Ep. 311: This Country Life - Flying Deer and Counting Turkeys

stories to share, flying deer and counting turkeys. Turkey season is getting craked up just about everywhere over the next few weeks, and your old uncle Brent has got turkeys on the brain. I got a good story from nineteen years ago that involves my son, perseverance and a question that's still unanswered. I'm gonna tell it and let you decide. But first I'm going to tell you this story. This

story comes from This Country Life listener David Jackson. David lives in Lead Hill, Arkansas, which is in Boone County and close enough to Missouri to hit the show Me State with the twenty two. I myself have chased turkeys near Leadhill many moons ago, picking a few of the ripe ones and toting them home to the flat land. But David has offered the following for your approval. So in David's words and my voice, here we go. It was open in the morning a turkey season spring two

thousand and fourteen. My dad had recently passed away, leaving my sister made the family's hunt farm east of Hardy, Arkansas. For several years, my Dad, my sons, and I had enjoyed hunting and camping there. Lots of memories were made. As you can imagine, my brother in law had never gotten a turkey, so I decided that this would be the perfect time to introduce him to our farm and

hopefully both of us would be successful. But Dad and I had taken deer, turkey and squirrel over there for years from that farm, but the turkey population was superior to that of the deer. They were everywhere back in the day. This cool Chris morning turned out to be exactly what we had hoped for. Clear skies do on the ground, hot coffee in the thermost, and most importantly, knowledge of where the turkey is normally roosted. At least we thought we knew. The property north of Ireland was

known for noise, late nights and more noise. This must have been the reason for the unexpected relocatetion of what we called our predictable turkey roost, causing them to move on the adjacent ridge on our southern border. I sent my brother in law to the normal roosting ridge while I chose to huddle up on the ground on the edge of an ATV trail near the northwest corner of our land. I just knew my hunting partner was at the perfect spot. I'd seen them flying down many mornings

near this location. What we expected to happen that morning did not happen, not even close daylight broke in a few minutes past when I heard goblin to the south. I had never heard a sound from my brother in law's location, so I decided to just stay planted and wait a few more minutes. What I didn't know was that my brother in law also heard the gobbles too, and he decided to leave his spot and head to the south ridge as fast as he could go. Now,

have you ever hunted on a ridge? Sounds sometimes seemed closer than they really are. His thought was the turkey was close, but in reality it was much further. Ir ATV trails allowed us to walk between various deer stands on the property with ease. You could cover lots of ground quickly and quietly. My brother in law made it out to the trail just fine, but apparently had made quite a bit of noise going through the woods from

that ridge he was on to the trail. What neither of us knew was that there were several deer bedded on that ridge right between us. I was thinking of gathering up my stuff and heading south to that ridge before they flew down and I heard the noise. Now, I've heard deer running through the woods hundreds of times, but from a deer stand. This was my first time to ever hear him running from a seated position next

to a main trail in the dark. He had apparently busted the deer from their bed, causing them to run for their deer lives, and it was fight or flight, and they chose the ladder. Fortunately for me, Most of the deer ran just to the right, but one deer one deer did not. I'm guessing it was a doe, but I really couldn't say. It was pretty dark. All I know is that that deer was big, But I mean,

running right down the trail right in my direction. This dear didn't know I was on the ground in his path, and I suspected at the last second it must have thrown huh a new stuff on the ground. Well, that stump was me and it jumped over my head. And the last second was one of its back legs grazing my left knee cap as it flew over me. But it felt like someone took a baseball bat and swung it at my leg. That that really just happened and my injured? Is my knee? Okay? Are there any more

ore coming down that trail? Questions galower flashed through my mind, but thankfully only that one made contact. Now I had no clue that my brother in law had moved and jumped his deer, and neither did he. I also didn't know he decided to circle around and head to the same ridge I was going to as well. We had both heard the goblin on the south ridge and both decided to head that way, coming in from opposite directions.

Even with the deer collision, I managed to get there before he did, which turned out to be a blessing and a curse. My path was pretty much straight up the ridge while his was over and around and then up quickly in position. A short time later, I saw the tom's head and beard and ranged just twenty yards away, and I let him have a three and a half Winchester number five. That was the blessing. My brother in law hadn't made it there yet. It was still down the hill on the other side and was out of

range of my shot. That was also a blessing. The curse was that I would have preferred him to be the one to get that bird. It would have been his first. He came running and asked me, did you shoot? Ah? Yep, it was me. We were both shocked to see one another, him thinking I was far away to the north of me, thinking he was still up there where I had left him. While hunter and gun safety were drilled into our heads from childhood, this is case and point that you could

never be too careful. We celebrated and enjoyed fresh fried turkey over the next couple of days. I supported the sowordine for a week and wished that dear jump could have been documented on video tape. Backed several turkeys since that Chris Spring morning, but none have been more painful. Safe hunting out there and watch out for those knee

knocking high flying deer. Well. David Jackson of Leadhill, Arkansas, thanks for sharing your story and the reminder for the rest of us to make a plan, have contingencies, and communicate above all else. But according to David Jackson, that's just how that happened. My son Hunter had been rambling around on the planet for eight years and one month, and it just smashed his first long beard a fortnight before.

It was an Arkansas opening morning double that had two turkeys flopping after three shots from his twenty gauge pump. He fired once and me sending two more after he patiently handed me his age seventy, the last of which hit its mark. It would be the fuse that burned bright for several years until, for one reason or another,

his interest led him elsewhere. But that season we learned a lot, both of us, me teaching him everything I knew about chasing turkeys and he teaching me too that to borrow Steve Vanilla's freeze, a fresh set of eyes does find more beans. For our last tags, we were hunting a farm in southeast Darkansas that had little to no pressure and a good population of turkeys. We'd seen one in particular that had a harem of hens that

frequented a section of timber and open fields. He roosted along the edge of a big open pasture almost eighty acres worth of prime manicured cowfu. The only irregularity was a point of wood that pushed out into the fields about sixty yards. Also, there was a spring seep that acted as a natural watering hole and shade for cows

in the summertime. Was also where that turkey roosted. Nearly every day, would pitch out into the middle of that pasture, and the hens followed suit, usually joined by several jakes who lingered around the edges, a flock of seven hens that that gobbler pushed around the pasture like a cow dog moves cattle, always keeping the tight rein on the

seven hens. I played every trick I knew on that turkey, who would answer at nearly every call I threw at him, only to strut in circles as he herded the ladies around and around the open landscape. I called at the hens, but he wouldn't let them leave. I called the jakes up so many times I started being able to recognize the differences in them. We'd become some paticos from our many visits, all within sight and earshot of that old boss Gobbler who paid attention to their ventures but never

tried to join their escapades. Now he was satisfied with courting that gaggle of hens up and down the middle of that pasture. Even though he was ruthless and heavy handed about any of them straying off, he was unbothered with the adding number eight to his hair. It was like he knew his limitations, and apparently seven was it. I tried a combination of calls and decoys and tactics

with him, diaphragms, box calls, slates, snuff box calls. Snuff Tobacco used to come in small ten canadas, about the size of a half dollar in circumference and three to four inches long. Old timers would make them out of

an empty can. You cut half the lid off, replaced that portion with latex held in place with a rubber band, with a narrow gap between the latex and the ten Now, with the bottom of the can removed and a little practice, you can make some show enough turkey record that I've seen make some old tough turkeys come in like you had them on a string, But not this hickory nut. He wasn't playing around with anything but the safety of

the middle of that pasture and those seven hens. Eventually they walk off and disappear in the woods around the field. Edges were so open from cattle use that there was zero chance of moving on him. After he passed us up, we just had to sit and watch him walk away. Other turkeys would gobble, but it had gotten personal. No other turkey would do. It had to be this one. And that wasn't just for me. That was all Hunter. He was on a mission to show this gobbler who

the real boss was. Whenever we employed the decoy, we'd get there way before daylight and set up, only to have him approach up to a certain distance from us, and the decoy always out of comfortable range of Hunter's shotgun and his ability to shoot it. This was his turkey, and even though I might I might have smashed him on a couple of occasions with my shotgun, I chose

not to even try. I was just as hypnotized by wanting Hunter to succeed as he was, maybe even more so, and we approached it every day like we were engaged in battle. We had long given up the decoy the last times we'd used it. The gobbler had gotten kind of spooked, and I don't blame him. It was made from foam, The paint had almost all chipped off of it, and it wasn't that much of a true representation of a hen turkey anyway. As a matter of fact, it was ugly. It was only in my vest because I

had forgotten to take it out. It weighed nothing, it favored nothing, but it folded up and stayed unnoticed in the game bag. More accurate description would be that it looked as much like a wild hen turkey as a Hearsey's chocolate bunny looks like a wild rabbit. On day number five of hunting this gobbler, we were once again standing on the south edge of this big pasture, facing the north way before daylight. A quarter of the property laid to our left or our west from where we stood.

The other three quarters, obviously were to the east and our right, and we were present on the west side of that point of woods that stuck out in the pasture, the one with the seeping spring. I told you about this morning. The turkey gobbled on the south side of the pasture, just like always, but he was further to the right or the east, towards that end, further away than normal, placing that point of woods between him and us.

So picture it in your mind. We were standing on the edge of a cow pasture, twenty acres of open pasture to our left and to our right was sixty acres except for that point of woods that stuck out in the field on the same side we were, and the gobbler was roosted on the other side. We never tried to get closer, and we never made a peek. To tell you the truth, I was all out of ideas. I heard him when he flew off the roofs, and I split second later I saw him fly out into

the middle of that pasture in the early dawn. A few moments later, the hens followed, and I heard Hunter counting in a wisp one two, three, four, five, six, Dad, six hens. Yeah, I see him hundred. I've been seeing them for a week, No, sir, we've been seeing seven hens. What was right? There had been seven with him, and we waited for number seven to fly off throost counting and recounting all the hens that he was ushering around

in that field like a bull elk does cows. I wonder what happened to him, I told him I didn't know. Maybe she was already sitting on the nest. But if there was ever a chance for this hideous decoy virus to work, it was right now. It was my last play. He could see the wheels turning in my knogging, and I grabbed him by the arm and we sunk deeper in the edge of the woods, and Duck walked to where that point of wood stuck out in the field.

From there, we got down on our bell, all up the edge of that point to the opposite side, away from those turkeys, both of us sopping wet from the mud and morning dew. After crawling forty yards, I struck that hen decoy up and keeping a big red over between us and the turkeys. I crawled over to it on the west side of that point, and sliding up next to it, we sat down, facing the absolute opposite

direction from where they were. We couldn't even see them when we got settled in, but round and round he strugged, pushing those hens around as they fed more or less in our direction, but on a course that would once again keep him well out of range. Hunter sat on my right and shotgun oriented toward that decoy in his back, to the goblin and yeppling that was taking place right behind his shoulder out in that field. Not turning around was like trying not to watch a fishing partner's court.

Was all I could do to keep still, to not roll over, and try to peek around the back of that tree to see where they were. They hadn't made a sound in what seemed like forever now, and there was absolutely nothing between us and them but that big red oak, no underbrush, nothing. We were as hid as the terrain would allow, which was only good until the turkeys got past that point of land and would then be able to see us sitting against the base of

that tree, plain as day. Our only hope was that raggedy decoy I had jobbed in the ground out in front of us, on a sweet gum limb I'd cut a week ago, and hopefully it would keep their attention. The stake that came with it was lost to who knows where, but that gum limb was a fitting substitute accessory. That looked abouite as much like a turkey leg as that decoy did a turkey. But we were all in that peg legged out cast from the island of misfit

towards was our obi wan Kenobi. It was our only hope. I looked down at Hunter and he was rock solid, his shotgun propped up on his knee and aiming down the barrel toward that decoy. I had to give it to him. The little man was mission focused in front side oriented. You good, buddy, Yes, sir, do you see him? I looked up out toward the middle of that field,

and I did see them there. They were loosely taking the same path they'd taken every morning before, rolling westward down the middle of that pasture, with that gobbler taking inventory every step of the way. He strutted around each hend, turned his fan toward whichever one he was closest to, as if she was the only gal in town. Bud, they're out there right now. We'll be able to see him in a second. We're still only six hens with him. Dad, I'm looking number seven, and when he sees her, it's

going to be all over him. He was. He was as confident as anything got seeing me not so much. I gave it one in a million. Nothing else had worked, and now I was betting on a turkey's math skills to lure him within shotgun range of my eight year old, and doing so, he'd had to be close enough to see what no living entity should confuse with a live wild Eastern Turkey hen, the same one that he'd been

leary of approaching two different times this week. Cut your eyes over, Eddy, Now you ought to be able to see him by now. They were moving at a slow but steady pace, and the hens were feeding along with him, right on their heels, strutting the whole way one hundred and fifty yards from us. I glanced down at Hunter. I washed him close to me, make sure he was breathing. He wasn't moving an inch. I felt good about that.

I looked over stairs at that deco and lost what little bit of confidence I'd built up over the past few moments. The turkey gobbled and broke me from my sneering gaze at that unreasonable facsimile of a hen Turkey. I had not bought another one. I looked over and he was looking in our direction. He gobbled again. And came out of his trut, facing our direction, but looking

straight at that decoy. He didn't move, and after a few seconds all the hens were looking too, and I figured at any moment this was going to be the repeat of every other interaction. Then, after what seemed like forever, the hens went back to feeding, He went back to strut, and all of them slowly fit toward our direction. Wait a minute, were they actually doing this, son? Can you see them? Yes, sir, they were covering those one hundred

and fifty yards at a snail's pacing. With every step they made towards that decoy, I thought it would be the last. The hunter never flinched. E been sitting that way without moving from more than twenty minutes and was eight. I was forty and about to lose my mind. The ground was rock hard at the base of that tree, with all the years of cows patting down that dirt. On the thing between my behind in China was two square feet of Arkansas and a butterbean sized piece of

flint I'd miss sweeping away when we sat down. That seemed to be growing in both volume and sharpness with each tick of the clock. I stared back at the decoys, who were now starting to pick up the pace as they came closer, and one by one they passed in front of me and Hunter and either walked up to or just behind that one legged raggedy decoy that was twenty yards in front of us. They never gave us

a second look, feeding right on past her. Then the gobblers strolled in and took his spot next to that foam Jezebel fan, fully spread wings, dragging the ground and drumming like it was his job. Hunter waited until he stepped right in front of where his gun barrel was pointed. Without moving an inch, he popped the safety office shot that joker square in the left ear right then. Now, from that day forward, that old raggedy decoy was known as Number seven. No idea on what became of her.

We moved a few times since then, and she was on our way out the day she lured Hunters Second Turkey into its doom. The real question is King Turkey's count. I have no clue, but it makes me wonder. I appreciate so much all of you who's been the biggest part of this country life. It's not possible without you, and I encourage you to keep sitting in those stories to my tcl story at the meadeater dot com. We love sharing them with you. Thanks for listening to me

and Clay Bow here on the Bear Grease Channel. We've got a lot of new stuff coming soon that I'm really excited about and I know you're going to enjoy. Knew this country life merch is coming in the next few months. Folks are working hard to get it here just as soon as possible. See y'all hang in there until next week. This is Brent Reives signing off. Y'all be careful