By John Cross
Free Press Staff Writer
April 20, 2008 01:08 am
—
As in Minnesota, spring remains a work in progress in northeast Nebraska.
Oh, by virtue of being 250 miles to the southwest of Mankato, there already is a bit more greenery on the steep hillsides that fall away to the Missouri River flatland.
But otherwise, the terrain remains mainly a study in browns as spring continues to arrive all too slowly.
Usually by the last half of April, a foray into the Nebraska turkey woods is accompanied by the heady fragrance of plum blossoms; alas, such pleasantries this year are still a week away.
But that meteorological spring is on the slow track matters very little to the turkeys.
Here and in Minnesota, the birds are engaged in their biological spring flings, and there is more to it than nice weather; it is the lengthening period of daylight that stirs the ardor of a gobbler.
While pleasant spring mornings are nice and inspire the randy toms to sound off with gusto — music to a turkey hunter’s ears — even in inclement weather, wild turkeys go about the business of procreation.
Indeed, biologists tend to schedule the opening days of spring turkey hunting well after the commencement of the breeding season to allow the birds to conduct at least some of their woodland trysts undisturbed by hunting pressure.
Here in Nebraska, hunters in the first segment of the wild turkey season were snakebit by a nearly uninterrupted string of rainy, sometimes snowy, windy, chilly days.
While it’s possible to hunt turkeys under such conditions, the lack of gobbling under such inclement conditions can make even a woods crawling with birds seem deserted and send hunters home early and discouraged.
But perhaps those hunters’ loss will be our gain.
For this, the opening weekend of the second turkey hunting season, the weather pundits have predicted nearly perfect weather. Quiet mornings, light breezes, mild temperatures are just what the turkey hunter prays for.
My plan of attack remains the same as it has been: Still in the darkness of the pre-dawn, I’ll pack my vest pockets with a sandwich, a water bottle, an assortment of calls, all chalked and otherwise tuned and slide the shotgun sling over my shoulder.
Guided by the red glow of my headlamp, I’ll follow a winding, two-wheeled trail for a quarter-mile through tall grass to the edge of the timber, and then ever so carefully, quietly, pick my way down the ridge to the meandering creek.
I likely will pause there, perhaps on the ancient deadfall that over the years has grown a coating of thick, rich moss, to await the first hints of dawn to sift through the trees.
No real need yet to use an owl call to locate a roosting gobbler. For one thing it will still be too early, too dark.
And for another, past spring mornings at precisely this spot have taught me just where the gobblers are most likely to be anyway.
So I’ll just stand quietly, melting into the inky darkness, listening as the whippoorwills, the frogs, the robins, come online.
Eventually, I will call — probably with an owl call. If I’m lucky, a gobbler will respond. If I am luckier still, my own barred owl calls will elicit a raucous chorus of “who-cooks-for-yoooou” from the real McCoys from nearby ridges, and sending any turkeys within earshot into a gobbling frenzy.
Regardless of where the turkeys are roosting, in the growing light I will cross the creek, find the curious, prehistoric-looking hump arising from the valley floor and follow a well-worn deer trail up the steepest part to where the hill broadens to an expansive shelf.
From there, it is a steady quarter mile climb from the creek bottom to a certain basswood tree. Besides a little luck, turkey hunting is about location, location, location.
And this location has been very, very good for me.
Over the last four years, while nestled comfortably against its twin trunks that have exactly the right incline and width for a turkey hunter’s shoulders, I have killed five nice toms (and missed one we won’t talk about).
Last year, it took me until 4:30 p.m. to finally coax a gobbler into range. By the time I emerged from the woods with the tom over my shoulder, it was quitting time.
Not only for me, but for the burn crew that had been impatiently awaiting my return so they could conduct a burn in the grassy field where I had parked my pickup.
This weekend, I will be nestled against that basswood, trying my best to melt into the countryside while sounding like a lonesome hen.
If an obliging tom turkey investigates my calls, that would be great.
But as any spring turkey hunter will agree, just being out there, hearing, feeling, smelling the woods come alive in April is half the fun.
John Cross is a Free Press staff writer. Contact him at 344-6376 or by e-mail at jcross@mankato freepress.com.
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