My Life As A Turkey: You Must Watch This.

If you're a hunter, nature lover, or motion photography buff, do yourself a favor and watch the magnificent PBS documentary, "My Life As A Turkey."  It's some of the best TV I've seen in years.

Hell, come to think of it, if you're NOT a lover of nature, you owe it to yourself even more to watch this, so you can understand why the rest of us are obsessed with the natural world.

Disclosure.  I'm not a TV guy, and I had no idea this was on the tube.  I'm in a motel room in Hays, Kansas by myself, scouting birds for a buddy who's arriving tomorrow.  Sitting on the bed, eating Long John Silver's (don't judge), flipping through the boob tube.  And turkeys - wild turkeys - are on PBS.  Cool, I'll watch that for 30 seconds or so.

And for the next 40 minutes (I caught it late), I was mesmerized.  The storyline isn't new - man bonds with animals, learns much about them, learns more about himself and the human condition.  But holy hell was it well done.

It was interesting, beautiful, funny, and sad, often all at once.  The cinematography was extraordinary - so much so that I'm waiting for the inevitable follow-up "The Making of Turkey Man." 

Whatever.  It's must see TV for the outdoor set, and it'll certainly make me think about that rooster or bob that I'm fixing to draw a bead on tomorrow.  Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.

p.s. As I grabbed the link for the series, I see that the PBS site has crashed.  I'm guessing it's because of the interest in this program.

Road Photo Friday: Snakebit

These three photos from my recent turkey hunting trip in the Lone Star State do well to sum up the experience.

This photo depicts the guajillo bush that was hit by my shotgun this morning.  The turkey standing in close proximity was not.

This photo is of the Mexican free-tailed bat that inexplicably ran into my hunting buddy's neck on Tuesday.  Mind you, this did not happen as we were walking to our stand in pre-dawn hours -- it was at 2 p.m.  The incident prompted another buddy to quip, "if you start growing fangs, we're shooting you."

Oh yeah, it was a hundred degrees.  The first week in April.

This final photo is of the five foot long western diamondback rattlesnake that decided to join us on our early morning turkey hunt Thursday morning.  Like within a foot.  We escaped, unscathed.  The snake did not.

Some trips are just that way, aren't they?

Turkey Season 2010: Taking Stock

I shot me a big ol' Tom this spring. Called him in from 200 yards away. Ten inch beard, one-inch spurs, and dropped him like a sack of 'taters with a single 60-yard shot from a retina-detaching Thompson Center Encore. This on a trip where the turkeys skunked a handful of hunters much more skilled than I. So by that assessment, my season should go down as a resounding, rousing success.

Yet it still feels a bit unfulfilled. Allow me to explain.

2010 was the first season that I took my son turkey hunting. At nine (almost 10) years old, I judged him to be big enough, strong enough, and patient enough to be the triggerman on a bird that I'd call in for him. The notion was a bit romantic, but not without precedent. Perhaps 10 years earlier, I was fortunate enough to call in a beautiful Merriam's bird for my dad along Nebraska's turkey-rich Niobrara River. That feeling of pride and accomplishment sticks with me today as one of my fondest hunting memories. So I'd replicate that feeling for me -- and for him -- by bringing a bird within gun range.

Thankfully, I had access to a small 40-acre plot not far from home that held a decent flock of birds. My good buddy Dan and his son came down from Minnesota and we spent the first weekend in May lying in wait for a Tom to be fooled by our calls. We chose to hunt out of blinds, since it'd be hard to conceal the movement of two people (especially two young boys). So Dan and Josh set up along a natural gasline right-of-way, and Jack and I opted for a spot along the fenceline on the other side of the property.

It downpoured our first morning. And for the first hour of the day, the thunder played harmony to Jack's own snoring. But once the rain subsided and Jack stirred, we both agreed that it was nice to see the world wake up around us. No turkeys, but we had another day or two.

The second morning brought kinder weather and a noisy Tom 150 yards away that began sounding off almost immediately after we got situated in our blind. I gave him a couple of my best sleepy yelps, and the gobbler started closing in. We got the gun situated on the monopod and waited. "Dad, I'm nervous," Jack whispered. I nodded and smiled knowingly, feeling that same nervousness. It's a feeling familiar to any hunter, and the feeling I always get whether waiting for a turkey, a deer, or a covey flush. The day I lose that feeling is the day I quit hunting. And now, I had the honor of introducing that incomparable feeling to my son. But that was the last we'd hear of the tom that day. Dan and Josh had a similar experience, and we said goodbye to them without any of us filling our tags.

A good friend recently commented that "there's no such thing as a casual turkey hunter," and he's exactly right. Matching wits with a big Tom turkey can border on obsessive. So in the days leading up to my mid-May birthday, I told Jack that best gift I could receive for my birthday was to call him in a gobbler -- and I meant it. Jack told his mom what I had said, and as she recounted it to me, I started worrying that he had interpreted my comment as "I'll ruin Dad's birthday if I don't shoot a bird."

Driving to our property the next day, I assured him that I was just thrilled to be sharing the time with him, whispering jokes to one another and watching the woods around us. And he genuinely seemed to agree with me -- phew, crisis averted! We still had plenty of days in the season to tag our Tom.

We spent the rest of the season listening to distant gobblers, watching whitetails grazing, playing with a box turtle, and sitting motionless as henbirds walked within arms' reach of our blind. But no gobbler. It ate me up a bit. I wanted this bird for him. I wanted it for ME.

Last night after dinner I told him that our turkey season was probably over. The hens were all bred, the undergrowth was too tall to see (let alone make a shot of any distance), and the bugs were swarming.

"That's fine dad. It was still fun, even though we didn't get him." His attention turned back to the Wii and he resumed playing Lego Batman. Five seconds later, he paused the game and turned to look at me.

"But next spring he's dead, Dad."

It was a very successful season after all.

The Booksmart Turkey Hunter

It was probably the spring of 1993 when I started my turkey hunting career.  I was fresh out of college, newly-married, and working for Headline News in Atlanta.  I'd been born-and-raised an upland and waterfowl hunter, but turkeys were just starting to grow in numbers (and in popularity) in the Midwest.

In the South though, they were already an industry unto themselves.  I can fondly remember dragging my sweet and tolerant yet befuddled new bride to "Turkeyrama," a hugely redneck sports show for all things longbeard.  It might've been at that show that I picked up The Turkey Hunter's Bible, by John E. Phillips.  It was a tome I read from cover to cover, parsing each sentence for enlightenment.  Booksmart and oblivious to reality, I set out with some ragged camo, a newly-purchased Winchester 1300 NWTF edition, and a few calls.

I had scouted the Redlands WMA a few weeks prior, and I had this sprawling tract of land to myself, since my "weekends" from the news biz were Tuesday and Wednesday.  I stumbled to my appointed pine tree and set up shop in the waning minutes of darkness.

Figuring that louder was better (a trait not uncommon among most men of that age), I reached for the noisiest yelper I could find -- a handmade contraption that consisted of a cut-up 35mm film canister (try finding one of those these days) with a piece of stretched Trojan condom that served as the reed.  I let out about five or six terrible yelps and waited.

But not for long.  Within 15 seconds, a group of 20 birds emerged from the piney woods about 200 yards away on a hill right in front of me, and they were headed my way!  In another 15 seconds (I was too paralyzed to make anymore calls) they were within gun range.  Shaking more than I thought possible, I raised my gun and took my first turkey.  It was a jake with a four-inch beard, but I couldn't be happier.  Every hunter has those kinds of days every once in awhile -- where everything aligns just right and you can do no wrong. Hell, on the way back to my truck, bird slung over my shoulder, I flushed one of Georgia's few covies of public land wild quail.  As a 24-year-old, it made me cocky.  This turkey hunting business was easy.

It took me another three seasons to kill my second bird, so I can thank Mr. Tom for teaching me a thing or two about humility and patience.  That's part of the enjoyment of turkey hunting -- even if the birds aren't cooperating, it's a great way to see the world wake up around you -- something most people never bother to savor.  And those slow times sitting under a tree give you a chance to remember all the good times.  I'm no longer a jake these days, but I've got two young kids eager to sit in the woods with me and hopefully we'll make some more memories.