For fans, baseball season is under way, but for the players, it began weeks ago when they dusted off their gear and started getting into shape for another year. Turkey hunters, at least the more fanatical among us, follow a somewhat similar pattern, heading south for some spring training before the home games of the regular season.

This year’s warm-up for me occurred in Georgia at the end of March. In fact, I was probably headed south just about the same time Big Papi and the gang were packing their bags to hit their regular-season road.

I’d hunted Georgia on several previous occasions and was as eager to get back to the Peach State and dust off my turkey calls and smoothbore as I was to feel the warm air of spring.

I was also eager to hook up with my hunting partners. Joining me for this third annual spring training hunt were fellow outdoor writer and Mainer Steve Hickoff, as well as Steve Nessl and Van Holmes, a pair of Californians from Yamaha.

Our previous two hunts were in Texas and California. This year’s rendezvous occurred at Pine Ridge Plantation in Fort Gaines, Ga. Hickoff and Holmes hooked up with owner Dan Giles while Nessl and I drew guide Joe Floyd.

It was good to gather under the southern sun but we had our work cut out for us.

Ask anyone who has completed the grand slam and most will tell you that Easterns are the toughest of the four subspecies. Ask worldly turkey chasers where the toughest Easterns occur and they’ll say the Southeast, with the epicenter for bad birds being Alabama. We were a mere 20 miles from the border.

To boot, the forecast called for occasionally inclement weather. Fast moving afternoon fronts and heavy rains quieted down these normally reticent birds even more.

Were I back home and able to pick my days, I might have considered taking a few off to let the weather settle down and the birds settle into a more typical gobbling routine. When you’re on the road you don’t have that luxury. You swing at the pitch that’s thrown.

Though we heard some gobbling, and even laid eyes on a few birds, everyone came up empty the first morning, and heavy rain, hail and tornado warnings pretty much washed out the afternoon. The first inning was scoreless.

The second morning’s weather was ideal, but the previous afternoon’s deluge had silenced the birds. We didn’t hear a gobble until after 8, and at that, it was a good ways off.

Rather than sit tight and try to pull the birds our way, we opted to circle around.

I made a hasty decision to use my box call as a locator, trying to coax them into gobbling and giving away their position. I knew the inherent danger of such a move. If the birds are really fired up, they may come to you too quickly, catching you off guard before you’ve had time to set up, which is precisely what happened to us.

They were close. We should have set up quickly, but instead, kept moving toward them. With every step I expected to hear alarm putts and the sound of flapping wings. Instead, I heard Joe say, “Don’t move. They’re right there!” in a loud whisper.

With no time to sit, I simply leaned against the narrow trunk of a southern yellow pine, clicked off my safety and got ready. Moments later I saw bobbing red heads and swinging beards trucking down the woods road. First my gun roared, followed by Nessl’s, and moments later the visitors had two runs on the board.

The following morning at a new location went much better. In fact, it was nearly textbook.

We owl-hooted in the dawn’s early light, the birds gobbled and we moved in closer. A small green field provided an ideal set-up. All around was woods, and with the misty drizzle, I felt confident the birds would head for open ground as soon as their feet hit the ground.

They did, but looped around us, sticking to the logging roads rather than coming straight through the woods.

Fortunately, Nessl was in position, and when a clear shot offered itself, he took it.

The other birds rose like a covey, then settled into the green patch just at the edge of my range. Searching frantically, I noticed a longbeard just as he ducked behind cover. Several long seconds ticked off before he stepped into the open again, amazingly still in range. It was a poke, but the bird dropped on the spot.

Joe got to my bird before me, then moved off toward Steve’s. As he did, I heard him say the word “double” followed by what I thought was “beard.” Sure enough, when I got there I saw my bird did indeed sport two beards. Even more amazing, so did Nessl’s.

We’d scored on two doubles. Spring training was off to a rousing start.

Bob Humphrey is a freelance writer and registered Maine Guide who lives in Pownal. He can be contacted at:

bhhunt@maine.rr.com

 

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