The following is an excerpt from Duncan Dobie’s newest book A Thousand Distant Gobbles: Turkey Tales from the Heart. This 236-page collection, featuring eight short stories and eight turkey vignettes, will warm your heart and take you on an unforgettable adventure into the spring turkey woods.
It was late afternoon when I came off the mountain near the old Indian Mound and started following the winding downhill trail that led out to the highway. Opening morning would arrive in three more days and my anticipation level measured about a 12 on the Richter scale. I had been scouting a mixed hardwood and pine ridge overlooking Nacoochee Valley and I’d found an abundance of fresh turkey sign. Several dusting sites and newly discarded wing feathers lay in the ancient logging road, and plenty of fresh scratchings were visible in the leaves on both sides of the trail. A sizable drove of turkeys had recently fed through the area only a few hours earlier near the wide, flat saddle that divided the ridge.
I walked downhill along the shaded logging road near a spot where the trail forked. The left fork led out to the highway and the right circled around the lower portion of the ridge. Breathing in the rich aroma of damp ferns, decaying leaves and short-needled pine straw, I paused momentarily to take in the imposing scene before me. A magnificent stand of ancient white pines dominated both sides of the trail and covered an area of about 15 acres. Dozens of vibrant, green-leafed ferns grew under the trees closest to the trail. Many of the trees were 28- to 30-plus inches in diameter and rose to heights of over 100 feet. I smiled knowingly. Not only were these stately forest sentinels awe-inspiring to walk among, but you could just about lay a bet that during any given week, turkeys could be found roosting here at least three days out of seven.
From numerous visual sightings in the past I knew the resident turkeys seldom roosted at the very top of the ridge. Instead they preferred to be on high limbs 40 to 50 feet below the top of the ridge so that they would be sheltered from the cold winds of February and March that constantly blew across the mountain. Even in early spring those winds could be brutal, and the side of the ridge definitely offered a bit of welcome shelter from the elements. The steep, uphill slope of the ridge to my right was open for almost as far as I could see and the entire hillside was populated with impressive, well-spaced mature white pines. The sun was rapidly dropping through the trees off to my left and I knew the ridge would be cloaked in total darkness in less than 45 minutes.
Turkeys by Tom Beecham
As I stood pondering the huge trees, that little voice from deep within made its presence known. “Stay here and watch this ridge,” it urged. It was more of an intuitive feeling than any distinctly spoken words, but experience had taught me to heed that awareness and follow its directive whenever possible. I decided to end what had already been a delightful day in the woods by walking over to a large maple at the bottom of the ridge, sitting down and leaning back against the tree. I had on a camo jacket and dark brown pants. The greenery from several small bushes around the tree was more than enough to conceal my shape to any inquisitive eyes. I put on my face mask, sat back and began to wait for whatever drama the outdoor amphitheatre in front of me promised to render up. Whatever it might be, I knew I had a front-row seat during these last few minutes of daylight.
I hadn’t long to wait. I no sooner settled into my cozy box seat against the maple when the curtains suddenly went up and the first cavalcade of actors made their appearance from Stage Right. Had I arrived even a minute later, the orchestra might never have played that evening and the curtain might easily have risen in another section of woods. But for once, thanks to that intuitive voice, my timing had been flawless.
I watched as five hens slowly made their way out of a brushy area about 65 yards uphill from where I was sitting. Almost as if in slow motion, they walked along the ridge underneath several of the mammoth white pines, clucking softly. In no apparent hurry, they pecked at the ground and milled around under the protection of the tall trees, as if awaiting some unseen cue. Several more hens soon joined the group, and then three jakes appeared, acting just like the impetuous teenagers they were.
Wild Turkeys on Wing by Tom Beecham
I knew at least three large gobblers belonged to this flock but they were obviously hiding in the wings, waiting for their cue. The only audible sound was the faint and almost imperceptible clucking. Then, without warning, one of the hens suddenly looked up toward the high limbs above and began flapping her wings wildly. She appeared to defy gravity, sounding much like an old lady beating a rug hanging on a clothes line, slowly lifting almost vertically off the ground like an overweight bumblebee, gaining speed as she ascended toward the heavens. She chose a perch about 50 feet up on a stout limb. No sooner had she gotten settled on her limb when a second hen flew up to a similar limb several yards up the ridge. Then another and another flew up. Suddenly two of the jakes flew up. What a spectacle! Several more hens materialized out of the brush. Each, in turn, walked over to a carefully chosen tree, looked up and became airborne within a few moments.
I was transfixed. I quickly lost count; two over there, three more to my right. For the final fading moments of a spectacular day I know I witnessed a cavalcade of over 20 turkeys fly up within a few short yards of where I was sitting.
After each hen reached her chosen limb, she would inch around until she was satisfied she had found the perfect nighttime perch. Then something even more magical if not puzzling seemed to happen. I’d look away for a few moments, watching another bird fly up, and when I looked back to the spot where I’d last seen a certain hen settle in she had seemingly vanished. After a few minutes in the tree, almost every bird seemed to disappear from view. Only a few remained visible.
The sunset spectacle was finally over. By the time the cloak of darkness had settled around me sufficiently enough to insure that I could quietly make my escape without disturbing any of the roosting birds, I thought about the one key element of this ostentatious display of pageantry that was sorely missing. Where were the three mature gobblers? I smiled. I had neither seen nor heard them fly up, but I would bet money they were just around the other side of the ridge roosting just far enough away from their lady friends to give them a little breathing room. You know how the boys like their privacy!
“Three more days!” I whispered happily.
Southern storytelling at its best, A Thousand Distant Gobbles is a celebration of turkey hunting through the eyes of some unforgettable and passionate characters who live for opening day of turkey season. Heartwarming, powerful, compelling – the eight short stories and eight turkey vignettes found inside these pages will warm your heart and take you on an unforgettable adventure into the spring turkey woods. Buy Now