This turkey story starts in an unusual place, sitting on an old logging road, with a .308 shaking uncontrollably. An eleven year old, scared to death, staring down the scope of a rifle perched on his dad’s shoulder. Every single in his bone body wants his dad to take the rifle and make the 80 yard shot. He begged and pleaded “Dad you shoot it, I don’t want to miss!” He wouldn’t, as he said “Ben, you shoot.”
To this day I couldn’t tell you how in the world that spike fell to the ground, as the November light faded over Northern Minnesota. As ecstatic as I felt, I know my dad was just as overjoyed if not more than I was.
The morning light in the eastern sky mirrored the falling moon to the west in the blackness of the Missouri River landscape as we traveled down the gravel road, 13 years later. Something told me this morning would be unforgettable – as Conway Twitty’s, “That’s My Job” hummed over the FM radio. Neither of us any the wiser to what the morning had in store for us.
I had been fortunate enough to have a father who instilled a passion for the outdoors, as strong as they come…almost to a fault. However, that’s a story for a different day. Thus far the trip had been a complete role reversal. I watched my dad nap as I drove my truck west on I-90 for a turkey hunting trip I’d arranged. I guess it wasn’t a complete role reversal because he still footed the bill!
As the hunt began, we sat on the top of a ravine, straining our ears for even the faintest of gobble echoing through the valley. If on cue, a series of thunderous reports stirred the morning air, with “faint” being an after thought!
Making our way down the hill was not an easy task as we shimmied, snuck, and crawled through the cedar-covered landscape. The constant reassurance of our long-bearded friends guided the way as we closed the distance to the roosting trees.
The goal was to get as close as possible to the roost because the toms seemed to be entirely infatuated with their lady friends, giving our efforts the day prior a cold shoulder.
The cedar needles and endless spiked flora of the west ground into our palms and knees for the last 15 yards of the journey. The birds at hand weren’t the only factor driving us forward. We had made the same turkey trip to South Dakota the year before resulting in a pair of near misses for my dad. He was determined to succeed this time.
What lay before us was a sight to see. Dozens and dozens of turkeys occupied the tree in front of us with only a 40-yard patch of grass lying between us.
A constant barrage of gobbling ushered in the morning sun. Then it began. A lone hen pitched out of the tree 5 yards away as we hunkered on the edge of a cedar patch. Within seconds, a tom banked in right behind her, followed by five or six more hens. It was turning into hand-to-hand combat. “Draw Dad, Draw!” I urged as the tom strutted at 20 yards. A plume of feathers erupted, as the broadhead gave tom an Easter haircut. I could see the same emotions I had battled 13 years ago sitting on that logging road flashing in his eyes. “Ben you shoot, I don’t want to miss.” There wasn’t a chance in this life or the next I was going to nock an arrow of my own!
All sorts of commotion surrounded us as hens chirped and their male suitors gobbled in unison. This wasn’t over yet.
I was delivering my best lovey-dovey small talk to these gobblers while holding back the cedar boughs, creating an opening for my dad to take the shot. The awkward position of kneeling on a pair of lower branches and holding the upper ones all while contorting my body to peer through the dense mass of trees led to my entire lower body falling asleep. At one point I told my dad he’d have to move my foot to a new position before it fell off! He had the tough job, battling the same problems, but also responsible for making a precision shot.
Another bird strutted 5 yards from the opening as he drew up it. The arrow jumped off the string, but a lone cedar branch I had failed to secure sent the arrow glancing harmlessly over the birds back.
He buried his head in his palms. I could feel his disappointment. Everybody knows the feeling which rises up in your stomach after a miss. It’s simply awful, and it makes each subsequential shot even harder.
He kept saying, “You shoot Ben, you shoot Ben.” The evening 13 years earlier kept entering my mind as I told him to put on another arrow.
The birds still surrounded us but they knew something was awry. I beat away the doubts entering my head as I gave my best efforts to steer the pair of birds behind us around the tree and into his wheel house.
They edged out from around the corner of the cedars at 25 yards moving in a nervous fashion. I knew no amount of effort would be able to stop them. The awful feeling crept inside my stomach as I urged dad to draw. As the bird clipped left to right, the limbs of the bow flexed as the string sprung forward, sending the arrow into a helical spin towards the bird. Again a plume of feathers flew, but as the bird erupted into the air, a lone leg hung down. The show was over! He crash-landed into the branches of the roost tree and struggled to maintain composure before he tumbling to the earth.
A different feeling, something I had never felt with any animal I’d ever harvested, washed over me.
As this story started, I said my dad had been overjoyed when I had harvested my first deer, but joy doesn’t encompass the feeling entirely. It was pride – that is what he had felt – and it’s exactly what I felt at the moment. No personal hunting accomplishment will ever stir such emotion. It’s the absolute least I could ever do to repay the man for giving me a passion which has defined my entire life.
It was an unforgettable morning on the prairie and a lesson about the true power the outdoors can deliver.
As we drove home in bliss, I received truly terrible news. A great friend, turkey hunting mentor, and father had passed away that day
This gave new perspective to my weekend trip making me cherish the memories I share with my dad even more.