Friday brought showers. Wind. Even harder rain. Oh sure, I cold called in the usual spots trying to raise a gobbler . . . in some of the same areas I had 'em fired up in yesterday. Man, I got nowhere doing that.
About mid-morning I decided to sit along a cut cornfield. There, under a pine and behind a blind of sorts made by the edge grasses, I watched the spring mallards and Canada geese feed . . . crows had their little group far off, and numerous gray squirrels made their way to and from the woods. At one point, I watched a honker breed another--a first for me. Further off, a rooster pheasant called--unusual since ringnecks aren't common to this particular farm, nor is it a release site. Then again, the Maine contingent responsible for autumn releases contends there is some breeding and nesting activity among these planted gamebirds. But I digress . . .
I sat. I watched. I began to develop a hypothermic chill unrivaled in even the coldest of waterfowl blinds. Still, no turkeys.
Still, it's always good to get out. Maine's spring turkey hunting closes at noon, and I often start to work my way back to the truck a bit early on such days in the event I get something going at the wire. On the path toward the swollen creek, I stopped when red caught my eye--there on the other side; about forty yards away. It was a male turkey, for sure, hunched under a low-lying tree, toughing out the weather.
I crouched to get a better look--beard?--and at that he boogied across the expanse to the far, wet woods. Jake? At a running glance I'd say so . . .
I sat nearby in the rain to finish out the morning. That fool rooster just kept right on a calling . . .
--Steve Hickoff
