How to enjoy an unproductive hunt
"I had three gobblers around me on Monday morning," Cousin said as we detrucked in the darkness. "We stopped here because if we go any farther we might spook the birds on the roost."
"Where's the roost?" I asked.
"Somewhere back there." He pointed vaguely toward the eastern horizon and the Atlantic Ocean, to a point far from Lamar County.
"Doesn't matter," I said, opening the back door and peering into the truck. "I forgot to get shells out of my truck when you picked me up. Do you have any extras?"
I was frustrated with myself. I had two boxes of duplex turkey loads under the back seat of my truck. Everything else was in my backpack.
"My Mossberg shoots three-inch shells," he said.
"I don't think those will fit."
"They fit my shotgun pretty good."
"Well, I can't stuff them into this old twelve," I said, sliding my automatic back into the truck.
"You did the same things when we were younger," Cousin accused. "You were always forgetting shells." He sighed. "You can use my gun. I'll call."
"I brought a call, too."
Cousin studied the dew-wet grass at his feet. "Well, I guess that's something for a famous outdoor writer."
I ignored his rude comment. "I'm not sure I'm real good at it, but I like the way it sounds."
"What do the turkeys think?
"I don't know."
"I'm not good at it either," he confessed, leading the way through the graying dawn. An owl hooted. Expecting an immediate response from any nearby gobblers, the silence was a surprise.
"I've never heard turkeys stay quiet after an owl hoot," I said, feeling the dew soak the bottoms of my camouflage pants.
"Neither have I," Cousin said, sounding somewhat bewildered.
We walked along twin ruts made by truck tires that led through a large pasture. I recalled one time on our Brownwood lease that an owl kept harassing a limb full of roosting turkeys by hooting. After each hoot, you could hear 90 seconds worth of annoyed gobbling.
The owl hooted again while we walked. No response.
We set Cousin's decoys in an open glade near a large pasture, then took positions beside a pecan tree. "You get ready to shoot and I'll give them a call," Cousin said, taking out his slate call. He scraped a feeding call, then the harsh call of a hen.
The only thing that responded was a fox squirrel that scolded us for sitting beneath his tree.
"I was sitting over there a few days ago, and there were gobblers answering all around me," he whispered, pointing at a giant cedar. "I'd hit this call and they'd answer, but I couldn't get them to come close. Then all of a sudden I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I knew something had come up behind me, but I didn't hear it. I just felt a presence. When I slowly turned around, I saw a guy in camouflage that had his shotgun leveled off on my decoys, just fixin' to shoot. I hollered at him, and he took off running the way he'd come.
"I tried to jump up and chase him, but I'd been sitting there so long my legs were asleep. Getting old is hard. By the time I got up, I heard him fire up a four-wheeler and ride off."
I snickered at the thought of my old hunting buddy struggling to run a poacher off his lease, recalling how quickly he could move 40 years ago. I stifled the snicker when something moved through the woods behind us. I turned carefully, tense, ready to shoot. The squirrel on the ground scolded me some more.
"Don't shoot him," Cousin said from behind his camouflage mask. "Those shells are about $3 each, and I only have three left for the season. You should have brought your own shells if you wanted to shoot little bitty squirrels."
"I wasn't going to shoot him. And besides, squirrel season isn't open, and you aren't going to make me break the law."
"You did that one time when we were kids," he accused.
"Statute of limitations."
"You still broke the law ..."
"Hear that? Was that a hen calling?"
We listened for a while, and then for a long while after that. By 10 o'clock, we hadn't heard or seen anything but one Canadian goose flying low overhead. We left, shedding our coats.
"Sorry you didn't get to shoot a turkey."
"Doesn't matter," I told him.
"Sorry you didn't even get to see a turkey."
"I've seen one before."
"Well, I just hoped you'd get one."
"Doesn't matter. It was a great day outside."
"But ..."
"Forget it."
"Well, dang it, don't get cranky with me. You've been that way since we were kids, and you're still mad because I heeled you with that lariat rope and you fell and busted your lip."
"I don't know why I hunt with you," I said, and we argued for a while longer, then went home happy.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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