I don’t plan on making apologies for my addiction. It’s highly unlikely you’ll ever see me stand up at a meeting and proclaim, “Hi, my name is Toby, and I’m a turkey hunter!” in an effort to take on the first, of a twelve-step program. I understand that most addicts do that when they begin on the road to recovery. But, quite honestly, I don’t want to cure my turkey hunting addiction. Fact is, I’m mighty fond of it!
My granddaddy was a turkey hunter. He’d tell me all sorts of tricks he’d use to lure a smart old tom into gun range and I’d share his delight at the telling of some of the tricks them old gobblers would pull on him. I was fourteen, the first Spring I hunted turkeys. I rode my bicycle, with a shotgun slung across my back, out to a big timbered piece of land not far from my family’s farm. Even though I didn’t kill a turkey that day, or even come remotely close, I still remember that very brisk morning hunt like it happened yesterday.
I continued turkey hunting very sporadically with no success, while reading everything I could on the subject and asking every old timer for tips and tactics to put me over the top. That first gobbler is still one of the greatest trophies that I have ever killed, despite the fact he was just a short-bearded jake. But, as with all game, the hunt is what makes the trophy, and this hunt was a very memorable one because I knew I had earned it.
I was sixteen by the time I hunted that jake and he did everything a turkey is supposed to do as he gobbled, strutted, and drummed while walking into range. He looked like a Volkswagen Beetle coming through the woods. I was obviously pretty excited after I squeezed the trigger and as I reached down and smoothed those iridescent feathers, I admit, I shed a tear. I’d lost my granddaddy just that previous Summer.
Here we are many years and many turkey hunting lessons later and I still eat, sleep, breathe, and drink turkey hunting. I hear turkeys gobble in my head immediately after I hear a crow caw in the middle of March in the middle of downtown Brooksville. I don’t believe I am the most afflicted turkey hunter that I know, even though my family cannot make the same statement about me. They understand though, knowing that I’m likely to miss a few family events, holidays, parties, and special occasions during turkey season.
I’m most likely going to miss church on an April Sunday morning, and I’m most certainly guaranteed a discussion with certain family members regarding my absenteeism during the spring as well. I’m definitely no saint, and I am by no means perfect.… but, I AM turkey hunting!
I’ve hunted the Eastern, Merriams and Rio Grande wild turkeys all over North America and even spent a long week in Northern Mexico trying to rearrange the beak on a Goulds gobbler. But, none of the various subspecies get my heart pumping anywhere nearly as much as our Florida Osceola wild turkeys. They are by far the hardest turkeys to hunt and most apt to send you home scratching your head in bewilderment.
If any of you would like to get out an give old Mister Osceola a try, you’re welcome to reach out to me at Toby@HernandoSun.com if you need any info on where to go and how to get it done! God bless and good hunting!