The pursuit of fin, fur and feather has been a passion in my family for many decades. I can’t tell you of it’s origins for those who could tell have long since passed. These traditions were forged in the elements of time, terrain and teaching. Not with book in hand or theories of such, for there was no “how to” of which to glean. Only the pursuit of grandpa’s silhouette headed to an early morning stand, the learned cadence of my brother’s box call responding to a seasoned tom, and the rhythm of dad’s fly rod stretching thirty feet of line across swift current while standing in the old Jon boat. Lessons learned, skills taught, mistakes corrected, then, passed on to an eager generation. It is of no surprise then of the story I’m about to tell. For steeped within this astounding tale flows the instruction and knowledge of generations of pursuit afield.
It was early spring and Missouri’s Youth Turkey season was fast approaching. I had been burdened with a heavy travel schedule, so I knew preparation time was going to be short. I pitched the hunt to two of my four children still young enough to qualify for the youth hunt. Sami, who had just turned eight a few weeks before, jumped at the offer to head to the woods in pursuit of spring turkey. This would be her first turkey hunt, but certainly not the last.
To fully grasp the scope of this hunt you must first understand Sami. It could be said of Sami that she is a freak of nature in the realm of young ladies in the United States. Sami is tenacious in the field and on water, withstanding sub freezing temperatures in pursuit of her quarry, without complaint or whimper. At the young age of six, she had already caught her first limit of trout, unassisted. By age seven, she had successfully landed countless large fish including a three pound Texas bass. Now at age eight, she had already ran jug lines, trot lines, Crawfish traps, wade-fished rivers, hiked the squirrel woods, and on and on.
Though her experiences are impressive as it may seem, Sami is the benefactor of a bloodline of female outdoorsman. Most notably her Grandma Corky in pursuit of Colorado elk, Great Aunt Glenna after rabbits and squirrels in the Missouri backwoods; and finally, Aunt Sherri’s constant pursuit of fish and game across these states. These female outdoorsmen did not merely tag along as some would expect, but devoted themselves to the pursuit, and exceeded quite well.
This day, we find ourselves under a winter weather advisory, highly uncommon for an early Missouri April morning. The temperature has stalled at a brisk 28 degrees, with a cold west wind and snow flurries on the horizon. “Not a good day for turkey hunting, and probably too cold for an eight year old,” I think to myself. The night before, we had decided not to walk in before daylight due to the weather, and now, I’m thinking the whole day may be a wash. Another thought enters my mind, that maybe we’ll curl up on the couch and watch the Outdoor Network on TV, and chase turkeys another day.
About 8:00 a.m., Sami approaches me for the first time, and I put her off until the weather clears up a bit. After repeated attempts throughout the morning, it was evident that Sami’s intentions were clear. However, the weather had other intentions, and clearing was not in the plans. Finally, around noon, I gave in to her persistence, and we bundled up in winter hunting gear, and headed out into the flurries toward the woods.
Arriving at the Spracklen farm, we parked the truck and eased up to the barn to glance down in the bottom fields. The vantage point from the barn gives us a view of four fields, and a possible preview of what’s in store. Today, nothing in the fields of which to plan a stalk, except of course, more wind and snow. So, we set out along the creek which separates the fields and is lined with cedar trees on both sides to conceal our movement. As we make our way along one side, I’m hopeful that we’ll at least see some game to give added excitement to Sami’s hunt. Truth be told, I figured the turkeys were still snuggled in their roost to weather the storm, so my hope of seeing birds was doubtful at best.
Two hundred yards down the creek and I spot some deer feeding along the tree line to the south and up the hill. We pause, glass them through the binoculars, and watch them feed off into the forest. “Well, at least we saw something,” I think to myself as the wind continues to chill my bones. I regain my composure remembering that this was Sami’s hunt, and that my lack of hope was not to interfere with her pursuit of a wild turkey. Even though I had already accepted that we were probably just going for a long, cold walk in the woods, this was her first turkey hunt, and I wanted it to be special.
We approach the creek, and the water is up making the crossing more challenging. These are good opportunities for learning, so we pause momentarily to examine our surroundings. The creek pools above us then funnels to a narrow channel before pooling again. We discuss crossing scenarios and pitfalls then examine the different animal tracks and droppings left along the bank. Today, there is evidence that reveals recent activity from deer, turkey, squirrel and raccoon. A brief lesson, then we successfully cross to the other side and continue our hunt.
In full camo, we make our way down the tree line quiet and undetected. Crossing drainage creeks and fallen down trees, Sami is honing her skills as a hunter remaining completely silent but alert. We pause after a few steps to scan the fields on both sides, hoping to see the red head or fan tail of a tom turkey. All the while, Sami has her unloaded H&R .410 in the ‘gun safe’ position surveying each section of landscape. She is serious, poised and ready, and has not complained once of the 28 degrees and snow flurries we’ve fought since stepping out of the truck thirty minutes prior. I’m taking notes, and being humbled.
Another 50 yards and we’ve run out of field, where the creek breaks into the hard woods before turning east toward the highway. This is roosting territory, and our best shot at seeing some birds. “If they are not here, our luck is lost for the day,” I think to myself. Scanning the terrain with the binoculars turns up no sign of movement along the west fence line and south field. Sami continues to watch the south field while I cross the creek to pier through the cedars to the other field, our last hope. As I ease up the creek bank out of the water, I pier through the cedar limbs into the field where to my utter amazement, it is flooded with turkeys. In a few seconds, I count no less than twenty birds, one big tom, a half a dozen jakes, and a host of hens. The chill I once felt from the wind and snow has now left me as my adrenalin heats up my blood vessels. The hunt is on!
When it comes to reality shows, this is as real as it gets. No movie cameras, no choreographed maneuvers, no managing of relationships for TV ratings, and no audience applause. The display of an unknown future where the pen writes only as fast as real life offers content. And yet, where the next few minutes will unveil this unknown future, it is not all 100% chance. Sami’s experience has been orchestrated utilizing generations of instruction, instinct and mentoring. Left to herself high on the hill by the barn, her youth and inexperience would have likely led to a lesson learned rather than success gained. As her guide, I lead her down a series of paths well traveled so her learning curve lessens, thus increasing her degree of success. Failure is a good educator, but costly.
A short jaunt across the small creek and I gather Sami up to begin our stalk. I field the unloaded .410, hoist Sami on my back, and wade across the cold creek to the opposite shore line. Concealed by the cedar trees, we make our way to the edge of the creek just five feet from the edge of the field. The group of birds have gathered just a hundreds yards out, with the big tom strutting just beyond. This is a big field though, and history has taught us that these birds use every bit of it. Often, we are out maneuvered in this field making it difficult to get close enough for a shot. And, with a .410 using 3” five shot, we needed to be close.
Rather than begin calling and announce our position right away, we decide to see where the lead hen was headed. Sami was positioned just behind me and to my left, awaiting instructions for a potential belly crawl up either direction along the creek bed. It was then that he caught my eye, the “other” big Tom who approached out of nowhere. At first sight, he’s twenty steps into the field and closing fast left to right. Another 10 yards and he’s in the shooting lane, and in range of Sami’s .410 at just ten steps.
Problem is, he busted us early, and moving to set up on him is out of the question. So, we freeze to conceal our position, and have to bite our tongue as this 10” Tom prances right past us. Nuts! Out of sight, and Sami moves to my right setting up on the shooting lane. I hit the slate call real light, and at 30 yards through the brush, he comes to a halt and gives us a glance. He’s interested, but this early in the season, he’s not desperate. So, he turns back left cutting the angle to rejoin the flock. Another 15 yards and he’s back in the shooting lane, but his angle has now put him further out in the field. I’m guessing a good 25 steps out, pushing the max of Sami’s .410 pattern. A direct hit on his head, and I think we’re good, so the hammer gets pulled, and aim is taken. I whisper to Sami, “I’m gonna hit the call, when he stops, sticks his head up to look at us, put the bead on that red head, and pull the trigger.” With a heavy, nervous whisper, she responds, “Okay??!!”
At that point, I’m not really sure what she’s gonna do. She’s eight years old, shouldering a shot gun, and pulling down on a mature Tom turkey in 28 degree weather with blowing snow. It’s anybody’s guess. It reminds me of the time I called in an elk in southern Colorado for my son Jon when he was only twelve years old. At just fifteen yards, and nothing else I could do, I whispered “Take the shot.” A few seconds later, Jon squeezed the trigger feeling the kick of his Ruger Compact .308 as he took his first Colorado elk. I wondered if this would be the same, or would Sami delay for enough seconds to allow this Tom to move beyond the shooting lane and out of reach. Just then, he entered the lane and I hit the call to freeze him, then whispered to Sami, “Bust him!” My thoughts did not have time to wander as Sami squeezed off the round and sent the lead flying. We both watched as the Tom took the round and stumbled. But, to our dismay and disappointment, he ran off past the flock disappearing into the woods unaffected by the blast.
Wow, what a hunt! To get so close, to get set up, to get a shot, but to come up empty handed. No matter though, Sami had responded to the task at hand, and showed her desire and resolve in the pursuit. It is quite a challenge to get close to these birds, and yet another challenge to get a shot off…especially when you’re eight years old. Sami could hold her head high and tell the stories of this day for years to come without regret. In all the things that matter, this hunt was a success…but, wait a minute, this hunt was not over.
In the midst of my overture and speech of “That’s Okay” and “It’s been a good hunt,” it became evident that the gun shot had startled the flock, but not scared them off. In fact, moving right to left, the flock had closed the distance some thirty yards closer to the creek bed, just down a bit. Sami and I sunk to our bellies and crawled over roots and stumps along the creek bed and emerged twenty yards down. I scouted ahead, and lifting up over the brush, the entire flock came into view just forty yards out. Here we go again, awesome!
Sami moved up and stood to her feet directly in front of me, concealed by the brush. We eased our way another five steps closer to the field to open up a shooting lane. We needed the birds to move twenty steps and to the left to give Sami a clear shot. However, they got hung up at forty, and the lead hen was moving toward the woods crossing under the fence to the north. A few minutes later, and the whole flock would be out of sight, and out of reach.
On my knees using Sami’s body to conceal my movement, I pulled out my slate call and hit a few licks. Under my breath, I whispered to Sami, “Don’t move a muscle.” The group froze and began looking our direction for movement, but didn’t budge an inch. The remaining Tom and group of Jake’s weren’t interested in leaving the hens. So, I pulled out my gobble tube, held it behind my back, and gave it a shake followed by a hen call. That caught their interest, and with another shake of the call, three Jake’s and the Tom headed directly toward us. The three Jake’s made their way to fifteen steps while the Tom held up strutting just out of reach.
A strong east wind blew from behind us racing across the field. While scent was obviously not a concern, there was one thing I had failed to plan for…hair. Not mine, of course, but Sami’s shoulder length hair was now blowing into her face. With the gun in her right hand, she took her left hand and brushed the hair out of her face. As you can imagine, this movement made the Jake’s a bit nervous. Their heads went erect, their posture stiffened, and they began turning in circles looking in our direction. They were not going to make the shooting lane now, and we had to think fast.
The lead Jake was within ten steps now just on the far side of the brush and getting more nervous by the second. With only one chance, we shifted to the right a quarter turn, and picked the only open spot through the brush where Sami could place a shot. With the hammer pulled on her .410 Single Shot, Sami pulled down on the Jake. Once again, I whispered, “I’m gonna hit the call, when he stops, sticks his head up to look at us, put the bead on that red head, and pull the trigger.” With a heavy, nervous whisper, she responded, “Okay??!!”
My call echoes through the valley, and immediately the Jake turned and peered through the brush toward our hiding place. I whispered, “Bust him!” And, like before, Sami squeezed off a round of her .410 3” #5’s. Turkeys began to run and fly in all directions at the sound of her shot. I stood expecting to see what is customary on the other end of a smoking shotgun barrel…a flopping turkey. What I saw was not a flopping turkey, I saw a turkey dead in his tracks from a direct head shot. She did it…she bagged her first Missouri wild turkey with a 5” beard at the age of 8.
Immediately, I rose from my hiding place and jumped from the brush into the field to survey the scene. The turkey lay motionless at my feet as my hollering and laughter echoed through the woods. Falling to my knees, I size up the birds beard and spurs, and look up to show Sami her trophy. To my surprise, Sami had not followed me out into the field, but stood motionless in the brush from where she took the shot. I quickly called her out, and we sat together admiring the majesty of her first turkey, forgetting about the cold and snow that had plagued us throughout the morning.
Sami’s persistence brought us to this place, and her endurance conquered the test which ultimately proved success. There is no turning back now, for she cannot deny who, or what, she has become. Sami is an outdoorsman, forged from generations of pursuit, driven by instinct while sacrificing personal comforts. Perhaps misunderstood by most, but caring only whether the sun will rise early,or set late, on today’s outdoor adventure.
The alarm goes off at 4 a.m., but nobody moves. There’s good reason, as the temperature during the night has fallen to a brisk 12 degrees. Yet, in order for the day to begin, and success to have a chance, the zipper to the sleeping bag must open, and one must embrace the cold in order to win the prize. It’s not surprising that only a select few ever achieve great success, because so many are held at bay because of their dislikes. The prize is out of reach, because we are unable to put our dislikes into submission to accomplish our mission.
