Is turkey hunting better than deer hunting? Maybe not, but it is more fun
CAMP VERDE — From the Jeep where I was sitting, I could hear at least three different gobblers calling back forth with Maurice Estlinbaum.
I could visualize them in the motte of big trees, now free of cedar undergrowth due to recent habitat work on Camp Verde Ranch. The area looked a little like an amphitheater, and the sounds of gobbling and Maurice’s mild calls echoed around the area, which was layered with cedar mulch.
I had stopped on the main road 350 yards to the east of the area and told Maurice to walk in and set up to call. Gobblers always hung out in those trees, and there was nothing to tell me they weren’t there this afternoon. Obviously they were.
One of the gobblers, the loudest and most dominant of the group, moved several times up and down in the clearing, obviously looking for the hen he expected to find.
I couldn’t figure out why Maurice hadn’t killed him yet, but I was operating on the premise that he’d snuck in to the place I wanted him to be. That turkey would be right in front of him and no more than 25 yards away. An easy shot.
However, Maurice got a little lost, and my directions hadn’t been the best, and he turned out to be on the far north side of the clearing and about halfway between the eastern edge and the road to the west. Plus, his hearing isn’t so good these days, and he later told me he couldn’t hear all the gobblers I could hear.
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This was the second year for this turkey hunt on Bobby Parker’s ranch south of Kerrville. Maurice has been a friend to me for more than 40 years, teaching me the tricks and tools of wading for speckled trout around the Galveston Bay area.
Last season, we missed the peak of the gobbling and didn’t kill a single bird. We were in better shape this year. The gobblers were broken up into ones and twos and threes and looking for hens for breeding.
Finding the perfect spot — for both of us
Maurice is fairly new to turkey hunting, having declared once on a Wyoming mule deer hunt that I didn’t have any idea what I was talking about when I made a campfire declaration that turkey hunting was the most fun one man could have with a shotgun in his hands.
“Nothing is better than deer hunting,” he argued.
I told him I wasn’t saying it was better, just that it was more fun calling and seeing the birds strut and hearing them gobble.
Finally, about 90 minutes after he left me sitting in the vehicle, I heard Maurice shoot. All the gobbling stopped, and then the woods were quiet. I started up and followed the road around and stopped on the western side of the clearing.
I didn’t see Maurice at first, but I could see a gobbler flopping and flapping about 100 yards away from me. Maurice walked from a big dead oak where he’d been hiding. After congratulations and pictures, we decided to head back to the house and take care of the turkey.
Relief followed that evening as we enjoyed a nice dinner and drank a celebratory beer to honor the fallen turkey. Maurice had finally killed a gobbler at CVR, and we could plan our next morning’s hunt.
“I want you to take me some place and drop me off so I can call and have a chance at another gobbler,” Maurice said at bedtime. I was pretty sure I had a place — a big hill not far from the house, overlooking a green valley the turkeys use most days to travel from the southern end of the ranch to feeding areas in the main body of the ranch. Gobblers have always liked to strut out there, and I’ve taken several gobblers from beneath a big cedar way across the field.
But I didn’t want to drive through there and scare birds off the roost getting Maurice set up, and I wasn’t sure he could find the tree in the dark. I dropped him off above the field and told him to walk down to a fence that ran south to north, and turkeys often travel that fence in the early morning.
In the end, this trip turned out perfectly
I went on north to park near where Maurice had killed the gobbler the day before and parked to listen for gobbles and for Maurice to shoot. It was cloudy and spitting rain, and the wind was howling, so the gobbling stopped at 7:40. I decided to travel back to the house and come back to where I thought Maurice was hiding.
When I got close, I was surprised by a gobbler running along beside the truck.
Farther down the hill I saw the shadowy outline of Maurice beneath of clump of cedar. I lost sight for a moment as I stopped to back up. That’s when I heard a shotgun POP! and saw a gobbler hit the ground.
Maurice waved me down.
“I had that gobbler real close, but I couldn’t tell how far he was because he was uphill from me. He started to walk away,” he said. “When you drove by, he turned and ran right back to me, and so I took the shot.”
Turkey No. 2 was down, and I myself could begin hunting in the afternoon. The weather deteriorated, and we settled down for fajitas and beer to end the day.
The season wasn’t over, but it was for us. A good way to close it out on a pair of gobblers with long spurs and 10-inch beards. And we called both of them without resorting to sitting near a feeder and cheating.
This article originally appeared on Austin American-Statesman: Turkey hunting in some ways is even more fun than deer hunting
