Texas turkey hunting last spring was actually three different hunts.  Thursday afternoon on the Middleton Ranch near Christoval in Tom Green County was typical, albeit with a better result than most three hour hunts.  Mild weather and responsive birds led to a double on very nice, mature toms, one at 6:20 p.m. and another at 7:00 p.m. Lots of gobbling and strutting. A great start.

The second hunt was at the Finklea Ranch near Sonora in Sutton County.  Friday afternoon was pregnant with storm—you could feel it coming.  The game was shy and reticent.  They knew, and went about preparing for the night.  In the case of the wild turkeys, that meant searching out roosting sites that were lower elevation and protected.  When we woke on Saturday morning, the wind was howling and the rain was falling, temperature 33 degrees and dropping.  By 8 a.m., it was below freezing and the rain had turned to sleet.  By 9 a.m., the wind was steady at 20 + mph and the precipitation was a weird mix of hail and snow.  As I heard the hail bouncing off my rain parka’s hood, I made a rare decision.  I picked up the   decoys, stashed them under a cedar, and began the two mile walk back to camp.  I had not heard or seen a bird, and I was within 200 yards of one of the most reliable roost sites on the ranch, the Windmill Roost in the South Pasture.  They simply weren’t there.  It’s hard to describe the level of discomfort and futility.  Your friction calls are worthless.  Your mouth calls can’t be heard.  You have to periodically remove ice from the end of your muzzle. Your fingers are numb, unprotected by the feeble, warm weather gloves you routinely soak with sweat when you hunt in the Southeast.  So, you concede this one to the red gods and the turkeys and you leave.  Fortunately, I was picked up less than a mile into my walk.  All nine hunters had come in—no one killed a bird.  I can’t remember that ever happening on this ranch.  In the end, only three hunters took birds on the Finklea, an exceptionally poor success rate for this part of Texas, especially considering the experience level represented in camp.

The Saturday afternoon hunt was much the same as the morning hunt—nothing doing.  Waking on Easter Sunday morning, everything was covered with ice—the bump gates, the vehicles, even my decoy bags. It was 31 degrees, but no snow or wind. I decided to go lower into the Wallace Pasture, where some tall oaks could be used for roosting, somewhat less exposed than the Windmill Roost.  That decision was fortuitous.  I heard a bird gobbling up the draw, south and east of me at about 200 yards.  I figured fly down was around 7:20 a.m.  He answered both the Halloran pot call and the Cane Creek mouth call.  Then he got quiet, and my anticipation soared.  As much as you can know these things, I knew he was coming.  I was backed into a cedar, with ice crystals dripping off the branches, well hidden.  At 8 a.m., I heard some muted clucking behind me, to my left.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two hens approaching, staring down my decoys.  He was right behind them.  They were on high alert, expecting some sort of movement from the dekes, I think. Whatever the reason, it appeared to me that they were not going to walk in front of me and into my set, as well as my line of fire.  You just get a sense for these things and these moments.  You hope your sense/instinct is right and you react.  In this case, with the birds in the worst possible position for a shot from my left shoulder (impossible, actually), I decided to slide off my cushion (they could not see me through the cedar) and onto my butt, inching forward until I was laying flat on my back.  Still unseen, and with the cedar for cover, I rolled over onto my belly, poked the 10 gauge through the cedar, and shot Ice Boy at 38 yards, stone dead.  When I walked up to him, he had a sheen of ice on his tail—I had to crack the ice to spread his fan.  Truly an unusual turkey, taken in the most severe weather conditions of a long career spent chasing these noble birds.  With spurs needle sharp and over an inch long, Ice Boy goes down as one of my best turkeys ever, certainly one of the most satisfying. 

The third hunt found me back on the Middleton Ranch, an hour’s drive from the Finklea on Sunday afternoon.  I killed the last gobbler on my license at 6 p.m.  He was the lone strutter among three adult toms.   Those three gobblers were following 20 hens into my set up.  That is not a typo—20 (twenty) hens! My hunting amigos, Major Harding and his son Kyle, finished strong on the Middleton on Monday.  I was fortunate to be with Kyle when he killed his first bird of the season, a real stud with 1.25 inch spurs.  Major also killed a nice bird that morning.  He got a double in the afternoon, and Kyle killed another, as well.  A great end to a very rewarding hunt.