we heard the whistle of the morning train.

It was decided. We would wait. When the train came rumbling by, we would use the noise as cover and slip into position. The massive smoke-breathing locomotive was finally on us, and we dropped in. We found comfortable ambush sets at the bases of two big silver maples, about 10 yards apart. This way, we figured we could cover a larger area should the gobbler commit.

As the train rolled on, it became quiet again. I don’t remember the Spring woods coming alive as the sun began to rise. There was dead silence. And then, when it was just light enough, I hit the plunger on a Quaker Boy Easy Yelper four times: yelp, yelp, yelp, yelp. Way too loud—I had no idea how effective a light tree call could be back then. But, unbelievably, the bird answered me with another thunderous gobble. He was still on the limb, not 80 yards from our turkey-hunting setup. At least I had the sense not to call again. Two minutes later, we heard him hit the ground. I called again. He hammered back and it shook us to our core. I didn’t dare touch the call again until he gobbled on his own. I then answered back with my way-too-loud series of four yelps.

Unbeknownst to me, Bev was able to watch the entire show, the flydown, the tom in and out of strut, and his methodical approach. Where I was positioned, I could only hear him. I later learned that Bev could have killed him on two different occasions, but the bird was still closing the distance, so he let him come. What an unselfish young hunter! The old tom then swung around to the direction of my call and I smoked him at 10 yards. We ran up to the flopping longbeard. We were in utter disbelief. Speechless and still shaking, we just looked from the dead tom to each other.

That was it. I was hooked. In 35 years, I’ve never missed a Spring turkey season.