The River Gobbler
By Brad Jones

I have known Chris Ewing for about 4 years, and one thing I can tell you is that he is a man of few words. Chris began helping me with my youth summer camp programs, and over the past few years, we have developed a great friendship. We both live near Pinewood, South Carolina so we get to spend many days hunting and fishing outside of our experiences at camp.

In South Carolina, our early turkey season opens on March fifteenth in the lower coastal zone and April first for the rest of the state. Chris and I are turkey hunting addicts. Unfortunately, we live on east side of the Santee River which is the dividing line of the lower coastal zone. Unless we get an invitation to hunt "ACROSS THE RIVER", as we say, we must painfully wait until April first or try our luck at a small piece of over hunted property only accessible by boat.

As Chris and I were lifting weights the afternoon before our early season began, we discussed the invitation I had to hunt with a friend the next morning. Lo and behold, my phone rang and it was my friend telling me that he had started to plant his corn crop, and that he didn't think he would be able to hunt. Now that is about the worst news any avid hunter could receive on an afternoon before opening day. I was devastated to say the least. For the past two weeks, I had been waiting for this day as excitedly as a child awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus. Since I had already taken the day off from work, I decided that I was going somewhere, regardless.

Chris and I hurried home after we finished working out, and I began to devise a plan to hunt the next morning. I knew where a few birds may be on this piece of property, but it was usually heavily hunted. Then I remembered the boat! I had been tinkering with it for the past two weeks so I could go crappie fishing, but I couldn't get it to crank. I knew there were some carburetor problems, but I am not a boat mechanic, and I had done about as much as I could to fix it. We decided to give it one more try, and to our surprise, it fired up. I had the water hooked to it so it could run awhile and hopefully flush out any debris that may have been the culprit. As it sat in idle, I noticed that it wasn't pumping the water out at all. I sighed in disbelief, and Chris just kind of shrugged his shoulders a little. I had begun to reconcile myself to the fact that it wasn't in the cards for me to be able to hunt on opening day, but decided that I must persevere. Therefore, I shut the motor down and started trouble shooting. After a few failed attempts, I found the problem. "Dirt Daubers - I hate those things," I exclaimed. Soon we had it all cleaned out, and the boat was performing better than ever. I was unsure of any plans that Chris had for the following morning, but I asked him if he wanted to go with me after those wary gobblers. All he said was, "That's fine." Knowing Chris, that really meant "Heck yeah."

We spent the next 30 minutes or so getting everything ready for our adventure. Not being a morning person, I knew our best bet would be to spend the night on the riverbank. We packed all our turkey gear, two sleeping bags, some firewood, a few snicker bars and several cans of Vienna's. The more I thought about our plans, the more excited I got. It had been a while since I had just headed out to a spot and camped on a whim. This is how I prefer to hunt but somehow with my busy schedule I don't get to do that type of venture nearly enough.

We arrived at the landing shortly after dusk and launched the boat. No other trucks were in the parking lot so I knew we would have a peaceful trip. We got everything secured in the boat and started out on our twenty plus minute ride up the river. The moon was full and created a sight that would rival a chapter out of an Archibald Rutledge book. As we motored along I remembered why I loved the river so much. The reflection of the bright moon on the rolling river gave me chills up and down my spine. I occasionally hit the spotlight to view the bank although the moon gave me plenty of light for our travels. I saw the glimmer of several sets of red eyes from gators along the water. They slowly submerged as we screamed past them. We reached an area that had a few birds in the past and decided to find a spot to make camp for the night. I slid the boat up on the bank and shut the Johnson down. Chris and I began to unpack the few supplies we had brought with us and started to gather some kindling for the fire.

Pretty soon, on the river bank, we had a nice roaring fire that began to knock off a little of the chill from the boat ride. Not long after we had gotten settled in and things had gotten quiet again, the sounds of barred owls echoed through the swamp. I couldn't think of a better place I could be. I eased back on my rolled sleeping bag and gazed into the fire. I ran several scenarios through my mind about the possibilities of the morning hunt. After pondering for a while, I knew that there was absolutely no telling what the birds may do- that is, if we were even lucky enough to hear any birds. I had my doubts since we had not scouted. I threw a few more logs on the fire, unrolled my sleeping bag and crawled into it, telling Chris good night. As I lay there staring at the stars, I could see the smoke trailing its way into the sky. The owls continued to harmonize with each other, and the sound of the river flowing made my eyes heavy. I thanked God for allowing me to experience such beauty. Whether or not we bagged a bird, I was already having a successful hunt.

The next morning I awoke to the sounds of songs birds chanting beautiful songs. Day was beginning to break as I commenced to get out of my sleeping bag. I froze for a moment in disbelief, thinking that I had heard the sound I so desperately wanted to hear. I held my breath and strained my ears, and "sho nuff", gobbles erupted from all directions. I hopped out of my bag, fumbled with my boots and scurried over to the rest of my gear. Nothing gets me moving at 6 am like the sound of gobbles. I was so excited I didn't even remember to wake Chris. I eased off from camp and listened for the closest bird. I coursed one of the gobbles to be about 250 to 300 yards. I eased toward the tom and closed the distance to with-in about 150 yards. I slid down in front of a huge tupelo and fumbled for my slate. I got everything together and scratched out a few short soft yelps. Nothing! Before I finished my second series of yelps the ol' boy cut me off. "Oh yeah" I silently muttered to myself. He knew exactly where I was, and he was already on the ground.

I clucked and purred softly and scratched in the leaves subtly. He cut me off each time I made a sound; he was getting closer. I eased down on my Browning's stock and peered through the hardwoods waiting to see that big fan moving my way. Five minutes turned to ten, and ten turned to fifteen, and there was no longbeard. I yelped a few notes on my mouth call, and he answered. But this time, he was farther away than he was when I originally sat down to him. In the other direction, might I add? For the next thirty minutes, we exchanged conversation. I moved several times as did he, but we couldn't seem to find a rendezvous point. I guess, after a while, he lost interest and shut up, or, more than likely, he was surrounded by a harem. I quietly headed back to camp and found Chris still wrapped up in the sleeping bag. I thought for sure he would have headed out after one of the other gobblers around us. I apologized for taking off in such a mad rush. He understood; it was opening day. He told me where he heard two birds gobbling their heads off, but they hadn't said a word in 30 minutes or so. The swamp had become completely silent with gobbles as if there wasn't a turkey gobbler around. We moved to a few spots, set up and called for a lengthy period, and neither saw nor heard a word. Typical turkey frustration that drives me back time and again was taking over. I told Chris we should head back and try the bird I was on earlier. Patience was going to be our best asset today because they were probably henned up and had no reason to talk.

We rode back to our initial area and tied up the boat. We meandered our way through the swamp and onto a nice flat. Chris and I agreed to set up and call here for at least an hour. I knew that the gobbler that I had been on earlier had to be somewhere within a few hundred yards. At least I hoped he was. The problem was that each ridge was separated by sloughs, and some were divided by creeks that he surely wouldn't cross if he had hens with him. It was our best option; so we sat and began calling. The sun had risen pretty high in the sky, and the warmth started to consume me. I started dozing and would wake myself each time my head bobbed. Each time I awoke, I would give a series of yelps.

I finally got to the point where I told Chris to cover us and I got completely horizontal. I guess I was sleeping pretty soundly because it took several good nudges from Chris to wake me. I awoke in a daze and wasn't sure what was going on. I quickly realized when Chris whispered, "There is a gobbler strutting." "How far?" I asked. Chris replied, "About thirty five yards." Now that will wake you up in a hurry. I had to quietly slide back up the base of that tupelo tree without making too much noise in the dry leaves. I tried to mask my noise with a few soft yelps. I couldn't see the bird yet, and he was out of Chris's sight now. Time seemed to stand still, but I knew we couldn't make any mistakes or get impatient. The "Man of the Spring" knew exactly where he heard his female counterpart, and we just had to sit patiently and wait.

Finally I saw him raise that beautiful fan up through an opening in the trees. As quickly as the fan went up, it went back down, and that brightly colored head would periscope and peer all around. I could tell this bird was educated and more cautious than any gobbler in South Carolina. He would take about 3 steps, strut for a few seconds, and then glare right in our direction for what seemed liked minutes. He was about 30 yards away, and I had a clear view, but my gun was pointed a little too much to the left. Chris was unable to see the gobbler at all now. I developed a cramp in my leg from holding my foot off of a small twig that was trying to crack under my boot.

This is what turkey hunting is all about, anticipation. Each strut seemed to be the last before this gorgeous bird called our bluff. I either needed the gobbler to move about five feet to my left, or I was going to have to swing my gun barrel about 18 inches to the right. I was in an awkward position and Chris had no view of the bird at all. All of a sudden, the longbeard let out one putt, dropped out of strut and flopped one wing over the other. I have seen that behavior way too many times, and I knew exactly what it meant. We had about 2 seconds to make our move or he was going to be long gone.

Chris was still unable to see so I knew I had to make the swing. I rotated as far as I could to the right and settled my cheek on the stock. I kept in mind that it was crucial to make sure my head was all the way down on the stock, especially in the twisted position I was in. The gobbler had already begun walking away. I placed the bead on the wattles and squeezed the trigger. Somewhere in between the turkey and me, an old branch jumped in front of my pattern. Dust exploded into the air as if I was shooting an old musket. I had to wait for the air to clear to see that wary tom flopping in his tracks. I was as thrilled as if it was my first gobbler.

As we rushed over to the monarch, Chris and I stopped and gave each other a big "high five". I paused for a moment to admire my trophy, as his feathers seemed to glisten in the sunshine. I looked around at the beauty of God's creation and tried to absorb as much of it as I could. I could see bright yellow flowers sitting atop fresh green stalks scattered throughout the swamp. The remains of winter was now being replaced by the magnificent sight of spring. I knew I was lucky to be a part of what most people call a sport, but to me, it is my life.

There was no place on earth that I would rather be than standing in that swamp with Chris and the bounty of our hunt. Not only would we have memories of a lifetime, but we had supper. After taking many photos to preserve those memories, we gathered our gear and our harvest and loaded up in the boat. Leaving this serene place was the hardest part of the hunt.

The ride back was filled with sights of river life. Great Blue Herons were perched on willow limbs in search of a meal. Ospreys soared above the river eyeing the murky water for another victim. A ten foot plus gator sunned in solitude on the bank, enjoying the birth of spring. As we motored past boats they greeted us with only a fisherman's wave that is a given out on the river. This is how I was raised and how I will remain.

I have to give all the credit to Chris for this great gobbler, and I wish he had been in the position to harvest him. It was anybody's bird, but he just happened to take a few steps in my direction. I surely would have never had the chance if Chris hadn't woken me up. He deserved that bird more than I, and let me tell you, when Chris does talk, you'd better listen.

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