Pennsylvania Game News - April 2012 - 29

calls and got up to round up my son. He hissed at me, “What are you doing? Something scared them. I saw at least one of them leaving. Geez, Dad, they were coming right to us. Didn’t you see them running at us, in that green opening about 60 yards over there? If you’d sat still a minute longer, they’d have been right in front of me.” I hadn’t seen them, and I realized I had probably fouled up Bob’s best chance at a gobbler all spring. I was angrier with myself than he was. “Well, we could go on out the ridge and try to stir up another one,” I suggested without much hope, as I struggled to apologize for my blunder. A 20-minute walk later, I decided to sit under a big oak. Bob would go another hundred yards to sit. I had just gotten situated when he came to retrieve me and offered me a chance to redeem myself. We moved out to where he’d spotted the gobbler about 125 yards away, but I figured it had seen him when it left the field. Even so, as we stood there talking softly, I fished out my trusty littler chatterbox and sent out a set of yelps. Gobble-obble-obble. “Holy cow, let’s get set up. You get to that big tree up there. I’ll stay here and call,” I whispered. The gobbler hollered at every series of yelps and clucks I made. Occasionally those of a second gobbler interrupted his gobbles. However, the birds would not come out of the thick woods. I suggested we try to get 30 yards closer, then maybe the toms would come to us if they didn’t think we were so far away. We did, but the gobblers seemed to move 30 yards deeper into the thicket. We actually did this a couple of times over the next two hours before we decided we couldn’t approach any closer without being seen. At 9:45, Bob had another idea. “You know, Dad, they seem to be trying to maintain the same distance from us that they did when we first heard them. Maybe if I stay here and you back up 70 or 80 yards and call, they’ll come our way. If they do, maybe one will step into that open spot 25
APRIL 2012

yards over there and give me a shot.” So, I gathered my chatterbox, my favorite diaphragm, and a pot-and-peg caller I had been mixing in with my calling and eased about 80 yards backwards. I ended up behind a little bump of ground and could no longer see Bob. When I called, it sounded as though Bob’s strategy might actually pay off. It sounded as though at least one of the gobblers was inching toward us. I am generally a pretty conservative caller, but I really laid it on, calling every couple of minutes, sometimes using the diaphragm and one of the other callers at the same time. I was actually comfortable under the warm May sun, which was a good feeling after the miserable April weather we’d endured. By 10:20, however, I was becoming discouraged, but after my early morning blunder, I wasn’t moving until Bob decided to leave. At 10:23, Bob’s 12-gauge boomed and a big turkey came sailing out of the thicket. I was beginning to think Bob had missed the turkey, but a whoop only seconds later assured me that he had not. I gathered my callers and headed his way. He was hoisting a beautiful 20-pound gobbler with a 10-inch beard. “You called just right, Dad,” he smiled excitedly. “The birds kept creeping forward each time you called, and this one finally stepped into that green opening and periscoped. I shot as soon as he did.” I didn’t have much to say as we admired the big gobbler, and as Bob tagged the bird he looked at me and added, “You know, you didn’t do so well early this morning when you scared those other gobblers, but you really did redeem yourself with your calling to this one.” As we left the ridge, I considered Bob’s last remark, and I realized I’ll always think of his 2011 spring tom as the redemption gobbler. 
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Pennsylvania Game News - April 2012

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