The Best Hunting Stories Ever Told

by Jay Cassell

  I never have much trouble carrying a turkey out of the woods. I’ve killed a few large ones—one that weighed in excess of nineteen pounds—but the walk out has always been easy. The joy of victory is a great equalizer for fatigue. I move easily through the woods with the large bird on my shoulder. As I leave the woods, I transfer the turkey to my other shoulder and head down the logging road toward the Jeep. I can’t wait to take the bird back to Nell.

  I hear the pick-up struggling up the road before I see it. It lurches into view, its metallic colors and harsh noises an obscene intrusion on the serenity. Three large men struggled to stay in their seats as the vehicle fights up the difficult slope. As I move to the side to let them pass, I pull the turkey up a little higher and try to appear nonchalant. The hunters don’t pass. Three heavy men descend from the still-moving car to see my bird. They wear new camouflage gear, and their guns are handsome. None has ever killed a turkey. They too are free to hunt turkeys for the first week of the season. The fatigue of one-and-a-half days of turkey hunting is visible in their faces. The men press close to examine my young gobbler. There is awe in their eyes as they inspect the beautiful bird. They ask the inevitable questions and then squeeze back into the pickup, their spirits and strength renewed. I watch their heads bob in animated conversation as the pickup surges up the road. I tell them exactly where I had encountered the turkeys. They are confident, too confident. As I watch the awkward vehicle struggle, I smile to myself. Somehow, I know that my turkey will be the only one taken from the drove on this still-young fall day.

  Reprinted with permission of the author and Amwell Press.

  Turkey Hunters

  JOHN MCDANIEL

  The turkey selects turkey hunters. The process has selected men who enjoy a blend of physical toughness, intelligence, and determination. The great turkey hunters I know laugh when I suggest that they write about the bird they chase. One is a native West Virginian who speaks with a soft mountain accent. He lives to hunt wild turkeys. His occupation, that of a forester, allows him to be close to these birds he loves. During last year’s spring season James had twenty possible calendar days for hunting. He hunted on eighteen. On each of those mornings, he was up at two-thirty to face the demanding hills of eastern West Virginia. He is an accomplished caller and splendid shot. Last spring, he failed to kill a gobbler. He was neither surprised nor distraught.

  In many small mountain communities, the respect the turkey hunter earns cuts across sub-cultural boundaries based on sex. I have heard the proud wife or mother say, with unusual boldness, “James hunts nothing but turkeys; he doesn’t fool with anything else.” Mountain women boast of men who kill turkeys regularly.

  Wherever he is and in whatever cultural situation he lives, the turkey hunter is in a class by himself. He enjoys this status in both the warm den of the prestigious hunting club and in the drab barbershop in the bleak Appalachian town. One is not a turkey hunter by virtue of killing a turkey or even a few turkeys; on the contrary, turkeys fall to deer hunters and squirrel hunters with a regularity that disturbs turkey hunters. One acquires the status of turkey hunter by demonstrating consistent success. To achieve this measure of success, a degree of specialization must be developed. It is nice to talk of how in May one can hunt turkeys in the morning and fish for trout in the afternoon; however, if you expect to kill your gobbler regularly in the spring you will fish very little. You must invest full days for consistent success with spring gobblers. The season may end at 11 a.m., but you have to scout in the afternoons and practice your calling in the evenings. In addition, the 2:30 a.m. alarm will dampen the enthusiasm with which one awaits the 3:30 p.m. hatch of mayflies. The turkey asks a lot. The successful turkey hunter pays his dues.

  Turkeys demand the development and maintenance of stamina in the hunter. I have hunted turkeys with accomplished college athletes and they have suffered under the strain. If you wonder what the rigors of a sheep hunt are like, try a turkey in the rugged ridges of our Appalachian states. If you kill grouse with your legs, you kill turkeys with your heart.

  The grouse hunter will, with accuracy, state that his bird also demands dedication and hard work. The distinguishing element is the level of patience required. The grouse hunter often hunts for a long time between flushes but he rarely goes days without seeing a bird. The best turkey hunter anticipates days without encountering game. He develops the quiet dedication of the salmon fisherman. Both men are addicted to the pursuit of the difficult. The nature of the game, be it salmon or turkey, provides one with the strength to face the incredibly long periods between contact with the quarry. The turkey hunter can appreciate the sense of satisfaction and fulfillment that the salmon specialist feels after having fished a stream well without moving a fish. Does even the most avid grouse hunter reflect with satisfaction on a day when no bird is flushed? I submit that this difference is a measure of the status of salmon to other fish and the wild turkey to other birds, even grouse.

  One of the most important skills, the art of calling the wild turkey, was first practiced by the American Indian hundreds and even thousands of years ago. Today, nothing indicates a turkey can be fooled more easily; on the contrary, there are those who would suggest the challenge has increased with greater hunting pressure. Despite what the salesmen of turkey calls may state, it is not easy.

  The turkey will not be consistently harvested by poor shooters. The vulnerable parts of the bird are small. If you use a shotgun, the turkey will teach you the modest range at which such a weapon is lethal. If you read about eighty-yard turkey guns, the piece was written by someone who doesn’t know how difficult a turkey is to kill. You can quote pattern densities all day but any turkey that is over sixty yards from the shooter has a good chance of surviving a shot regardless of gauge, choke, load, or shot size. With a rifle, you have to be able to shoot accurately to kill turkeys. The modest skill that has been developed by many efficient deer hunters is just not adequate.

  If turkey hunters, as a group, have a weakness it is a proclivity to avocational arrogance. The respect the turkey hunter allocates to hunters of other games is measured. Deer hunting is perceived as an activity best suited to adolescents, the infirm, the fat, and the old. In response to the question, “Why don’t you hunt deer?” a wiry turkey hunter raised his light blue eyes to the interrogator and said:

  Any fool can kill a deer every year. He just finds himself a trail, sits down and, sooner or later, some impatient fellow from the city will chase one up the trail. The deer won’t see the boy and the deer’s mind ain’t quick enough to convince him what to do about that boy’s smell. So, the deer gawks at the smell and stamps his feet at it. Now if that good old boy don’t get too nervous he will fill the scope up with the body of the deer and kill him.

  A turkey hunter, don’t you see, he goes out and hunts a turkey. He don’t depend on tree stands, or drives, or city fellows to push a half-blind animal to him. A turkey hunter has to be smart enough to know where the flock will be, tough enough to get close to scatter the birds, clever enough to put his blind in the right place, and talented enough to call a bird up. Now, after he has done all that he better know how to sit still and be patient. Finally, when that bird is there, he better shoot straight and quick because a turkey’s head and neck are small and even a young one won’t stand there gawking at you and stamping his feet.

  Portrait of a Turkey Hunter

  James is a turkey hunter. In his part of West Virginia, no sentence says more about him. James is not a member of the N.R.A., he belongs to no hunt club, he subscribes to no outdoor journals, he does not hunt turkeys for human companionship. The loud, crowded, aggressively masculine hunt camp is as uncomfortable to him as an urban bar.

  James lives to hunt turkeys. His is the legacy of the hunter that historians say helped shape the nation’s character and that anthropologists argue helped establish the path of human evolution.

  James has been captured, perhaps seduced, by both the challenge that the wild tu
rkeys present and the comfort he derives from being embraced by those wild areas the turkey inhabits. James knows he is good at hunting turkeys and he is proud of it. He takes great satisfaction from the fact he is the best turkey hunter in Randolph County. He is neither a hermit nor a recluse. His tax statement says that he is a forester. In fact, he is a turkey hunter who works as a forester because his culture does not subsidize hunting. He works hard as a forester. Unfortunately, the diligent performance of his job provides less satisfaction and less public acclaim than that which accrues from his exploits as a superb turkey hunter.

  James lives for November and April. During November, his days average eighteen hours in length. He gets no overtime—he asks for none. He eats, sleeps, and hunts. On many occasions he sleeps and eats only enough to be able to hunt. In the spring, turkeys begin to gobble at 4:30 a.m. To be in position at the top of a 3,000-foot ridge, you have to wake at 2:30. I know; I’ve hunted with James. The season is thirty days in length. He rarely misses more than a day. The last day of the spring season he will look like the GI after Anzio or one of Napoleon’s boys on the road back from Moscow. He will have hunted to the edge of exhaustion. He occasionally falls over that edge.

  He enjoys the fact that turkeys are tough. In James’ words, he appreciates the fact “they make you bleed a little.” Have you ever tried to climb up a mile-long, 60-degree slope in 70 degree April heat, bearing thirty pounds of clothes and equipment? Your legs cramp, your body aches, you wonder what the strain will do to a forty-year-old heart. You slip, and the equipment pounds you onto the sharp limestone and you grunt with very real pain. You get a sick feeling as you look up at the dark and distant ridge. Finally, you reach the ridge, find the tree, and sink into the cool ground. You let your body collapse and you feel your heart still struggle with the strain imposed by the climb. You look over the now-lighter valley. You are proud of the perspective. You smile at James. He smiles back. This is the essential companionship of human hunting. Two men attempting something difficult together. Two friends who respect each other and celebrate each other’s success, and are sensitive to each other’s failures. This is not the raucous companionship of the deer camp where petty jealousy and envy turn cooperation into meaningless competition.

  The gobble makes the climb inconsequential. Myriad years of human evolution have provided James with the mind and body to respond to the gobble. Instantly, he is alert and capable. He registers the distance to the bird and plans the attack with skill and speed. Gentle, soft-spoken, James is transformed into the most effective predator in the animal world. He runs toward the bird with agility and determination. His mind weighs all the necessary information. How far is the bird? How old is he? Where would it be best to call from? Is he still on the roost? His brain is James’ greatest physical asset. The brain evolved in response to the need to perform such tasks.

  James knows what it takes to kill turkeys regularly. He derives a sense of selfworth from his hunting success. They can call him lucky but he knows better. He has confidence in himself and knows that luck does not put his turkeys on the ground. His success and the reputation which accompanies it are based exclusively on his competence. Dress, articulateness, wealth, formal education, social position, or being an effective braggart have no relevance to his success. His accomplishments are earned and they are meaningful to his reputation. This is not killing a deer blinded by fear of an army of hunters. James knows the men of hunting camps are not efficient hunters. He encounters them occasionally. They are either sitting in trees in silent ambush, incapable of more skillful hunting, or they barge through the woods, loud, laden with sidearms and huge knives; an obscene parody of the efficient and proud human hunter.

  Turkey hunting selects against the incompetent. Oh, the incompetent will enjoy occasional success but they are not capable of consistent success under fair conditions. In most cultures, only the consistently successful hunters are allocated the respect of their peers. James avoids the incompetent in the woods. They are dangerous.

  I sat with James once and listened to a man call at James with his recently purchased box call. The man was very excited because he was sure James’ call had been a turkey. I thought it was funny. James wasn’t amused. “That boy may fire a shot up here after a while. Then he will go back to his camp and say he called one up close. They’ve shot at me a time or two. I wish these hills were even steeper so that we could get away from all of them all the time.”

  A day with James will provide a better testimony to the skill of human hunters than watching a movie of bushmen killing a giraffe in the Kalahari Desert. Have you ever heard a really good turkey hunter run a call? I don’t like to watch James when he calls. He goes into himself. The blue eyes focus on something distant. The tone is unbelievable. He sounds exactly like a turkey. No better testimony can be made to the skill of human hunters than to hear a good one with a call.

  James does not take the killing of turkeys as being secondary to some mystic experience of relating to the woods. James loves to kill turkeys. He talks about the times he has called birds up and not killed them.

  “I don’t know why, but it’s not the same. You know the time you took those photographs of the birds. It just wasn’t the same. I like to be looking down the rib of the old Ithaca. I call better. You know I love my turkeys and I’ve passed up killing hens and young birds. But most of all I enjoy killing them. It hasn’t diminished at all. I still like to carry them out of the woods.”

  James is a wonderful woodsman and when in the woods he is not oblivious to other creatures. I have watched him as he enjoyed the frolicking of young squirrels. He does not kill to answer some twisted need.

  One summer evening when riding up to the mountain to search for young turkeys, we encountered a huge timber rattlesnake on the side of the road. James backed up to look at the snake and the rattler came for the big four-wheel drive vehicle. James said, with obvious admiration and respect, “This truck is a thousand times bigger than he is but that boy is standing his ground.” It would have been easy to kill the snake and it would have made the local newspapers. James never considered killing it.

  James’ turkey gun is a 10-gauge Ithaca double he bought at a hardware store in Elkins, in 1936. He had seen one a man from New York had brought to hunt turkeys with and the hardware store owner ordered a similar gun. He has killed 118 turkeys with the gun. “Don’t figure how many birds that works out to a year because it might be a bird or two over the limit,” he once said with a smile. The gun fits the man. It is a credit to American ingenuity and craftsmanship.

  The gun is not as pretty as a Purdey but this is an American gun. It was made for honest, decent men who were not born of noble lineage. When its price tag was $100 the Purdey sold for $1000. It is a testimony to the democratic nature of American hunting. The 10½-pound gun is a collector’s item—like its owner, it is authentic. It is a reminder of a period when fine American shotguns were made by hand, by men who cared.

  It’s interesting that the few great turkey hunters I know are armed with old Model 12 Winchesters, Browning automatics made in Belgium, L. C. Smiths, big Parkers, and pre-1964 Model 70 Winchesters in 22 Hornet. These guns were made for people like James. The semi-wild preserves select for impressed checkering, plastic butt plates, stamped metal and men who have been weaned on preserves and plastic guns.

  James exists—right now he is probably working with his calls. The big Ithaca, carefully cleaned, hangs in his modest home.

  In other sections of this county, proud guns hang waiting to be used by capable men and women. Their hunting knowledge and competence will match that of any rich German in the Black Forest. These hunters provide proof of the fact that contemporary hunting still requires the development of skills and capabilities. Hunting for these Americans provides enjoyment, satisfaction, and fulfillment.

  Reprinted with permission of the author and Amwell Press.

  PART VIII

  Deer Hunting

  Trail’s End
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  SIG OLSON

  It was early morning in the northern wilderness, one of those rare, breathless mornings that come only in November, and though it was not yet light enough to see, the birds were stirring. A covey of partridge whirred up from their cozy burrows in the snow and lit in the top of a white birch, where they feasted noisily upon the frozen brown buds. The rolling tattoo of a downy woodpecker, also looking for his breakfast, reverberated again and again through the timber.

  They were not the only ones astir, however, for far down the trail leading from the Tamarack Swamp to Kennedy Lake browsed a big buck. He worked his way leisurely along, stopping now and then to scratch away the fresh snow and nibble daintily the still tender green things underneath. A large buck he was, even as deer run, and as smooth and sleek as good feeding could make him. His horns, almost too large, were queerly shaped, for instead of being rounded as in other deer, they were broad and palmate, the horns of a true swamp buck.

  The eastern skyline was just beginning to tint with lavender as he reached the summit of the ridge overlooking the lake. He stopped for his usual morning survey of the landscape below him. For some reason, ever since his spike-buck days, he had always stopped there to look the country over before working down to water. He did not know that for countless generations before him, in the days when the pine timber stood tall and gloomy round the shores of the lake, other swamp bucks had also stopped, to scent the wind and listen, before going down to drink.