The Outdoor Scene

The weekend before last a black bear chased me from my turkey hunting spot at the worst time possible, when a gobbler was making his approach. On Saturday, I wasn’t taking any chances. I threw the fear card and asked my husband to join me at the root ball blind. It wasn’t hard to twist his arm since the option of hearing a gobbler versus the music of warblers, wrens and cardinals was clearly better.

Wes and I usually don’t hunt together. We figure we can cover more ground if we split up. And our hunting styles are different. I’m more three-toed sloth because I tend to hang out and call. He’s more mountain lion - always on the prowl. But when we do team up, there’s no pretense. We’re equals afield, and the independent woman in me likes that. Given the chance, I’d shoot a turkey out from under Wes in a heartbeat. And he’d do the same.

As we neared the field, the bird blasted out a good morning gobble. Without putting much thought into it, I sat down where I always do and Wes took the other side of the root ball. The next gobble made me doubt my choice, because I realized the birds had roosted to my hard left. The likelihood of them entering the field from the swamp trail was pretty high, which would put them directly in my husband’s line of fire.

Wes became a one-man hen band, calling with his diaphragm, box and slate calls. Truthfully, even though he’s a great caller, I thought he was a little over the top. That is until I saw a hen enter the field 80 yards in front of me. Next thing I knew, the whole flock began pouring into the field – three hens and three jakes. And they were followed up by big daddy, who was alternately strutting and charging at the jakes. The first hen ran towards us like a crazy woman, then forgot what she was doing and started to bug. The rest of the gang rushed towards us, too. Coming through the tall grass, they looked like an army of necks marching into battle.

Next thing I knew, big boy came out of strut and looked around as if to say, “So, what do you think of that, baby?” Instinct brain reappeared out of nowhere and pulled the trigger, likely out of concern that conscious brain would screw up in the midst of this adrenalin rush. A flopping gobbler in front of me proved once again that instinct brain had served me well.

Now, the privilege of hunting is something I don’t take lightly. I’ve attended too many conferences where the topic du jour was the idea this time-honored tradition might be slipping away. There are several reasons for this, but urbanization is often cited as a primary cause. There are many tentacles to the urbanization monster. It eats up wildlife habitat with its strip malls, parking lots and housing additions. It thrusts hunting areas inconveniently far from would-be sportsmen and women. And it severs people’s ties with the land so they are neither knowledgeable nor realistic about wildlife populations and habitat management.

When it comes to animals, people often rely on emotion as their guidepost. And groups such as the Humane Society of the United States manipulate that naiveté. They would have you believe they take care of abandoned pets by running your local dog and cat shelters but nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, HSUS shares with PETA and other animal rights groups an extreme agenda of eliminating American traditions such as hunting and fishing.

Apparently Rush Limbaugh didn’t get the message, though. As hard as it is to believe, this is one conspiracy Rush hasn’t uncovered. He is actually supporting HSUS, and has produced ads for them and provides a link to their Web site. It’s not clear why he would support this extraordinarily well funded organization whose CEO openly admits he’d like to see the end to all hunting. I guess Rush, too, suffers from urbanization, and just doesn’t know that hunters are the ones footing the bill for wildlife conservation.

Thankfully, there’s a group out there working to make this fact abundantly clear. The U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance has taken the lead in challenging the popular radio talk show host. A letter expressing disappointment was signed by 28 respected conservation organizations and sent to Rush. As powerful as that is, making your voice part of the din is even more effective. The folks at USSA encourage you to get in on the act by arming yourself with the facts about the HSUS and its anti-hunting agenda. In addition, they urge you to contact Rush and tell him the truth about the HSUS. For more information, visit http://www.ussportsmen.org/rush.

I can assure you I emailed Rush expressing my concerns about his support of HSUS. My instincts told me it was the right thing to do.

Not all adrenalin surges are created equal. There’s the kind that happens when that big gobbler finally steps out in front of you. It makes your scalp tingle and your heart race.

And then there’s the kind when something scary happens.

This weekend, I experienced the kind of rush that induces the fight-or-flight response.

I was tucked against a giant root ball, blissfully surveying a 3-acre field that in years past has been the preferred strutting zone of discriminating longbeards everywhere.

A gobbler from the bowels of the adjoining swamp sounded off early in the morning, and then shut down for about an hour. When he picked the conversation back up around 7:30 a.m., I was delighted. After I delivered my best Mae West, “come up and see me sometime” yelp, a louder, closer gobble said he was taking me up on the offer.

So, I started to scrutinize every inch of the field, wondering where he’d step out. Would he gobble again or come the last several yards in silence? Would he strut into the field? I was playing out the various scenarios when a loud crashing through the woods behind me interrupted my thoughts.

Not wanting to get busted by a sneaky gobbler, I went as long as I could without moving. When I finally caved in and turned my head, I spotted a black bear about 60 yards away, bumbling towards me.

Now, my husband and I are abundantly aware there are bears in mid-Georgia. Over the years, we’ve had several bruins pose for our game cameras. It’s just they were always filmed at night. So Wes and I always kid each other about being careful when walking alone in the dark to our respective deer stands or turkey hunting hotspots. Seeing a bear in broad daylight was just not something I had considered.

At the precise moment I saw this bear’s ugly mug, “conscious brain” surrendered and was immediately superseded by a clump of nerve cells I call “instinct brain.”

Instinct brain’s first decision as the gray matter in charge was to begin coughing loudly. Conscious brain later concluded that instinct brain didn’t want to scare the approaching gobbler but thought it could fool the bear into thinking I had swine flu.

For a couple of seconds after the faux coughing fit, I didn’t hear or see anything. I desperately wanted to peer around the root ball and see the bear’s hind quarters romping away to the swamp. But, instinct brain had commanded my body to freeze.

Then suddenly, I saw him, all 250 pounds of this shaggy brute. He cleared the root ball that shielded my view to the left and stepped out 20 yards in front of me, swinging his big ol’ head in my direction. Bears don’t see particularly well, but their sense of smell and hearing make up for it. I’m guessing he was curious about what the heck smells of Neutrogena shampoo, insect repellent and pee.

Instinct brain took control again and had me shout “Go. Go away.”

Bear just stood there, staring dumbly at me. So instinct brain kicked off another grand idea - treat the big mammal like a foreigner who has just landed in America and doesn’t know a word of English. I yelled “go away” even louder. But cranking up the volume did nothing to improve bear’s comprehension, and he just kept looking at me. And the 20-gauge I had pointed towards his face meant nothing to him either. I didn’t want to pull the trigger. With my luck, a load of 6s would just put him in a bad mood. And so far, he seemed more dumbfounded than irritated.

Meanwhile, instinct brain, now grasping at straws, made my body slowly rise from my turkey hunting stool. This movement finally kicked bear into action and the next thing I know, he had swung his enormous rump around and galloped off in the other direction. Thank God, because instinct brain hadn’t let me in on what my next move would be.

I shakily gathered up my calls, Thermocell and other odds and ends and headed back to the camper. No point in hanging around. The gobbler, not knowing about the bear, was likely confused by the mixed messages I sent (Come here. No, go away!). I could just see him nervously flicking his wings before he changed directions, too.

I’ve hunted the same property for eight years now, the same family land that my husband grew up roaming around. Unfortunately, that could come to an end this year. While I probably won’t kill a turkey this spring, I’ve had an experience that I will never forget. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

If I was psychic, I might have understood the meaning behind the fecal calling card left by a coyote on the wooden platform we use to step into our camper. Being in a glass-half-full mood, I decided it was meant to warmly express “welcome to hunt camp!” While setting up camp for our inaugural adventure of the 2009 turkey season, we also ran across evidence a hen had stopped by to leave her salutation as well. So had the deer. Okay. So maybe this wasn’t the work of a greeting committee. Instead, our camp site had become a wildlife doo doo station.

Seeing turkey sign was actually good, though, since that was the quarry my husband Wes and I were after. And where there are hens, there are gobblers. So I set up on Saturday morning with great expectations. I had killed many a gobbler from where I sat and was feeling pretty confident. As dawn began to break, it was like God had turned up the volume. Every bird residing in mid-Georgia began to make a racket. I heard pileated woodpeckers. Canada geese. Barred owls. Blue Jays. Crows. A red-tailed hawk. Wood ducks. And songbirds of every stripe. But not a single gobble. Nary a yelp, cluck or fly down cackle. That figures. They poop near my crib and then won’t talk to me.

The next morning, I set up in the same place. Except instead of a bluebird day, there was a far off storm making some noise and sending up fireworks. It had started to gently rain and as I debated whether I should stay or go, I heard it. Music to my ears. The gobble of the wild turkey. Like little kids who wet their pants because they’re having too much fun to quit, I settled in for the show.

Fortunately the storm was short lived but the gobbling wasn’t. I threw out a sexy series of yelps and clucks and that’s when it happened. The henervention. This situation is much like an intervention. Except the hen, in no uncertain terms, yelps back “kiss my tailfeathers” before she stalks off to intercept the gobbler. So, I’m sitting there, like a fool, listening to the gobbler as he moves farther away. Oh well. It was time to go and anyway, I really was about to wet my pants.

There’s always next weekend, I told myself. But it feels like waiting for recess when you’re a second grader in math class. But maybe that’s what I love about turkey hunting. It brings out the kid in me.