I thought of this story the other day, and decided it needed telling.
One cold, frosty December morning a couple winters ago, I slowly steered my pickup into the midst of several weathered old hay bales, and stepped out into the crisp, pre-dawn air. With the full moon illuminating the landscape like a spotlight and the frost making everything underfoot crunch like cornflakes, slipping in to our deer blind unnoticed this morning would be like trying to slip into the house past mom when I was a kid and had stayed out past curfew. It was the last Saturday of deer rifle season and my heart was not really in it. I gathered my gear and began the short trek that would take me through a stretch of soybean stubble, across a small grassy meadow, down a creek bank and up the other side to the blind. To the right of our blind lay a small woodlot that was a popular bedding area for the local deer, so my goal was to slip in quietly and catch early morning browsers as they left the area to feed.
I crossed the stubble field and as I entered the meadow, I began hearing a strange quiet sort of popping sound; kind of like one of those kids push toys that pops a ping pong ball around inside as its pushed across the floor. At first, I thought it was my insulated coveralls rubbing tufts of frosted grass as I walked, but that couldn’t be, because the moonlight was so bright, I could sidestep everything noisy. Or maybe it was just my old arthritic joints cracking and popping like Jiffy Pop popcorn with every step, but I stood still for awhile and the sound still continued. Baffled at what I heard, but figuring I was making who-knows-what kind of noise because of my Bull-in-a-China-Closet syndrome, I strode onward.
I’d taken just a couple more steps when an enormous eruption somewhere in front of me stopped me cold. I instinctively reeled backwards, and starring skyward, found the bright moonlit sky filled with the huge black shapes of wild turkeys, looking for all the world like beach balls with wings as they scattered to the four winds. Then it hit me that many times I had heard hen turkeys make that familiar quiet popping sound as they milled around me during turkey hunts. For anyone who has never seen or heard wild turkeys come down from a roost in the morning, it’s about the loudest, most awkward and unscripted event you’ll ever witness, and that’s when they’re not spooked! When the dust settled, the moonlight revealed numerous more roosted in the trees all around me. I remember starring at all those black shapes in the trees and thinking “This aint’ gonna’ end well,” when, like shots from a roman candle, every few seconds another group would leave their perches and scatter in a different direction. And finally, as if any deer were still left in this part of the township, the last group set sail and glided right through the middle of the very woodlot I’d hoped would produce a deer for me that morning! Every fiber of my being told me “Just go back home to bed; you tried but your hunt is surely ruined for the morning,” but I regained my composure, readjusted my now warm wet shorts, and continued on anyway.
Our blind was a trailer with a camper shell on top that had two sliding windows in front. The insides of all the windows were frosted over, which we were used to, but as I tried to slide open the two front windows, I found them frozen shut (well of course they were.) I found an ice scraper and placing it sideways against one of the windows, I preceded to rap on it with my fist until one-at-a-time both
windows broke free and slid open. As things stood then, any living thing not spooked from the property by the turkey explosion, or rousted from the area by the eerie hulking figure strolling about in the bright moonlight was surely driven from the territory by the sound of a jack-hammer being run from inside our hunting blind.
At that point, I might as well have stood on top of the trailer and sung the star-spangled banner at the top of my lungs as the sun came up, or built a roaring fire in the middle of the stubble field and danced around it to the beat of a thousand native drums; it would have made little difference in the outcome of my Saturday morning deer hunt. A couple hours later as I walked to the truck, my once-wet shorts now frozen and crunching with every step, I had to take solace that sometimes all the caution in the world just can’t outwit mother nature.
Steve can be contacted by email at [email protected].
