We all have milestones to celebrate in our careers of hunting turkeys. The first bird. The 50th bird. The 100th bird and so on. Then there are the slams. On Sunday I achieved a milestone I have never equaled in 38 seasons. It was windy. I thought I should have stood in bed. At 7 a.m., a trickle of a gobble over the wind. I knew where he was. By the time I set up, he was on the ground. For over an hour, he traded gobbles for my clucks and yelps. I heard the hen go to him. I waited him out. He still answered. I heard the nearby drumming. Finally, there he was moving left to right. I put the .410’s red dot on his head—too far. He was at least 50. I watched his colors flash through the cover as he headed to the field. I held my ground and he answered. He was at least 100 yards out. Using the screen of brush, I moved up about 50 yards. I clucked. He answered. He came. He stopped at about 50 yards, craning his neck, giving me the eyeball. He walked off with the hen. He made it to the edge of the field. I could see his fan out about 100 yards. I moved up to within 40 yards of the field and waited. Finally, at about 10:15, I saw three birds moving towards the woods. He picked up two more hens unseen to me. I waited. Then he followed. I cut. He double gobbled and headed into the woods with me. When he was about 30-35 and behind a pine, I picked out the open spot and waited. With the red dot on him, I squeezed off a round. I achieved something I had never achieved with a .410. I had done it with a 10 gauge, often with a 12 gauge, and a few times with my 20 gauges. I flat missed the crinkled-ass sob. Photo below is one from last year.
