I was out Hunting in Wyoming when you started this thread so I'll share my success.
9/25- Grouse with my Bow while out after Mule deer. (The snow piled up and ran me out of the high country)
9/28/13 Pronghorn Antelope with my Rifle
Mule deer with my rifle
Packing a bull elk out for our Wyoming Friends..
Quote from Treehugger5 on 7/15/2016 at 8:02 AM:
Then Rocky must be right, because I know you were wrong.
Then Rocky must be right, because I know you were wrong.
running under the BigSky
congrats! a very successful to say the least
“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn't matter whether you're the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.”
3/28/2012 I made it to the canal at 4:45 PM. I was running a little later than I wanted to, but I had no choice. Too many things had happened in the afternoon to allow me to leave exactly when I wanted to. I had thought about different approaches to the field, but I was determined to go to the spot I saw a longbeard on Monday morning. He hit the ground there at 7:18 AM, and we went back and forth until around 9 AM in the woods on the other side of the field. It was hot, around 84 degrees. My snake boots bit the dust last season, and I have neglected to buy another pair, choosing trail shoes over hunting boots and dress shoes. I had a pair of green trail shoes on that offer pretty good traction in the mud, but no protection from snakes. Nevertheless, a snake barely crossed my mind as I moved quickly down the slick game trail to a crossing that was narrow enough for me to jump. Once I crossed the canal, I eased up to the edge of the field and found a spot that was even with the spot where I had seen the gobbler on two of the three times I had been to the field. In the distance, a bull dozer cranked up and began moving. I could hear the tracks crunching on rocks, roots, and the rollers that the tracks ride on. A turkey heard it, too. He gobbled and sounded like he was either in the field or in the edge of the woods. I knew he wasn’t too far away, but I couldn’t see him. I only saw a rolling sea of green grass surrounded by the woods. The green up is intense and early this year. I was not exactly where I wanted to be, a little too exposed. I hid as best I could, grabbed my Magnolia slate call and scratched out a yelp, not too loud, not too soft. He answered with a long, hard gobble. Almost immediately, I saw his white, softball sized head periscope over the rise in the field. I watched through my binoculars as he stood there looking. After a few minutes, he began to move to the west, circling around me with just his head above the rise. Periodically, he would stop and give me a hard look. I noticed pretty quickly that the turkey would only briefly go into a half strut and start looking. I couldn’t see his beard. I have always said that scared and smart often look the same when it comes to turkeys. As such, I had it narrowed down to three possibilities: 1. Old turkey 2. Sub-dominant mature gobbler 3. Big-headed jake In other words, I had no idea what he was other than a male turkey. He continued to move to the west and eventually found a spot where he decided to stand his ground at the edge of the woods across the field, about 250 yards away. Normally, I don’t call to a turkey I can see. Nevertheless, I turned my head and yelped softly on my mouth call followed by a soft cluck. They call that call the quaver, three notes, softly. I just added the cluck at the end. It can be deadly. He looked hard. I waited a few minutes and did the same call once more, a little softer. He started moving my way at a fairly steady walk, stopping a couple of times to peck. I placed the mouth call in the side of my mouth. Its job was finished. I still wasn’t sure what he was, but he sure looked like a big turkey. At about 100 yards out, I saw his beard swing. The only calling I did at this point was a silent prayer to God that he would continue to move my way until he was close enough for a shot. I clicked my safety off; my heart rate rose slightly, but it wasn’t like most people describe. I was certainly excited, but more than that, I was focused. Nothing else existed on the planet but us: this moment, this place, him and me. I crave that focus. It is intense, yet relaxing. It is the same focus I get when I run long distances alone in the woods, just complete transcendence from the physical world. He stopped at what I thought was 60 yards, too far. He stood statue still, head high, looking for a hen. He was at such an angle from me that I began seeing double after a couple of minutes. He was right down my gun barrel, but I wasn’t sure of the distance. I closed my eyes and tried to re-focus when I opened them again. I opened both eyes; I closed my eyes again, hoping that when I opened them again he would be closer. He was not. This went on for close to 10 minutes. I could not clearly make out his eyeball, which is my rule of thumb for determining when a turkey is in range. My hand began to cramp; my shoulder and bicep began to hurt. I thought to myself that if I can run 100 miles I can surely hold this shotgun longer than this turkey can stand in one spot. I soon accepted the fact that those two things have little to do with one another, and there was no way I could hold it much longer. Suddenly, it dawned on me that there was a group of trees in the field that I knew were in range from where I sat, and he was closer than them. I thought, “Forget about the eyeball rule; your eyeballs ain’t exactly what they used to be. Kill him!!!” I drew a bead on his waddles, made sure my cheek was on my stock, and I realized my bead did not cover his head completely, which meant to me that he was 40 to 45 yards, roughly. At the shot, he rolled into the green grass and flopped. He wasn’t going anywhere. I ran out and got my foot on his noggin. He flopped from under it, and I grabbed him by the neck and held him for the final wing flaps. It was 44 steps, a little longer shot than I like, but I’ll take it. He felt exceptionally heavy. I generally don’t weigh them, but I weighed this one. He was 17 pounds; he felt like 20. He had an 11 1/8 inch beard and very sharp, curved 7/8 inch spurs. It was a fine hunt and a fine bird. I am very thankful to have gotten him.
NOTE: I do not know how to post a picture in this thing...
Sue: Team Sweet 16
LB2 I enjoyed your story until the end....
007-22/23 Tahoe Ragner Relay
10/14/15/16 Grand Circle Trailfset