Turkey hunting takes patience, woodsmanship, and in my opinion, providential support. Though reading terrain and running a call well will increase the odds of a successful hunt, a favorable courtship with lady luck ought never be dismissed as trivial. Pieces of kit become sacred talismans in the afterglow of taking a turkey for the first time, and leaving for the field without these charms should feel like a fool’s errand. Many might question this logic. But indulge me for a moment while I explain why fortune holds equal measure with skill in the outcome of a turkey hunt.
With seven total years of turkey hunting under my belt, I consider myself an “accomplished novice” in the pursuit—an oxymoronic moniker, but a fitting one. I filled a tag in two of my first three seasons, calling and killing both birds myself, both of them Easterns, both of them in South Carolina. The euphoria from these triumphs sanctified my waxed cotton Boykin Spaniel Society ball cap, Palmetto State belt buckle, and 1965 Lynch’s box call with the power to attract wild turkeys. But despite the aura of these sacred objects and the knowledge gained during subsequent seasons, my siren song no longer lures toms to death.
My last successful turkey hunt could best be described as a “buzzer-beater,” like a wild shot from halfcourt that scores the game-winning basket as time expires. On the last day of the season, I struck up a conversation with a bird gobbling hot on the roost sometime between 7:00 and 8:00 AM. A ridge ran parallel to the creek bottoms about 200 yards to my south, so I placed my decoys at a bend in the road and found cover with a quickness. The gobbler and I bantered back and forth, attempting to seduce each other in a language I could barely speak, and once his thunderous cries for my affection reached a fever pitch, I went silent. And so did he.
About half an hour passed between his last petitions for my affection and my final come-hither, and when I felt the urge to find him, I took a deep breath and willed myself to stay put. An anxious time check on my wristwatch almost spoiled the hunt, but the corner of my left eye caught him running down the road toward the decoys. With a slow and methodical movement practiced in the off-season, my shotgun met my shoulder without being busted. He froze about 15 yards in front of me and went into a half-strut toward the decoys, engorging his waddles with blood that dyed his face blue like a Celtic warrior painted in woad. He passed my position in full strut, and the moment he relaxed to take a breath from his machismo, the back of his head presented a target. I then twisted my torso to the right and squeezed the trigger, taking his life with less than a day left in the season.
A tear of joy wet my cheek as I hefted him over my shoulder and hauled him out of the woods, his dead weight an anchor ensuring my feet didn’t float away. My friend Lucy—a far better turkey hunter than I —lived nearby and together we recorded his measurements. Her scale weighed him in at 17 pounds, both spurs came in at an inch-and-an-eighth, and he wore two beards, the primary grown out to ten inches and the secondary out to seven.
Some may cite this uncanny streak of beginner’s luck as the genesis of my turkey curse, and the evidence certainly supports this. But my hypothesis goes further, proposing that the jinx sprouted there but grew stronger from being fed a steady diet of hubris. For several seasons, I accepted undue praise for turkey hunting skills I had not honed, knowing now that in the long term, the more fortunate turkey hunter takes their licks and learns from them for years. Otherwise, they will wander the woods with bloodlust and without a full appreciation of the innumerable gifts received from the journey…as I have.
All that said, with a contrite heart, I pray this message relieves me of this bugaboo and restores confidence in my talismans and turkey-hunting skills; because I now know sitting still among creation and observing it with awe is what makes me a lucky man.
About the Author
Oliver spent his formative years in the Feliciana parishes of Louisiana and piney-timber counties of southwest Mississippi. He now lives in Columbia, South Carolina with his loving wife, Rebecca, and their daughter, Virginia, and he escapes the urban environs accompanied by their Boykin Spaniel, "Fowler.” He is an alumnus of the University of Mississippi, the University of South Carolina, and a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom (2004-05) with the United States Army. His work appears in Covey Rise Magazine, Shooting Sportsman, Salvation South, USA Today: Hunt & Fish, and Quail Forever Journal. Read published work at www.oliverhartner.com, and follow on Instagram @oliverhartner.
