WES MURPHY COLUMN: Finishing the turkey season

The most bittersweet walk I know is that long walk back to the truck on the last day of turkey season.

I hunt with friends and family a good bit, but I reserve the first and last days of the season solely for myself. Opening day purely for selfish reasons. I want to take advantage of all the preseason scouting and work I’ve put in. The last day is also for selfish reasons but it’s so I can take my time giving thanks for the past season.

The last two years I have been privileged to end my season well into the month of May instead of the last day of April here in South Carolina. That has meant traveling 2,600 miles to Idaho, but if you are a turkey hunter, you can understand doing whatever is necessary to extend your season.

I have been turkey hunting for over 30 years. In those three decades I think I have killed a turkey on the last day exactly three times. While I always go with the idea of calling up and shooting a turkey, experience has shown me that the odds aren’t in my favor. That’s OK because as I have gotten older, it truly has become more about the experience than the kill. Don’t get me wrong, if I get the opportunity to shoot a turkey on the last day, then I fully intend to do so, but I also look forward to that last walk out.

This year I went to a little meadow where I shot a turkey on my last hunt of last year. I came close this year on the next-to-last day when I called a bird up to 35 yards but never got a clean shot when he managed to keep a pile of brush between us. I tried for him again that afternoon but never heard a peep.

I chose my spots for the last day based on two criteria. One, I have to believe I have a chance of hearing a turkey and two it has to be in a pretty place. There’s no need to go if I don’t believe there are turkeys there, but I also want to enjoy the last moments of my favorite time of year in a place worthy of it.

4:30 am on Sunday, May 12, found me sitting in this same little meadow. Daylight came and I could hear a ruffed grouse drumming behind me. A little later I started hearing crows making an obnoxious ruckus while they harassed an unseen foe and morning doves as they cooed back and forth at each other. Just as I was about to give up and start walking, I heard first one and then a second and finally a third hen as they quietly clucked and purred at each other in the nearby drainage.

I did my best to imitate the real turkeys and after 10 or 15 minutes of calling back and forth, two out of the three hens flew down into my tiny meadow and slowly paraded past. I have no clue where the third bird went, but an hour later neither she nor any male turkeys had shown up or made a sound to give me any idea that there was another turkey within 100 miles of where I was sitting.

There comes a time at the end of every season when I know I am done for the year. I’m still in the woods and still have a gun and calls, but for all intents and purposes, I am through. I realized I was at that point and that it was time to finish the season.

The first thing I did was take off my hat and face mask, close my eyes and thank God for the privilege of being in such a beautiful place and for the life he’s given me. Then I started walking. My truck was only a short walk through the woods, so I decided to go in the opposite direction. I wanted plenty of time to relive the past season and to give thanks for all the blessings I’ve received over the last two months.

I took my time walking across the meadow and down an old logging road as I stared out at the snow-peaked mountains in the distance. I thought about the morning I spent with my grandson, Chase, when we listened to a turkey gobbling just across the property line. That bird ended up going away from us, but we still had Waffle House to look forward to, so it was all good.

I thought about the bird that kicked my behind on opening day of the regular season and how it continued to do so for the remainder of this season. I relived the hunts I actually killed birds on and somehow those just weren’t that important in the grand scheme of things.

I relived the youth hunt that Chase and I went on. I closed my eyes and saw again those three long beards standing at attention at 22 yards. I also saw the dirt kick up five yards in front of them at Chase’s shot. When I asked if he had been excited, he said ‘Papa, they looked as big as ostriches.’”

That youth hunt was followed up with breakfast at Mr. Bunky’s.

After walking a little farther, I spent a few minutes thinking about the opportunity my son, Wesley, and I blew on a fine longbeard on the only hunt he was going to get to go on this year. Watching that bird fly off broke my heart. It helped relieve the pain when less than 30 minutes later we called up four gobblers and Wesley shot one. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

I thought about the youth hunt I went on with Walter. I started hunting with Walter three years ago and it has been a privilege to watch him grow as an outdoorsman and as a young man. We didn’t hear a turkey that morning, but we caught a chicken snake, found a bunch of pawpaw trees and talked about everything from baseball to what he planned on doing after high school in a couple of years.

Finally, I spent a few minutes reliving my six days in the middle of nowhere Idaho. I thought about the people I met in camp, the elk and deer that seemed to be everywhere and the bat I killed in my little cabin. I pictured the black bear that snuck into our calling one morning and the ruffed grouse I got to watch as it strutted back and forth on a fallen tree.

I thought about the calf that Sam and I rescued from the fence it somehow got its head stuck in and about all the turkeys I heard and all the coyotes I saw. I thought about the majestic views it had been my honor to see, the flowers and birds that I don’t get to see back home and how much I was looking forward to coming back here next year.

I was in another small meadow by this point. I could see snow-covered mountain peaks off in the distance and it seemed like a perfect place to end my season, so I removed my hat, gave one last set of yelps on a trumpet call and as the sound echoed out over the valley, I said “Thank you, Lord” one last time and started the long walk out.