by Jay Cassell
The turkey cries suddenly seemed to be moving more quickly, which meant I must get to that strip in a hurry. I dogtrotted to the edge of the ridge, then all but skied down, so abundant were the oak nuts on that flank despite the ardor of the winter deer herd and of spring’s rodents. Now and then I felt slight, brief burnings above my left kneecap: adhesions popping under the ugly scar from my Labor Day accident. But this discomfort left me unalarmed: my mind set on being where I needed to be, I even believed (I still think rightly) that the breach of those adhesions would do me nothing but good, would help turn me loose. And in fact, hitting the bottomland, I broke into a run that felt less awkward and leaden than it had for months. A single hooded merganser, sojourning on his way to the Ungava, made to fly as I coursed by, but then elected simply to dip underwater till I was past. I might thus see him again on our pond, little clown, a notion that filled me with strange delight.
Glancing back, I noticed that the morning mist over the water had somehow and abruptly become general, the world gone soft-edged in fog. The top of the scarp I’d just tumbled down had vanished, along with all but the lowest others, into cloud. A mix of that wetness and the sweat of exertion fogged my glasses, which would have to be clear by the time the tom—please, God!—came into view. So I yanked them off and held them in my hand like a baton as I raced onward.
My breath came with surprising ease. “Not bad for an old guy,” I whispered to myself, feeling my cheek muscles tauten in a grin. Well behind me, I heard my bitch Sue let out a single, houndlike howl from her kennel, nothing in it to alarm a gobbler. Indeed, I thought I heard the gobbler answer to that wail, and persuaded myself that the answer came from exactly the right quarter, not far west of where I meant soon to arrive. I envisioned the bird as I ran: he’d be coming out of the hornbeam grove just now, stepping into the high hemlocks, his snood turgid and scarlet, his tail clenching and unfurling, his hens fossicking all about.
And before long, he’d reach that granite pathway.
The fog was everywhere now, but it showed itself in weird little pilasters, as if each had wandered off the pondwater and were walking the land in a company of its familiars—thin, benign ghosts.
You’ll imagine me single-minded, as I imagined myself. But in recall, there seems to have been so much to notice: by the pond’s standpipe, a clump of shoots that in a month or so would bend with the weight of wild iris; above, daylight’s first vulture, which hadn’t been there and now suddenly was, languidly sliding the updrafts by the ridge I was bound for; a few stubborn gray frogs yet droning at each other, bank to bank; the woods’ smell, like chamois.
My boots left prints in the bluets. Again I thought of snow as I studied the earth rolling under me. At last, hearing the turkey rattle the air in that hemlock grove, I started to climb; by now, the illusion of infinite stamina was unraveling: my legs ached, and my breaths were like sobs. Yet I went on, hiking now, to be sure, not running. So much—a world, it seemed—depended on the next few minutes.
The gobbler could not have been more than a few hundred yards away when I reached the top of the ridge. There I discovered, as if placed by providence itself, a tubsized depression in the granite apron. I scooched into it, then sprawled prone: there was even a cleft in the rock, like the archer’s slit in a medieval turret, through which I could see 180 degrees, and through which, fate willing, I’d be able to shoot.
The turkey remained as persistent in his call as he’d been since first I heard it, and he was, no doubt about it, headed my way. I slipped my eyeglasses back on, pulled down the veil, then cursed mutely: once more the ambient fog and my own sweat clouded the lenses so that I could see nothing.
A blank.
I reached up under the veil with my gloved right hand, rubbing a small circle on either side. Within seconds these circles clouded again. The bird’s gobble was louder by now than my thoughts. I drew the glasses to the tip of my nose and squinted over them, but I was too blind that way. The cruelty of my circumstance seemed incredible.
And then a cold breeze kicked up. Some may doubt me, may think this all sounds too scripted. I cannot prove a thing, for I was the lone human in that place; I merely know what I know, and I know that such a wind arrived, can all but feel it again as I carry on here.
My vision went clear . . . and the gobbler quit calling.
Long, long minutes yawned. I imagined the tom, with those eyes, that beggar comparison, to have seen through the rock-cleft where I lay, to have seen me fuss with my misted lenses, to have scooted off with his hen or his harem, not to reappear. My gloom, however, had evidently and patiently been awaiting its chance to reappear; it stole, as always, first into my gut, from where it would soon make its climb—more deliberate than my own one at dawn—into such parts of me as harbor the spirit. I lay there helpless.
There seem to be (who knows why?) bountiful moments in one’s life that one doesn’t have to deserve. That foggy morning well behind me now, I think back on a bright boy’s terrible self-murder, and how badly I responded on hearing of it; I think of the brusqueness with which I greeted my wife’s uncountable acts and words of kindness to me; of how dully I observed the innocence of my smaller children, the decency of my older; of the unacknowledged splendors of the earth and air and water among which I’d long dwelled; of my fine physical fortune, which I have taken too often for granted.
The depression I’d felt for the protracted interlude leading up to that hunt now seems to have been so easy, so self-indulgent!
Tall as a man, a bird walked forth, stirring the mist with his bulk, silent—behind him, slightly smaller, an apparently endless procession of hen turkeys. I saw them all through the chink in my granite enclosure. My gun barrel rested on a spur of rock, parallel to the pungent, pine-spilled ground. The tom had grown cautious, as a tom will uncannily, unaccountably, do in such moments. Yet he continued to pick his way toward me, lifting and gingerly replacing each foot, almost in the manner of a heron.
The turkey at last intersected with the lane my shot would take, his beard thrust forward like a bowsprit, lucent with silver dew. He stretched his neck and cocked his head northward. I squeezed the trigger, and he collapsed.
I thumbed back the safety and jerked to my feet, rushing to the spot. As I ran, I found myself expecting no sign of a bird—expecting to awaken, that is, from a dream whose untruth would leave me weeping on that shoulder of stone.
But there the bird did lie, in all his gorgeous giantism. An impossibility, but there indeed he lay. I put the shotgun aside, leaned over, grasping a horny shin with each hand. At my touch the gobbler came back to life, his great wings pistons, his whole frame pumping to reach the catastrophic cliff face just beyond us, down which he would surely hurl himself, never to be found. I held tight to him, my heels hopelessly digging for purchase in the granite. It was like trying to arrest the motion of some machine gone weirdly autonomous.
I now look back upon that desperate wrestle as a necessarily absurd, and comic, chapter in all this. What must I have looked like? A man of two hundred pounds and more being drawn by the will of a wild thing, even in death, toward unseemly conclusion.
But at length I prevailed.
They are hard things to explain to a non-hunter, let alone to an anti-hunter—the recognitions that came to me on that morning. I recognized, say, that the whole ritual had realized itself on my land; indeed, the kill transpired at a distance of no more than three hundred yards from the warm house in which I live.
I live, too, in a country so rich that the thousands of its citizens who have no houses—never mind land—constitute a national disgrace.
Perhaps I’m less a hunter than once I was; but on that spangled ledge it struck me that I did have some skills left anyhow. Maybe my fiftyish body was, as I earlier put it, slumping; but I had gotten to my vantage largely on the run. Nine months earlier, I’d sawn my left quadricep to the bone: two inches lower lay the kneecap; four inches rightward lay the femoral artery; I’d gotten off w
ith three days in a hospital bed, four weeks of crutches, a spectacular and story-laden cicatrice the only residue of the whole ordeal.
I was so well married and so well childed that then as now I could find no adequate words to express my good fortune. But subsuming all these omens of my rare welfare, all these recognitions, is what I can only call a spiritual truth. I will abuse it, as I have done before, as any pilgrim must, but there it was.
Is.
My mother, like Breck the suicide, like Amico the cancer victim, must die, soon or late. As must I. As must every last one of us. And yet for a moment and much more a truth shone clear: be receptive and you will receive.
I felt, I feel, a great gratitude to a certain wild turkey. Again the anti-hunter winces, no doubt. And yet, walking down that steep ridge, the luminous body slung over my shoulder in all its heft, I recalled, as I do now, the perfection of that bird’s coming to me. I had done something right, and my prey had therefore obliged me. What had been random was for a spell at least coherent.
It was not, however, a bird alone that came to me. The very world, however slight my worthiness for such a miracle, had come as well.
Reprinted with permission of the author. Originally published in The Southern Review.
A Successful Fall Hunt
JOHN MCDANIEL
The dark hills are silhouetted against the slightly lighter sky as I pull onto the logging road. This leg of the trip is rough, and I brace myself in the seat as the bouncing headlights cut through the trees. Finally, I reach the area from which the hunt will begin. Stepping from the jeep, I am greeted by the cool air of the mountain. I close the door of the big vehicle with care. I hate the loud, metallic sounds the latch produces. Despite the lack of light, I am comfortable and relaxed as I set out on the familiar trail. My clothes fit perfectly, the gun is familiar, and the boots have logged one hundred miles on this mountain. The smells of the November woods, the strength of my body, and the expectations of the day surge through me. Damn, it’s great to be on the mountain!
I walk through the dark woods towards the big hardwoods near the head of the little cove. I saw fresh sign in the area two days before, and if I am lucky. . . . As dawn comes, I listen for the sounds of birds leaving their roosts. No such sounds are forthcoming. I begin the arduous search for the flock. There are no shortcuts. I go up and over ridges, and down into basins, and along small streams. I discipline myself to approach each ridge with caution and to search each cove with the bright binoculars. My legs begin to ache, and despite the forty-degree temperature, sweat rolls down my face. I have hunted hard and am satisfied with the morning.
There is no time for the grouse hunter’s relaxed lunch on the tailgate of a station wagon. There is no time to play with the warm and happy Brittany after lunch. The turkey hunter opens his meager lunch on a high, hardwood ridge overlooking a spring. You are still turkey hunting. You need every minute, every day, if you want to be able to kill them with the consistency that separates the turkey hunter from the good old boy who blundered into them.
After lunch, I plan the hunt for the afternoon. It is warmer. I decide to work down along an ample stream that drains the large mountain to my north. It is almost three when I finally reach the valley. I bend to drink from the small stream, confident that there is no threat of pollution here, back from the roads, the cattle, the quail, and the quail hunters. Drinking from clear streams is one of the fringe benefits of turkey hunting. After a brief pause, I continue to hunt.
The small circle of earth, devoid of leaves, sends a shiver through my body. My entire body tightens as I inspect the sign—fresh! The scratching indicates a large flock. I move quickly, aware that the birds may be within one hundred yards. My body drinks the adrenalin and I acquire new strength. Turkeys! I pause and hear them raking the leaves in front of me. There is no question about the rhythmic sound the large birds make as they scratch in the cluttered forest floor in search of mast. I judge them to be seventy-five to one hundred yards downstream. I move carefully. The knowledge that I will get close to them increases the thrill. The laurel opens a bit, and I see them. Several of the sleek, great birds are by the bank of the stream. My mind races as I assess the situation. Am I close enough to rush? Would it be better to try to circle in front of the feeding flock? Have they sensed my presence? The quick putt-putt alarm call answers my question.
I throw myself toward them. The sprint is the infantryman’s rush, hampered by equipment, the mobility of the arms restricted by the heavy gun. I rushed this way once, not long ago, carrying an M16. There was no more effort expended than there is now. The birds lift their heads quickly. They are transfixed in concerned inspection, the big eyes having focused on the awkward predator and the small brain translating the image as a threat. They leap into flight. The flush of one turkey is impressive; the flush of a large drove is pandemonium. Birds I had not seen materialize, and the six become twenty. All are airborne at the same time. Sometimes, one turkey will respond more slowly than the rest. Not this time. The flight is not graceful; yet in a very short time, a very large bird climbs through mature trees and is out of range. Incapable of any more productive action, I watch as the turkeys fan out in flight, each seeking its own path of escape. The surprise and the dense cover has resulted in effective dispersion of the drove. Scattered!
The turkeys gone, I sit down to collect myself and plan a strategy for the next episode. I check my watch. It is 3:30. I doubt if they will try to get back together before sunset; however, I will wait just in case. I construct a blind in the precise spot from which the drove flushed. I climb into the blind, allow my tired body to sink into the cool soil, and wait. Sunset comes quickly, and there is no indication that there is a wild turkey within five hundred miles. I awkwardly step out of the blind for the long walk back to the jeep. As I begin the descent, my mind drifts to the scattered young turkeys on the mountain, eager for the companionship the drove offers. Tomorrow should be the day!
Nell listens to her turkey hunter/husband’s story and asks with a smile, “You wouldn’t be going up there tomorrow, would you?” I smile back.
Despite the nine o’clock bedtime, I am numb as I grope through the room at 4:30 a.m. The anticipation of the scattered flock helps offset the fatigue, and I move to the kitchen with determination, if not grace.
A relatively short ride in the Jeep, a long climb through the dark woods, and soon I am in the small blind. I ease myself into a comfortable position and wait for dawn.
Light comes, and I pull my body together against the now-penetrating cold. I am tight with anticipation, because I am sure there will be turkeys calling on the mountain. The wait is short. The call is clear and unmistakable. It is the high-pitched whistle of the young turkey. The thrill of hearing the bird is tremendous. The challenge of making a good call is heightened by the knowledge that if you succeed the young bird will probably come running. The hours of practice with the call, and the successful attempts in the past, give me confidence. I put the small diaphragm caller on my tongue and place it against the roof of my mouth. I prepare my throat and mouth and then bring five quick bursts of air from my lungs. The young turkey answers immediately, and I sense an urgency in its call. I prepare to respond, but the call of another turkey, also below me but farther to the right, interrupts my preparation. I answer, and both turkeys scream back with eagerness. The bird to the right calls again, and this time he sounds perceptibly closer. I call back and try to interject a sense of panic and urgency in the notes.
It is always such a great thrill to hear the bold, loud calls. The second bird that answered is now coming steadily toward me, and I shift my position in anticipation of his arrival. A dense clump of laurel will prevent me from seeing the turkey until he is within seventy yards of the blind. I wait, trying to control the now rapid beating of my heart. I listen intently to the bird’s call, and I pick up the characteristic deep yelps with which the young gobbler terminates his key-key call. At a range of what I guess to be a hundr
ed yards, the bird lets out a series of loud whistles. I push the gun forward until the blue rib and the tiny bead of silver are superimposed on the tangle of laurel. I focus on the small bead, and the laurel blurs into an impressionistic pattern of color. I hear the distinctive two-footed gait as he comes. His approach is anything but stealthy. He comes boldly, sounding like a quick-footed man in the leaves. I move the safety off. I search frantically, as the sound of his approach makes it impossible to believe he is not in sight. The first visible indication of his presence is a flash of black to the right of the spot upon which I have concentrated my attention. I adjust my body position slightly and look down the rib of the shotgun. At fifty yards, the entire bird is visible, his body iridescent in the now higher sun. The turkey comes boldly toward me. The long legs reach forward, and the bright eyes burn with intensity. The tiny silver bead enters the bright picture, and I place it under his head. The bird continues to stride toward me. He is close enough. I feel the gun jar in my hands before there is any distinct decision to shoot. After the instant blur, produced by the heavy recoil, I refocus my eyes and see the broad, red-brown tail fanned gracefully in the air. It is enough. I jerk myself from the confining blind and run, on cramped legs, to the dying turkey.
I am pleased to find the bird has been killed cleanly. Tiny points of bright red blood mark the large, blue head, providing vivid testimony to the effectiveness of the small shot. I inspect the wounds and then look at the entire bird. The myriad feathers shine in the bright sun. As always, I am particularly impressed by the size of the bird’s eyes. I sit back and enjoy the warm satisfaction of the moment.
Turkeys can be killed by chance, but when they are killed consistently, it is not due to chance. I inspect the bird and relive the episode. I particularly cherish these calm moments. I celebrate my victory with a can of Coke I carry in my pack for the occasion. I reflect on the accomplishment and I am unashamedly proud. I give humble thanks for being provided with the opportunity. I admire the wonderful bird. I enjoy my own company. Finally, I place the turkey’s legs together, grasp them tightly in my right hand, swing him over my shoulder, pick up the shotgun and head down the slope.
