A tale behind every turkey hunt

Like weddings and graduations, successful turkey hunts are memorable.

I'll never forget the first tom I killed with a bow. This was in the Black Hills on a spectacular spring morning, and Ron Schara, my then-10-year-old son, Trevor, and I were squeezed into a tentlike blind, while Ron called in a strutting gobbler from a half-football field away.

The three of us jostled for position, and Ron and Trevor pressed themselves against the walls of the compact blind, while also trying to peek out its small windows to watch the action. Finally, when I loosed an arrow, the tom dropped at 21 yards, the first archery-killed gobbler in Ron's camp after a more than 20-year drought.

Following are more true tales of memorable turkey hunts, one by Schara, a retired Star Tribune outdoors columnist and host of the TV show "Minnesota Bound," and others by retired Star Tribune outdoors writer Doug Smith; Brainerd outdoors photographer and writer Bill Marchel; first-time gobbler hunter Lindsey Hayes, who works in the Twin Cities, and southeast Minnesota resident Andy Ness.

Here's hoping your hunts this spring also are memorable.

- Dennis Anderson

A TOM WITH DAD'S GUN

I'm an avid deer hunter, but this past spring, I tried something new. I traded the blaze orange I wear for white-tail hunting for camo. This would be my first Minnesota turkey hunt, and I was guided by Mitch Banks, who lives in southeast Minnesota.

On a perfect early-May morning, Mitch and I sat in a blind in the middle of an alfalfa field near Cannon Falls. Mitch is an excellent caller, and a dozen birds responded to him at sunrise.

A lone tom started off our morning show. He was about 200 yards away and was soon joined by two hens and two doe whitetails. One of the deer toyed with the hens by shaking her head and kicking up her feet.

Next, four jakes joined the field party, and the strut was on.

About 45 minutes passed before the birds came to within 20 yards of our decoys. The big tom was among them, and watching him strut so close to the blind on such a beautiful morning was a very intimate experience.

Shaking with excitement, I high-fived Mitch.

I also shed a couple of tears knowing I was successful thanks to the shotgun my dad had passed down to me.

It is a day I will never forget.

- Lindsey Hayes

A TERRIBLE TEMPERATURE TOM

The year was 1994, and I was turkey hunting the bluff country of southeastern Minnesota. The heavy snow was accumulating, and it was doubtful toms would gobble. Even if they did, pursuing them while slipping and sliding in noisy rain gear seemed a hopeless tactic.

The evening before, I had put a flock of turkeys to bed. So I had that going for me. I opened the truck door, and away I went.

My plan was to use a single hen decoy while calling. Hopefully I would entice a gobbler to within shotgun range.

Despite the adversities, the strategy worked.

Not long after daylight, a flock of 15 or so turkeys appeared about 200 yards down the field. Only one was an adult tom.

Finally, just before 9, the flock moved in my direction. The tom's head was bright red and he occasionally strutted. His thoughts had turned from food to procreation.

When he was in range, I touched the trigger, laying the bird motionless in the snow.

The big tom weighed 26.85 pounds, the heaviest I have ever bagged.

- Bill Marchel

A MONSTER GOBBLER IN THE SOUTHEAST

Our strategy was to keep things simple and avoid repeating ploys that might have cost us a gobbler in years past.

Setting a lone hen decoy on a field edge to the west of a little brush pile, we hunkered down, waiting for the woods to wake up.

The first gobbler sounded off around 5:15, not too far to the southwest of us. Then another four toms announced themselves scattered throughout the nearby 6-acre woods.

Logan gave a few cuts on his box call. That's when a tom told us to hang on, because he was on his way.

Down the big bird flew, but presented no shot. For a long while he stared at our decoy, then nonchalantly walked away.

Then I noticed our big friend had strutted back silently.

I waited for him to commit to coming into our decoy. When he did, he presented a shot at 7 yards.

This was a big bird: 25.4 pounds, with ¾-inch spurs and a 9 ½-inch beard.

Goes to show you that sometimes you're best off just sitting still, being quiet and letting nature take its course.

- Andrew Ness

I have pursued these wonderful birds for exactly five decades. I'm able to recall almost every successful hunt.

I also can remember many moments when my aim with shotgun or bow was, well, in error. A fast-beating heart and nervous excitement will do that. And that's good. Any hunter who is calm and calculated while in the presence of a tom turkey oughta quit and take up dominoes.

When I figured I was a real turkey hunting pro with a shotgun, I decided my next gobbler would fall to a well-placed broadhead. That meant enticing a sharp-eyed gobbler to within bow range, which for me was less than 30 yards.

Season after season I was determined to succeed only to fail. I was hunting without a blind, which meant as the bird approached I had to draw the bow. Wild turkeys rarely miss seeing anything unusual that moves. When my arm pulled the string, the turkey moved, too. Or more accurately, ran.

I was zero-for-dozens of hunts when one afternoon I used a portable blind and positioned it on a ridge top. I staked a hen turkey decoy about 15 yards away and "yelped" seductively. A gobbler answered.

The big gobbler flopped momentarily — and then out of nowhere another gobbler rushed to the fallen bird, leaped on its back and pecked on its head until my bird was lifeless.

A pecking order does indeed exist in the lives of wild turkeys, and this new boss gobbler would dominate the mating game in these parts from now on.

The old boss … well, he was coming home with me.

- Ron Schara

A HUNT TO REMEMBER

But none of the big toms strutted within shotgun range. So, rolling the dice, the next morning we elected to try another farm several miles away.

Hiking in the dark, we set up our blind and decoys on the edge of the woods near the crumbling foundation of an old homestead. But unlike the previous two mornings, Day 3 broke with only the sound of Canada geese on the nearby river.

For three hours, we never heard a turkey, despite our persistent calling.

It appeared we had made a bad bet switching farms.

Then, shortly after 9 a.m., with the sun shining on a warm spring day, I mimicked a lonely hen, and instantly came a loud gobble behind us.

"Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble," came the response.

The bird moved quickly toward us. Then not one, but two big toms, side-by-side, stepped out of the woods, eyeing our decoys. I shouldered my shotgun and my buddy put his hands over his ears.

But the birds were too close together. One shot would kill both. So I waited, my heart pounding, afraid they would spook.

Finally they both came a few steps closer, one ahead of the other. I squeezed the trigger and dropped the bird nearer to us.

Jackpot.