The Dance

A true story...I swear

“And then spring comes...his behavior patterns change and the transition of Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde is by comparison a minor aberration. Dignity not only drops from his shoulders, he uses it to wipe his feet.” -Colonel Tom Kelly

Spring Success

My love for turkey hunting grows with each passing spring.

I’m hooked. Addicted. The early alarms and afternoon naps. The smell of wild leeks, flourishing songbirds, and the dance we dance with the wild turkey.

I began the 2024 season with an overinflated ego and a new shotgun (bought for and then stolen from my lovely wife). On opening morning I was surrounded by gobbling turkeys that would not come anywhere close enough for me to see them, let alone for a shot. A week later I was battling with a group of toms that came in so close I thought they might step on me, but the spring foliage kept them safe even just a few steps from my gun barrel.

And so it went. I would wake to an earlier alarm each day, burn my tongue with coffee, drive in some random direction, and eventually end up back home empty handed. Day after day I lost the battle, trying to attend a dance I clearly had not been invited to. At some point I began to feel like it may never come together.

Was I crazy to continue? Should I phone a friend? Buy a Butterball? I persevered. I told myself that if I went all season without filling a tag it wouldn't be the end of the world and that hell, maybe I’d learn something along the way.

Raquette on a turkey hunt

Late into the month, I could see and hear and smell the spring slipping into summer. At the sound of my alarm one morning, I made the decision to visit an “old faithful” kind of spot.

I parked my truck and walked in through the familiar darkness. I know that old road like no other. I walked and walked until I reached the point in the road that I thought was most likely to serve as the venue for that morning's dance. It was a flat spot in a small bowl, walled on two sides by steep ridges and on a third by a rather large, fully flooded swamp. I’d shot turkeys here before, not in the exact spot but within a few hundred yards.

I sat and listened and napped and listened some more. The woods came alive as the sun rose, and the hooting of owls was replaced by songbirds and far-off construction sounds from a crew that had obviously finished their coffee and began the day’s work. I called every so often and heard no response. I would sit and wait and then call again, a little louder each time. Still, nothing.

As I pondered which spot to try next, I reflected on how the season had gone. It was tough! I wasn’t having the same luck I’d had the last few years. I was finding plenty of birds, but had been unable to convince them that I was a worthy dance partner, and that they should come in close and give me a look. Turkey season is only a month long and that month goes by quickly, but I made the most of it. I’d found wild mushrooms and spent time in the woods with my friends and my wife. I grinned thinking about how badly I looked forward to sleeping in a bit once June arrived. I was exhausted.

My favorite turkey hunter

The turkey’s gobble was loud and proud when it discontinued my daydream. I was so startled that I nearly swallowed my mouth call. He gobbled again, this time echoed by several others. They were behind me to the left, high on a ridge above the swamp.

I turned my body to better see in their direction and yelped softly on my call. They gobbled again, even closer. I yelped again, louder and more aggressive. Almost immediately, I saw them cross the road about 90 yards away. There were several in the group but I had no idea what they were. It was as if they had sprinted down the ridge with a plan to circle around. Likely wanting me, or the hen they thought I was, to meet them on the flat spot beside the road. To meet them on the dance floor.

This began what felt like the longest waiting period of my hunting career, and a bout of mental gymnastics I still haven't quite recovered from. I could barely see them through the trees, circling back toward the dance floor over my right shoulder. I had to move quickly and quietly to reposition as I’d been set up originally, facing the dance floor with my back to the ridge. I’m 6’4” and about 315 pounds, so nimbly shifting around the forest floor is not necessarily a stealthy endeavor. But I did my best and made the move undetected. After all, the boys were fired up and looking to dance with a hen turkey. They weren't really looking for camouflaged giants.

Now, the next part of the story is the part that may sound made up. Far fetched. Embellished. I understand, but I swear upon all the future turkey hunting success in my lifetime that it happened just as I tell you here. This was the dance of all dances, and my invitation was finally in-hand.

As the birds and I called back and forth to one another, they moved closer and closer to the dance floor opening in the forest, my only chance for a clear shot. I hoped and prayed they would strut right out into view, knowing full well that isn't really how it works with turkeys.

Two points of fact are important to note here.

First, the male wild turkey is drawn to the female sound, for sure, but it’s his prerogative that the female comes to him. He will call to her, move in her direction, and go over and through and around any rampart or roadblock to get to her. But, once he’s in a spot where he can strut and drum and spit and show off, he feels it’s on her to close the distance. This is the real dance of the wild turkey. In turkey hunting, we attempt to break that sacred and ancient code, and dupe the male turkey out of his biological agenda, drawing him closer and closer to the sound of a hen, so that he is within range and therefore becomes both trophy and supper.

Second, the regulations in New York State read that I, the turkey hunter, am allowed to shoot a “bearded bird”, be it a tom, jake, or the relatively rare bearded hen. It’s a thing. I wanted a tom, but would have been very happy to take a jake. I was tired and I was hungry.

The group of birds had made their way to the other side of the dance floor that stood between us. They called from their side, I called from mine, but neither I nor they ventured out into the open. Stubbornness is not monopolized by the human race.

In the midst of the chaos, a turkey yelped in the distance over my left shoulder. It sounded like she was back where the others had come from. She yelped, I yelped, she yelped, and I yelped. She was on her way. I figured this could only help my cause, so long as she didn’t get too close. If she came in, she would likely ask those boys to dance. Before I knew it she was at twenty yards, then ten, then five. Too close! Something caught my eye when she turned broadside and headed toward the clearing. She had a beard.

This was cool for two reasons. First, I’d never seen a bearded hen up close before. Second, she was a legal bird for me to shoot and well within range. I brushed up against my safety and then hesitated when the tom let out a gobble. His cohort followed suit now that they could actually see the hen they’d been hearing. She never stopped yelping as she meandered around the clearing, inviting those boys officially out onto the dance floor.

I strongly considered shooting her but decided against it. After all, there were male birds within 40 yards. I just couldn't see them yet. As the little bearded hen became my live decoy, the rest of the turkeys came unglued. Before I knew it, one of them came out of the woods and into view, and was on a dead run toward the dance floor. She ran in circles, and he ran in circles right around her. I saw his beard, a bit shorter than hers. He was a respectable jake, now within range and mine for the taking.

I battled a thought as I listened to the still unseen turkeys gobble. I was well prepared and ready to shoot this jake turkey, and he was accompanied by a bearded hen, which some might consider a trophy. And after I’d spent the season striking out each morning, I was ready to kill and eat one of these birds. But what about the others? I was so sure there was a tom among them. I’d not yet seen him, but I could hear his thunderous gobble leading the pack when they all called out. I made up my mind. If I could call in a bearded hen that called in a jake, I could wait for them both to bring in the tom.

Just then, the jake began to strut and I could hear drumming and spitting from within the woods. That’s him! That’s the big guy. The tom decided that letting the young bird dance around and gobble was one thing, but he was not about to let him strut on his dance floor with his hen in his woods. No way, no how. I was just about falling over with anticipation. It had been several minutes since the hen arrived, which in the turkey woods feels like a few hours. I could hear the tom walking out toward the clearing, preparing to make his grand entrance to the dance floor like the proud groom at a rowdy wedding reception.

The brave jake was getting more and more excited and the hen more and more distressed. She’d had just about enough of him and so had I. As she stepped around the gaudy adolescent, he turned to watch her leave, and then suddenly he turned again and took off running. She stopped and realized that her proper suitor was here at last.

The stubborn tom had made his decision. He’d accepted her invitation as I had. He stepped out of the dense forest and onto the dance floor, and I squeezed the trigger.

The dance floor tom

The small clearing was once again empty, and I walked the 30 paces over to the fallen bird. He was magnificent. A mature tom turkey from the Adirondack hills. A warrior. A leader. I was proud as hell to have him. His feathers would adorn my bookshelf, his meat would nourish and delight my family, and his story would live on as the greatest dance in my turkey hunting history. I’m sure I’ll have other hunts in the future that rival his, but none shall beat it. The tom, the jake, and the bearded hen. The show. The dance.