In The Trough

I was half asleep when Graham clapped me on the back, waking me up from my trance behind the wheel as we rounded the tip of the jetties. We had just woken up from two hours of sleep after surf casting all night, eyes still heavy despite the coffee that warmed our stomachs. The 6AM sunrise greeted us like a reliable friend as I nudged the throttle forward, starting our 9 mile trek to the south west point of the island. Old and nearly reliable as the sunrise, the bow of the Seacraft parted the ripples of the surface as I huddled behind the center console, escaping the crisp fall air.

The ride was uneventful, silent and sleepy. Graham slept mouth open on the bean bag in the bow, drooling as his head bobbed to the rhythm of the waves. If I hadn’t been so tired I probably would’ve videoed it. We rounded the south west corner of the island and the swells picked up. I pulled the throttle back, idling towards my GPS marks of the best spot in the area for false albacore and bonito. Approaching the ridge we would be trolling along, the rollers were so tall we couldn’t see the land on either side of us when in the trough. The salty spray that brought goose bumps with each drop soaked my jacket and coated my glasses, power of the ocean tangible around us. We nosedived when each swell passed under our feet. Grabbing the first rod and setting a line out, I called Graham to take the wheel as I set up our spread. The conditions were sketchy at best but we had already shelled a hundred dollars into the trip for ice, food and fuel so it was decided that we’d tough it out. I leaned against the console to avoid being tossed as I reached for the second rod, undoing the bungee cord that held it in place. Carefully removing the treble hook from the guide, my stomach churned with excitement and a bit of nausea as another swell passed under us. As the second deep diver left my hand, we sat atop a mountain of water. To my right was the biggest fin I’ve ever seen.

The gray shape next to us appeared out of the murk like a submarine, nearly the length of the boat and easily as wide. With a tail as long as me and an eye so beady it would turn a hawk hot with jealousy, the image is forever burned into my mind. My stomach dropped, hair standing on end as the wave rolled past us and we were once again in the trough, water the only sight once again. I yelled out for Graham but as we came up on the next wave, there was no beady eye staring back at me. Vanishing like an apparition as quickly as it had appeared, the 18 foot creature was out of sight and we were once again alone at sea.

Turkeys and Electric Fences

(NOTE: Please excuse the bad photo quality. It was taken with a flip phone.)

The sound of a turkey gobbling isn’t easily forgotten. It’s a sound unlike any other that can get even the most seasoned hunter’s blood rushing. My first solo trip turkey hunting with a bow was about as exciting as it can get. Everything went as planned, until it didn’t. Keep reading to find out why I love turkey season and hate electric fences.

One May morning my alarm went off and I jumped out of bed the way I always do before a hunting or fishing trip. I walked out of my room dressed in camo from head to toe holding my bow. I had shot my first turkey with a bow the weekend before, and I knew I wanted to harvest another the same way. Deciding I wasn’t hungry, I headed out the door, immediately greeted by the wonderful spring air, the smell of daffodils, the sound of the bell-buoy down at the harbor entrance,  and the chirping of crickets. Junebugs whizzed by me, rushing towards the porch lights and bats glided over in the gray light of dawn. I had ten minutes before it was legal to shoot, so I began calling in my prey. The first call out of my bag that morning (and nearly every morning) was my owl call. Turkeys often respond to those calls and loud noises, which is called shock gobbling. No response, only wind moving through the tree branches. I began to walk down the old clay-dirt path that I know so well, pausing every now and then to do a loud yelp call. The turkeys either weren’t around, or weren’t in the mood to respond, so I continued on my way.

Around an hour later, I entered an open field half a mile away from where I began. I took the back path, crossed a leaf-stained stream on a narrow log, nearly missing the far bank. Silently I crept through the briars and brush to the semi-open edge of the field, carefully placing my feet as to not snap any twigs or branches. Looking up, I realized there were twelve turkeys standing thirty yards in front of me in the field, unaware of my presence. I tried to stay calm, but I felt “turkey fever” coming on strong. With a few small trees between the turkeys and I, there was no chance of me sneaking up on them, or making a shot. I chose to stay put and wait for them to move first.  I’d then sneak up to the edge, get behind some brush and call them back towards me.

It turned out that these turkeys would take their sweet time in moving, and after an hour and a half of sitting there, my patience wearing thin, they began to walk away. Another half hour later, they were 50 yards from me, and I decided it was time to move. I set up behind the largest oak tree in the area.  It was covered in grape vines and made for a perfect hiding spot. I pulled out my trusty Kryptonite Custom Call, a beautiful slate call made by Kip DeLisio (check his calls out, http://www.ebay.com/usr/coonanfox01?_trksid=p2047675.l2559)  and began to cluck, immediately getting four eager responses. The show had begun.

We kept up a call and response, and they gingerly worked their way back towards me. At last they were only ten yards away, but blocked by my tree so I couldn’t see them. I drew my bow. First, a hen stepped into view, then another, then six more. The only part missing was the gobbler. My arm was beginning to shake from holding my bow at full draw for so long when the gobbler stepped into view. Unfortunately it was only a small jake, but I decided to take the shot anyway. I slowly moved the pin to the vital area of the bird, feeling confident about my shot. After all, I had nothing between us but one strand of electric fencing at ten yards, how could I not be sure of this shot? I squeezed my release trigger slowly…. PING! The arrow hit the wire, and the turkeys flew off in every direction. I sat there in disbelief. I had made an accurate shot, only to be rejected by a tiny strand of wire. Gathering up my call and bow, I began the long walk home with a new idea in mind.

I jumped up onto my porch, set my bow down and ran inside to grab my Remington 1100 12 gauge and a couple shells and raced right back out the door. Breathing hard, I made it back to the field once again. I saw one big red head poking out of the grass, and we made eye contact before it disappeared. I got down on my belly and army crawled thirty yards to a fallen log where he had recently stood. Two deep breaths later, I popped up over the log to the sight of twelve turkeys sitting in the dust. I flicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger. This time there was no wire to save the turkey, and a load of #4 shot took him off his feet. Another shell flew into the chamber, and I made a second shot at another now flying jake. POW! He tumbled to the ground with a thud.
I checked my watch, it read 11:59. In the final minute of the day (you are only allowed to turkey hunt until 12 PM in MA) I had bagged two turkeys. They certainly weren’t huge birds, but they would make a delicious dinner. Slinging them over my shoulder, I began the long walk home, but this time with birds in hand.