A Hill Country prize

We stood there in the dark, waiting on the morning to come. The full moon bathed the woods around us in an eerie blue light. We spoke softly about the beauty of the place and the silence. Then the first bird called and in a few moments - another. In the distance an owl hooted.

The sky in the east got lighter. More songbirds called. The woods were waking, and I told Clayton, "Any time now." A crow called in the distance, and a turkey in that direction gobbled a salute to the morning. We both pointed but said nothing. The tom was far to the north and was on an adjoining property. We stood quietly - listening.

The air was cold and clear, and there was no wind. Conditions were perfect. Another turkey gobbled far to the south. We stood still and listened. Neither bird gobbled again. Some few moments passed, and one gobbled to the west. That one may have been on the property. Almost immediately, another one gobbled up the hill to the east. He was much closer than the others and on the property.

"Let's go," I told Clayton, and we started up an open hardwood drain that extended a short distance into the gentle hillside. Near the end of the hardwoods we stopped to listen. The turkey was on the ground now and was very vocal, gobbling often. We knew that other hunters were at the food plots that were on up the side of the hill, and we decided to go no farther. We sat down to listen to the turkey. A hen started calling between us and the gobbler.

We practiced our calling a little by trying to match some of the soft calls that the hen was making. Two other turkeys started gobbling farther up the hill. Then, another turkey gobbled almost simultaneously with the one that was the nearest. We both said out loud, "That's two gobblers together." These birds could not be seen, but we could track them by their frequent gobbles.

I thought I could hear another hunter calling up the hillside to our south. Then the sound of wingbeats overhead caught our attention, and we looked up to see a hen turkey fly over and land in a tree behind us. My first thought was that something must have spooked her, and it might have been the other hunter, but almost immediately Clayton said, "Coyote!"

The coyote was too far out for a shot and must have caught our scent, as it abruptly turned and vanished back into the pines. The gobblers were getting farther away now, and we decided to move. Just as we started across the hardwood drain, we heard a shot behind us, in the direction of the hunter that we had heard calling. We didn't know if he had shot a turkey or the coyote.

We moved on and stepped carefully up the side of a small rise. I stopped and surveyed the woods ahead. I could see several hundred yards through the open woodland. "Let's sit here," I told Clayton and pointed to a nearby pine. We sat down at the base of the tree shoulder to shoulder.

Clayton took out his slate call and scratched out a soft yelp. It was answered immediately by a gobble - straight out to our front. After a few minutes, I said, "Call again." He called again and got another gobble that was closer this time.

"They're coming," I whispered. And now I could see them. Two big gobblers running in our direction. When they dropped down into a slight dip, Clayton put down his call and raised his gun up and propped it across his knee.

I could hear myself breathing now and knew it was the excitement of the hunt. I tried to calm down. After all, I wasn't even going to be the shooter. It was up to Clayton.

When the gobblers came up out of the low spot, they stopped. One strutted, then the other. They were still about a hundred yards away. We didn't call and sat very still. If we had called, they probably would have "hung up" and not come any closer. After a few minutes, they started our way - running again. For turkey hunters, it just doesn't get any better than this.

The turkeys glowed with an iridescent sheen in the sparkling early morning light. Their heads were bright red, white and blue. And both were longbeards. When the one in front cleared some small trees, Clayton fired, and the big bird went down. The other gobbler darted to one side and stopped. Either one of us could have shot him also, but we did not. He turned and ran.

I had shot a big gobbler in the Lowcountry the day before. I didn't want another one yet, and I didn't want to intrude on Clayton's moment. This bird of the High Hills was his prize and mine, too.

Reach Dan Geddings at cdgeddings@gmail.com.