Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 5)

"What do you mean you didn't hear anything?" I asked, figuring Frank was just fooling with me. After all, I dropped him off in the midst of multiple birds.

"I didn't hear nuthin'," was his somber reply.

I began to roll around his not-so-subtle use of a double-negative in my head, hoping he was still playing with me. I quickly erased the thought though. We were, after all, in the Deep South so he might've already picked up on the local dialect. Secretly I was kinda glad he did because it sure sounded a whole lot better than "you's guys". Gotta love them New York boys.

I questioned him one last time to make sure I heard him one hundred percent correctly.

"Didn't hear a single bird all morning an’ all I saw were two dang squirrels." I could now hear the frustration in his response. It was either because me or the fact that he truly didn’t see anything.

Again, I was rolling his response around in my noggin and wondering how that could've come to be. I finally concluded the birds must have been a bit further off than I had figured. Knowing that Frank worked his entire life in the ear-splitting din of General Mills cereal factory, his hearing was probably just as shot as my dad's. Distant gobbles, therefore, may be a bit out of his hearing range. It was up to me to get him closer.

With that, we all sat back and relaxed for a bit. Bird killing was just going to have to wait.

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We milled about camp for a few hours, took a few shots to make sure our guns were patterned, and even chatted with Mr. Gardner for a bit. He assured us there were plenty of birds around. In fact, much like the deer, he was really hoping we would take a few of them out because it was becoming harder and harder for him to keep a garden. That immediately explained the barbed and chicken wire fortress-look of his small vegetable garden. It even came complete with a wire roof to dissuade aerial invaders. Hopefully we would take out a few of those feathered seed eaters.

We assured him we would do our best to help him out. Ironically, as we sat there chatting away, a good-size hen turkey sauntered by half-way between our camp and Mr. Gardner's house. Charlie's blind was looking better and better by the minute.

Surprisingly, instead of hunting that afternoon, Dad, Frank, and Charlie decided to head into town to try some down home cooking at one of Lynchburg's finest eateries, the "Iron Kettle". Keep in mind, Lynchburg is a small small town so the second finest eatery in town is a small sandwich shop called "Subway".

Though I was slightly disappointed they weren't hunting that afternoon, it gave me a chance to do some additional scouting and to move Frank's blind a little closer to where I had heard the birds roosted earlier that morning. Though I was fully equipped and licensed to hunt, I didn't take my gun. Believe it or not, whenever I have friends or family coming to visit, I rarely hunt prior to their visit. I try to save the opportunities for them. I would get an overwhelming feeling of guilt if I shot a turkey or a deer prior to my guest's arrival. Of course I draw the line when it comes to my oldest brother Bob who is "Joe competitor". I never feel the least bit of guilt taking game away from him. In fact, I kind of get a kick out of it. He gets so frustrated having his little brother constantly outdoing him. Ahh, it is one of life's littlest but greatest pleasures.

Up on the hardwood plateau it was a beautiful springtime setting. The mayapples were popping up all around, trilliums could be seen showing their brilliance, and every color could be found in the newly blossomed wildflowers. I came upon Frank's blind and admired its location. It truly was the perfect set-up with its vantage points and strategic location between roost and strutting fields. I debated but I just couldn't bring myself to move it, not after one day. I knew the birds were there, maybe tomorrow morning would be a better day and the birds would end up smack dab in front of him. For now, Frank's blind was staying put.

As the sun crept closer to the horizon, I decided to head back down towards camp. I didn't want my presence to dissuade the birds from roosting on the plateau. Both my dad and Frank had awesome locations. The birds were bound to be on top of them in the morning.

That evening, as I relaxed in my favorite green canvas chair outside the camper, I heard music to my ears. The gobblers were back on the plateau going to roost. There must have been at least a half dozen of them. All was well.

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Morning came much like the day before. My dad and Charlie were rattling the cupboards with their snoring but this time I would have to give the distinct advantage to my dad. He was actually moving the curtains with each inhale. This was pretty darn impressive given they were a good five feet away from him.

I made sure there were no loose articles of clothing close to him when I decided to shake him awake. I lost a napkin the day before when he snorted himself to consciousness. I didn't want to run the risk of losing one of my gloves or my facemask, they are much more valuable than a paper napkin. Fortunately, today's arousal went much smoother. It was still quite loud and exasperating but I had nailed everything down close to his head region. Everything appeared to be accounted for.

As soon as he was fully aware, I gave my dad the chore of waking Frank and Charlie. I then set about to prepare the morning coffee.

Once again, the three feasted on vitamins and pills of every color. Given the quantity they consumed, I was certain it was more filling than a grand slam breakfast at Denny's. Everything was right on schedule too. And we were even twenty minutes earlier than the day before. Today was shaping up to be a great day in the turkey woods.

Surprisingly, Charlie was the first to be ready. He grabbed all his gear and headed out before everyone else was even remotely close to heading out. Outside in the dark I could hear Charlie fire up his ATV, a moment later I could hear him hit the throttle as he headed out. A few seconds later, I heard him shut off the ATV. It was comforting to know he had made it to his blind safely.

After double and triple checking that they had everything, my dad and Frank were finally ready to go. We donned our head lamps and headed out the door. Things we looking good, we were still a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule. We fired up the ATVs and made sure everything was secure. Just then I realized I forgot my turkey seat. It is a little three-inch stool I use when I'm hunting on the ground and likely to be on the move. I ran back to the camper and grabbed it from under the bed. As I exited our temporary homestead, I turned my head and shined my head lamp on Charlie's now quiet blind.

"Good luck today Charlie." I said.

"Good luck to you too," he said.

I smiled and hopped back on my ATV. I then led the procession up the hill to the awaiting birds.

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This time Frank got to his blind well before first light and any hint of a morning gobble. Before we left I made sure he was all set and ready to go. He was. My main goal now was to do the same for my dad. Given that he buggered up two roosted gobblers the day before with "extra blind-hicular activity," I wasn't about to let him do that again.

When we got to his blind I helped him in and gave him specific instructions not to leave for any reason other than a distant mushroom cloud or a medical emergency. I then set out a gobbler and two hen decoys twenty yards in front of him. This time, however, I had no plans to join him in the blind. I was striking out on foot to figure out what these birds were doing.

I had barely gone fifty yards from my dad's blind when the first gobble rang out. It was halfway between my dad and Frank. And once again there were two, and they were hot and heavy on the roost.

Someone was going to kill a bird this morning.

 

Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 4)

 

Back at camp my dad and I prepared lunch for Frank and Charlie who were still out hunting. What these guys lacked in hard core hunting skills they sure made up for in dedication.

I was preparing my camp special, two slices of Oscar Mayer bologna, a slice of processed American cheese slathered with yellow mustard, all slapped between two slices of soft white Wonder bread. The lunch of Gods...well maybe not, but at least it was going to be the lunch for my dad, Frank, and Charlie.

As I extracted a small squeezable barrel of mustard from the cooler my dad said, "I don't think Charlie likes mustard."

My brain wasn't recalling his exact tastes so I leaned over and slid open the camper window.

"Hey Charlie...you like mustard on your sandwich?" I yelled.

"Yeah...mustard's fine," he called back.

"When you're done hunting I'll have a sandwich waiting for you."

"Alright, I'll be in in about ten minutes," he assured me.

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I sat down with my Dad to have a talk with him. I needed to explain how important it was not to let the birds see you as they're getting ready to fly down from their roost. He stuck to his guns though and assured me I was nuts. Anyone that knows my dad knows how stubborn he can be. I was beginning to get the evil eye and sense the determination in his voice, so I decided to drop the subject. I just had to commit to getting him to his blind earlier.

Just then I heard an ATV fire up. For the next seven seconds, I listened as Charlie drove back from his morning hunt. I peered out the window and saw him dismount his metallic steed, his blind standing firm a mere twenty yards behind his new parking spot. Needless to say, he was birdless. A few seconds later the door opened to the camper and in walked Charlie.

"Hear anything this mornin'?" I asked, knowing there were birds gobbling on the ridges all around him.

"No...pretty quiet out there," was his disheartened reply. "There was a guy walking around working in his flower beds all mornin'. He prolly kept 'em away."

I informed him that was Mr. Gardner, the owner of the property. I told him he's likely to be milling around his house or garden on most days so if he wanted to get away from the commotion he might consider moving his blind a bit further up the valley.

"No I got a good spot where I'm at, I think I'll give it a few days."

Again, I wasn’t going to argue.

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The three of us sat there dining on the highly-processed but oh-so-good mid-day snack. We brought out a few health foods to compliment the not-so-healthy sandwiches...Diet Coke, Lays low-sodium potato chips, and apple pie. Getting up there in age, my dad and his friends decided they had to start watching what they ate so they insisted that we start having fruits and vegetables at each meal. Potatoes and apples would satisfy today's requirement. I love how these guys think!

I set the quickly prepared meal down at the table and within no time a conversation struck up between dad and Charlie. As usual, camp conversations usually revolved around past hunting adventures. This one was no different. Charlie and my dad sat around the table and reminisced about chasing birds on Bully Hill back home in New York. Bully Hill was the state land surrounding Charlie's cabin where they did most of their hunting.

As I relaxed, enjoying their old-timey banter, I found it funny how none of their stories ever ended with anyone getting a bird. It mattered not though, for I considered all of their hunts successful. When one hunts for fun instead of trophies, success is guaranteed. And that is exactly what these guys did...my dad, Frank, and Charlie hunted, not just for fun, but for each other. The three shared stories and adventures the vast majority of the people in this world will never experience. That was why these guys hunted. It was also why, even as a young boy, I sat transfixed by their tales. Whenever they spun their yarns I was always transported to a different time and place and, as if I was re-living their experiences, I always had "fun".

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Pretty soon our plates held only mustard stains and bread crumbs. As we sat with contented bellies we simultaneously began to wonder how Frank was doing. He had birds gobbling all around him for most of the morning but unfortunately no shot was to be heard. We were all quite familiar with the game one can play with these wily and sharp-sensed birds. The slightest miscue or movement usually sent a wary old gobbler heading for the next county. And there you sit and there's nothing you can do to coax him back no matter how hard you try. We were all hoping Frank was playing at least that game since that's the best and most exciting part of turkey hunting.

After a while my dad got up and headed to his bed to take a mid-day nap. I couldn't blame him, these early morning adventures have a way of catching up with you. I could only imagine the toll it takes on my dad, pushing eighty and still chasing the birds. That alone already made this hunt so very special.

That left me and Charlie at the kitchen table and before long, he too was taking a mid-day siesta. How one can sleep in an upright position still clutching a fork is beyond me but I'm sure one day when I get their age I'll find out. I was secretly wanting to join them but I also didn't want to waste the day so I decided to grab my gun and go for a walk. The fresh air and extra scouting would do me good.

I hadn't even made it to Charlie's blind when I heard a distant rumble from atop the ridge. It was the unmistakable sound of an approaching ATV. Frank was on his way back to camp. My hike would wait.

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I sat down on the back of my ATV and watched as Frank approached. He looked a little frazzled. I knew the look well. It comes when an animal with a brain the size of a walnut teases and tempts you all morning long, purposefully dancing and strutting just beyond your reach. It's as if they sense your presence and create an invisible dome around you, flaunting themselves all around but never stepping foot within that magical dome. It leaves you frustrated, humbled, frazzled, yet thirsty for more. I couldn't wait to hear the story of Frank's morning hunt.

Frank pulled up, shut off his machine, and dismounted. As he stiffly walked over, I simply said, "Well?"

He peered up at me as he strolled by and simply said, "Nothing."

Well duh! I could see from the lack of turkey on his back or on his ride that he didn't get anything, I wanted the scoop, the scouting report. I had dropped him off with birds gobbling on roost not far from his blind and then proceeded to listen to a cacophony of gobblers on the hillsides all around him. I was hoping he would tell me how many there were or if he even came close to pulling the trigger.

Frank opened the camper door and stepped inside.

I hopped off the back of the ATV and followed him in.

"I'll have a bologna sandwich for you in a sec. In the meantime, there are chips and pie settin' on the table."

Frank had already found them and sat down next to Charlie who awoke when the door opened.

"So give me the scoop. Did they come from where they were roosted or did they come up the hill from down below?" I asked.

He looked up at me.

"Nothin'... I didn't see or hear anything all day."

Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 3)

 

My eyes snapped open eight minutes before my alarm was set to go off. It was 4:22 a.m. It amazes me how the brain works. There I was, lying in bed fully awake, a full two hours before I normally get up. One would think my body would be in deep sleep mode, yet my brain woke me and was beginning to get my faculties up and running. That's what hunting does for me. It has an amazing power to refresh and invigorate the body and mind. If the anticipation of the morning hunt was not enough to wake one's self, the life giving breath of watching the darkened forest come to life with the dawn's first rays sure was. I guess you could say it's the world's greatest snooze alarm. Fortunately for me, it would not be needed this morning. I was up and raring to go.

Dad, Frank and Charlie...they were a different story.

I could hear my dad and Charlie in a vicious and highly contested fight. They were battling on who could snore the loudest and I tell you what...they were both fierce and worthy competitors. Listening to the out-of-tune chainsaws, I was beginning to think I'd have to buy child locks for the kitchen cabinets since the dishes inside were rattling around violently. It sure would be a good but expensive way to determine the winner of the snoring duel though. Whoever broke the most dishes during the night would be crowned "Snoring King" of Moore County, Tennessee. I'd have to think about that one though. I had rented the campers so it was an expensive way to settle the dispute.

Having grown up with my dad I didn't feel too awkward trying to rouse him I must admit though, it was easier said than done. My dad is one of those guys that suffers from sleep apnea where you literally have to hold a mirror under his nose to see if he is still breathing. Sometimes it takes a good five minutes before you see the mirror fog up too. Scares the patootie out of us but he refuses to go to the doctor for it. 

I grabbed his shoulder and gave him a little shake to rouse him from his slumber.

Nothing.

I grabbed him a second time and shook a little more firmly.

Still nothing.

The third time I grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him pretty hard while calling his name.

"Dad...Dad...time to get up."

My dad just so happened to be in between one of his long extended breaths, so when he did gasp for air,  he did so in one of those loud over-exaggerated snorts to catch his breath. There was a rush of air as he inhaled. I swear at that exact moment a napkin flew past me and disappeared into thin air somewhere around his nasal area. Where it went I have no idea. All I know is my dad was finally awake.

"Time to get up and go hunting," I said.

With that, my dad immediately started to get up. He always was a great morning person. I left it up to him to wake Frank and Charlie, which he did, with far less effort than I had to exert. And I still have no idea where that napkin went.

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Now picture if you will, a small cramped pop-up a trailer with four not-so-fit guys trying to get dressed while still trying to shake the cobwebs from our heads. It was a flurry of activity.

My main goal was trying to make sure these almost octogenarians ate a good healthy breakfast. Needless to say, I was willing to prepare anything.

You know what they wanted?

Coffee.

I guess fifty years working in a factory you develop certain routines to start your day. Coffee was theirs.

I was beginning to question whether or not they would eat breakfast but then I heard it. It started with a plasticky-sounding sound followed by a couple of "tinks" from something small hitting the kitchen table. This was then followed by what sounded like a deluge of marbles.

I looked over and saw dad, Frank, and Charlie all sitting around the table preparing to take their morning pills. It looked like a Risk board minus the countries. There were reds, greens, blues, yellows, and whites. And there were all shapes and sizes too. My dad and Charlie had the biggest armies but Frank was no pushover either. For the next ten minutes, the three of them sat there carefully selecting their next swallow. No wonder they drank so much coffee. And apparently breakfast had been served.

I must admit, dad, Frank and Charlie rarely just sat around wasting time. They were always doing something. The problem was, at their age, they just did things at a little bit slower pace than what I'm used to. I totally respected that, so I wasn't about to crack the whip and remind them of trying to get to their blinds before daylight. I had a good feeling there were birds on all the ridges around us so moving in the dark while they were still roosted was key to getting a jump on them.

By the time they were dressed and ready to go we had about ten minutes to hop on our ATVs and get to our blinds on top of the plateau. Unfortunately it was an eight-minute drive to the top of the hill, so needless to say, we were cutting it close. As my dad and Frank fired-up their ATVs I heard another ATV kick into life. That's when I saw Charlie saddling up on his.

"Hey Charlie...Aren't you hunting out of your blind?" I said, as I turned my head and shined my head lamp on his blind a mere thirty yards away.

"Yep!"

With that he drove about twenty feet, parked his ATV, began unloading his gear, and struck out toward his blind.

Oh well, he hauled his ATV 750 miles, he might as well use it. At that point, I nodded to Frank and my dad with my head lamp and we slowly began making our way up to the plateau.

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We hit the plateau and paused for a sec. I could already see a hint of the oncoming dawn in the east. As we sat there idling, the first gobble erupted to my right about 150 yards off.

"You guys hear that?" I asked as we sat in the pre-dawn night.

I was met with blank stares.

"A bird gobbled off to our right," I said.

Still blank. Apparently neither of them caught it. No worries, the low rumble of the ATVs was quite distracting so I understood their miscue. I filled them in to where the gobble came from and advised that we had better get a move on.

It only took us another minute or two to get to Frank's blind. I helped load his gear into his blind while he stashed his ATV. He only put it about twenty yards away but it was pretty well covered. As he was placing a decoy in front of his blind another gobble erupted but this time from a different direction. This one came from the red gate, exactly where my dad's blind was sitting.

I bid Frank farewell and wished him luck since the birds were hot and gobbling all around. I then scrambled in haste to my ATV. My dad and I had to go about another 300 yards down the trail to get to his blind.

We made it to my dad's blind in no time. Sure enough as we dropped off all of our gear outside his blind, a gobble erupted about 80 yards behind us. This time with an echo gobble a split second later. We had two birds on roost probably within eyesight in the fast coming dawn.

I told my dad to quickly hop in the blind and stay put while I ditched our ATVs. I could make better time than him and I wanted him to get settled in as quickly and as quietly as possible. Since these birds were so close we needed to move fast. I drove my ATV about 100 yards down a narrow logging road, buried it in a deadfall, and sprinted back to take care of my dad's ride. The gobbles were increasing in frequency. Man were they close. It was almost as if the turkeys were yelling at us for making too much noise.

As discreetly as possible I fired up my dad's ATV and rode away, this time riding further down the logging road in an attempt to calm the birds. I was hoping my "riding away" might put the birds at ease thinking the intrusion was headed back down the hill. My plan was to sneak back to my dad as quietly as possible and if I couldn't get close because of the breaking daylight, I would call from a distance in hopes of luring the birds in front of my dad. After all he was sure to be set up and ready since legal shooting time was only five minutes away.

As I eased back down the logging road towards my dad I tried my best not to make a sound. It's always easier said than done but I was making good progress. My dad must have been on pins and needles sitting inside that blind because the birds were nonstop hammering and they sounded like they were roosted right above him.

I would soon round a bend in the logging road that would give me direct line of sight to his blind 60 yards away. This was going to be a great set up. If I could coax the birds towards me they would fly down or walk right past my dad. And with the breaking dawn now upon us it was light enough that they would be flying down soon. I don't think we could've been given a better set up.

But then it hit me.

Rather, a beam of light hit me.

As I rounded the corner what did I see 60 yards down the road? Oh my gosh!! It was my dad setting up a flock of decoys with his high beam head lamp in all it's glory! And yes the birds were still on roost gobbling away right behind him.

I had to consciously stop myself from yelling at him to turn it off.

I sprinted down the logging road, pulled off his head lamp, which by the way wasn't even needed anymore, and ushered him back into his blind.

"What are you doing Dad?!?" I whispered as sternly but as quietly as I could. "These birds are right behind us and can see us right now! We've got to be as quiet and as still as possible!"

In a voice that was nowhere near a whisper he responded, "What are you talking about?!? They can't see us now!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhh!!!" I responded with an extended forefinger in front of my lips.

"Don't you shush me!" in a now raised voice. "I have been hunting a lot longer than you've been alive and these turkeys aren't going anywhere. As long as they're on roost they don't care if we're walking around banging on a drum!"

I sighed.

For the next fifteen minutes my dad rumbled around with his flashlight in hand looking through his gear bags pulling out all his calls and getting situated. There may have even been a few curse words thrown out by him for good measure as he was trying to get comfortable. Yep...that's my dad and I love him.

Needless to say the birds that were roosted above us pitched down in the complete opposite direction.

Did I mention I was now beginning to better understand why their track record was what it was?

For the rest of the morning, not a single bird came within sight of my dad's blind. Though our morning was shot, I heard far off gobbles in all directions, including where Frank was sitting. From the sound of it, they were right on top of him too. Hopefully he would have better luck than us.

Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 2)

Reminiscing of Charlie's Cabin 

We had quite the feast the night before our weeklong turkey hunt was to commence. Dad, Frank, and Charlie didn't disappoint. They were reminiscing of turkey hunts gone by with plenty of missed opportunities of birds in the morning and pool shots at night. Most of those adventures took place at Charlie's cabin in rural southwestern New York. It is where I cut my teeth in the woods. Though the rich farmlands were loaded with deer, turkey were not as easy to come by. Thirty years ago, a successful hunt in New York consisted of a weeklong adventure highlighted by a couple of days of "hearing" gobbles. In the fifty plus years of hunting in Western New York, my dad had only killed one turkey, and it wasn't even anywhere near Charlie's cabin. Charlie, on the other hand did manage to kill three or four birds but mostly by happenstance as they wandered by his deer stand. Frank...well Frank was carrying a big ol' goose-egg for that area. To his defense though. I don't believe Frank hit the turkey woods as much as my dad and Charlie.

Now you can see why I was so anxious to bring these three to Tennessee. In the ten plus years I had turkey hunted there I had killed, or called in to be killed, a few dozen birds. And I could honestly say I could count on one hand the number of times I had been skunked while chasing thunder chickens in Tennessee. Truth be told, middle Tennessee is the crown jewel of turkey hunting in the Southeast, heck, maybe even the entire country. It's not often you'll find a place where every spring outing finds you hearing or working lovesick gobblers.

Undoubtedly I have been blessed and have been extremely successful hunting Tennessee birds. And I admit I have been quite lucky when it comes to turkey hunting because in all honesty, I don't even classify myself as a good caller. Good callers usually limit out in the Volunteer state within the first few weeks. I on the other hand, prefer my not-so-perfect technique since it allows me to spend more time lounging in the woods listening to the springtime serenade of birds in love. That's why I consider myself lucky.

Needless to say, Tennessee turkey hunting rocks! And it was high time for me to repay Dad, Frank, and Charlie for putting up with me all those years chasing birds in New York.

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Settin' Blinds

A twelve hour drive has a tendency to wear out one's body, especially when one's body is approaching eighty years of age. So when my three turkey guests asked to take it easy the following morning I complied. I even suggested we take a slow relaxing drive down to the lease. We left about mid-morning the next day. We had a lot of gear to haul and it would allow us to leisurely set up blinds in prime locations. Knowing the steep ridges would cause issues if they were forced to walk, I wanted to make sure their blind locations were easy to reach with their ATVs. And given the rolling wooded hills, I figured it would be relatively easy to find a discreet location to conceal their motorized steed.

The Lynchburg turkey camp.

Not wanting to venture too far into unknown territory Charlie decided to put his blind about a hundred yards behind the camp. Actually it was more like thirty yards but I wasn't going to argue with him. With two pop-up campers, multiple vehicles and trailers, loads of miscellaneous gear, and a makeshift "outhouse" I was fairly certain a wary old gobbler wouldn't venture within a half mile of the camp, especially with the noise we tend to make while loading up. I was beginning to understand why their record in New York was what it was but I have been wrong before and was willing to give Charlie the benefit of the doubt on his blind location.

Dad and Frank setting their blinds.

Frank was more adventuresome. He followed my dad and I up to the hardwood plateau and selected a great blind location near an intersection of a couple of long-straight logging roads. With a properly placed decoy, any bird crossing the road could see Frank's set-up from a quarter-mile away. Even I was happy with his blind location and I'm pretty hard to please.

Our last task was selecting a place for my dad. I already had a good idea of where I wanted to put him. It was on the far back end of the property near what we call the "red gate". To the average person, that term has no significant meaning whatsoever but to a tight brotherhood of hunters, a simple term oftentimes means a pinpoint location. I am sure every hunter knows exactly what I'm talking about. We often use simple descriptors to define an exact location within a large geographical area but those descriptors only have meaning to your tight knit group of friends. For example, everyone who has ever hunted at Charlie's cabin knows exactly where the "Big Tree" is, but to someone outside the brotherhood, they would spend a lifetime searching the woods for what they thought was the big tree. And in case you're wondering, the big tree was in the upper meadow not far from the small pond but just above Willy's tree. See what I mean? Perfect directions.

Needless to say, my dad was going to get plopped down by the red gate, and after a quick tour of the property, everyone knew exactly where my dad was going to be. Although I wanted all three guys to kill multiple birds, in the back of my mind, I was thinking my dad had the best opportunity to kill first.

All three blinds were set and the forecast for the morning was looking fantastic, a cloudless night and bright sunny skies for the next five days. We were going to start racking them up in the morning.

Up next...On Birds!

Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 1)

Ol' Blue…

I have a fifteen year-old Jeep Wrangler that I adore. Not many folks know this but I call him Ol' Blue when it's just me an' him up on the mountain. Though he has countless nicks and dings his deep navy blue body still shines bright when given enough attention. I don't know, maybe I'm looking at him through rose-colored, or should I say iris-colored, glasses but we have a connection that runs pretty deep.

The thing I love most about Ol' Blue is that he never lets me down and thus, I can't help but be reminded of my dad. He's tremendously reliable and simply put, he's a comfort to me. Things breakdown on him all the time but I do whatever I can to keep him running. Though he's routinely serviced, he creeks and moans and strains when climbing even the slightest of hills. There is also the occasional drip or leak from the underside that sometimes leaves conspicuous stains in increasingly awkward places. He's even been known to run out of gas every once in a while. And talk about dirty? My gosh! I have been embarrassed more than once by his uncouth visage. Needless to say, even with all these little quirks and issues, I love my Dad so very much and the crazy thing is I find much of these exact same characteristics in Ol' Blue.

As you can imagine, I can't help but love BOTH of them to death. So when my dad wants to come visit, for a turkey hunting excursion, I'll bend over backwards to accommodate him. And one such adventure plum wore me out.

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The Preparations

Though I have hunted with my dad for the better part of my life, my move from New York to Tennessee made our turkey hunting adventures much more choreographed. We missed a few years here and there but when we could, we'd schedule a week-long excursion, and since my dad was retired, it usually meant a hunting trip to Tennessee. This also meant my oldest brother Bob could tag-a-long from his adopted state of Georgia. This worked out for the best anyway since we all found the hunting in Tennessee to be much better than anywhere else.

I was thrilled a few years ago when planning our spring turkey hunt, my dad asked if he could bring along his two best friends, Frank and Charlie.  It had been quite a while since I had turkey hunted with either one of them so I was more than looking forward to reliving our younger days. Given that all three of my soon-to-be guests were in their 70s and still eager to go stomping through the woods chasing long beards would simply add to the nostalgia of the reunion. Needless to say, I was going to make sure all three had the time of their life.

In preparation for the hunt I put in quite a bit of leg work. I knew my guests were getting up there in age so I had to keep their walking to a minimum. Not only did I secure multiple farms to hunt, I scouted each farm to confirm there were a decent number of birds present. And hearing those pre-season early-mornin’ gobbles in almost every location was giving me a great sense of anticipation.

My main farm, a lease I held in Lynchburg, was the most promising of all. It sits in Moore County, Tennessee, the epicenter of southeastern turkey hunting. It is the epitome of textbook turkey country. Its rolling oak-hickory hardwood hills are intermittently broken by cow pastures, over-grown fields, and clear-running streams. The lease is a long abandoned dairy farm consisting of three lush valleys, a hardwood plateau, and a network of logging roads, just ripe for old men with ATVs. The farm is also landlocked. Its only access through a century-and-a-half-old cemetery undoubtedly guarded by the resolute spirits of civil war soldiers.

The owner of the farm, Royce, still lives on the property. He and his wife reside in a tiny well-kept house where the chimney smoke never wanes and the woodpile never dwindles. A few days prior to my dad’s arrival I paid Royce a visit. In his slow deliberate southern speak he assured me that every morning, "gobbles rain down" from the surrounding ridges. All was well with the preparations.

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The Anticipated Arrival

The rattling window panes and the rippling in my dog's water bowl tipped me off to their approach. One would think, or at least hope, that three elderly but eager gentleman could ride together in a super-sized pickup truck for a relaxing turkey trip down south. Nope. I should have known better.

It turns out only Frank and Charlie could fit their hunting gear into Charlie's full-Size Chevy Silverado. My dad had to bring his minivan separate which, by the way, was also was packed from floor to ceiling. Did I mention that each vehicle was pulling a trailer as well? Three tricked-out, full-size ATVs were loaded in pull-behind trailers, each ATV jampacked with overflowing gear bags mind you. I've seen U.S. Army infantry units prepped to be shipped overseas packed lighter...Yep, these boys were bringing it!

Fortunately I had arranged a couple of campers down at the Lynchburg lease for our stay. This would eliminate about three hours of driving each day, and given the payload, would save about 8,000 gallons in gas. Now if only I had rented a couple of storage sheds as well.

Needless to say, the first night spent at my house sitting around the dinner table catching up with my dad, Frank and Charlie already made the trip worthwhile for me. It was going to be one helluva a great week.


Up next...Gettin' Started!

 

Dad, Frank, and Charlie (DFC)

I would not be the person I am today without the people I look up to. There are scores of individuals I try to emulate, a few I even idolize. When it comes to hunting, however, I yearn to be one of three. And it matters not which, for all three are one. They have hunted together since the early 1960's, well over fifty years, and their stories and lessons about the outdoors truly shaped me. Quite frankly, looking back at the things they taught my brother and I, it's a wonder we are still alive.

And if you were to ask me if my outdoor mentors are great hunters from a killing standpoint, my honest answer would be no. Heck, if I relied on them for food to eat I would've been dead long ago. Truth be told, they're not good killers. Heck, I'd even classify them as bad, really bad. But I care not for they are superb hunters. Their lessons and stories are priceless, especially to a young impressionable boy who hung on their every word, who would later find out that most of their teachings would be debunked by science and all-around common sense.

But if there's one thing the three have taught me, it is that hunting is NOT about the killing. It is about the friendships that are forged and the time spent together in the field that is the greatest trophy one can acquire. For that reason, these three are the greatest hunters I have ever known.

Those three amigos go by the name of Dad, Frank, and Charlie.

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The Characters

The Three Amigos...Dad (on right), Frank (in middle) and Charlie (on left).
 

Dad is self-explanatory. His real name is Robert but most of his friends call him Bob. Once in a while Frank will call him "Bubba" because of his boorish antics but all I have ever known him as is "dad" so that's what I shall call him. He truly is the one responsible for my being and if you don't understand that, well, it may be time for some basic biology classes, or health, or gym, or wherever that lesson took place. Anyway, other than being responsible for my birth, he truly was the one that made me love and appreciate the outdoors. Dad was a mechanic at the General Mills cereal factory in Buffalo, NY, for over forty-five years. This meant he often worked six, sometimes seven, days a week, but his vacations were spent taking his four kids camping, hunting and fishing. In all honesty, throughout my childhood, those outdoor adventures were the greatest few weeks of every year and because of them, I dedicated my life to living those vacations. Hence, I am now a wildlife biologist living my "outdoor" dream.

Charlie is my dad's best friend, actually one of two. My Dad met Charlie in 1962 in a small archery shop in downtown Buffalo. Actually it was in the basement of Teddy Cichocki's place. You have to understand in the early 1960s archery was an obscure and unhip past-time, especially in a blue-collar factory town on Lake Erie. The two hit it off pretty quickly and they began hunting together soon afterward. At first they bounced around different areas in Western New York but in the late 1960s Charlie bought a small plot of land adjacent to Bully Hill State Forest and put a fixer-upper trailer on it. "Charlie's cabin" would soon become the cornerstone of my hunting career and the place where childhood dreams were born.

Frank is the other best friend. Dad met Frank a little later in the early 70’s or as best as either of them can remember. This friendship however, was born through an involuntary relationship at first. You see Frank worked with Dad at General Mills. Back then they worked in the warehouse in what was aptly called the "loading gang". Dad was the one that introduced Frank to Charlie, once again through the common thread of hunting. I smile thinking of what today's connotation of "gang" means for that is what these three would truly become.

Without a doubt there have been many other friends these three have hung with…Mike, Ronnie, Don, Tadpole, Kofka, and Chipper, just to name a few. But all of those have come and gone, mostly on good terms, some not so much. But these three have stuck together through thick and thin and for that I am thankful.

And in case you're wondering, though their hunting days are fewer and farther between, they're still getting around even if it is at a much slower pace. Dad, Frank and Charlie share a cup of coffee almost daily and I have no doubt their stories take them to the woods and to Charlie's cabin more so now than in their prime.

These are the adventures of Dad, Frank, and Charlie...