It was late March 2021, I was loading more cut wood into a dying fire with my brother on his farm. We were probably talking about the government, or our favorite Jude Law movies. I’d argue The Talented Mr. Ripley. As we watched his 4 and 6 year old boys fight each other, I could tell he was itching for another hunt, as it had been months before either of us had shot anything.
“You going to go after spring turkeys with me this year?” I asked, knowing the unfortunate answer already.
“They don’t really do it for me. They’re hideous birds, and despite what everyone says, they kind of taste like shit.”
He sort of had a point. They are pretty damn ugly. And I’m not in love with the taste, in fact I frequently roll my eyes when hearing people put their meat on some type of pedestal over other fowl such as duck or pheasants.
Nevertheless, I had a special place in my soul for killing them. Maybe it was just a good distraction hunt during the offseason of big game. Maybe it was the process of communicating with them during the peak of their breeding season that got me fired up. Perhaps I’m subconsciously mad at them and just love blowing their heads off with my 12 gauge. Either way, I sure as hell wasn’t missing the opener.
“I think you’ll like it,” I insisted. “It’ll get you out in the woods, we’ll shoot some stuff and their fans make a cool wall piece. Just come with me.”
“I don’t know. Could I use my bow?”
“I mean, you can. It’s not an easy hunt though. They have pretty good eyesight, and we’ll be hunting on ground level. Might want to stick with a shotgun for your first”
“Have you shot one with your bow before?” He asked, almost excited to hear me say no.
“Unfortunately not. I try every year, but typically end up too angry and decide to use my gun.”
“Okay, Im in. I’m going to use my bow.”
What was this guy thinking? Shooting a nice Tom with your gun poses its own set of challenges, especially for someone who has never hunted them before. Trying to draw your bow back, on ground level, while making an accurate shot on considerably small vitals, all while remaining undetected from the annoyingly keen eyesight of a wild turkey, doesn’t seem wise for a new hunter.
However, I couldn’t help but admire the naive confidence of my brother. I figured this would be a great learning experience about pride. So what the hell. I would call for him and let him get a taste of how difficult gobblers are to kill.
We ended up setting up on top of a ridge just off a clover field that my dad had planted for his bees. Just before shooting light, I make a couple soft clucks and purrs to see if I can get a reaction from a roosted Tom looking for love from an easy hen.
In typical turkey fashion, the woods light up with thunderous gobbles. My brother looks at me with a smirk. As if this is the hard part. After 30 minutes of consistent gobbling, the woods go silent. And for the next hour… silence.
“Maybe now he understands. Where’s that smirk now.” I thought.
We left the ground blind at home, so both of us have our backs up against trees, only about 10 yards separate us. I glance over and can see the disappointment he was attempting to conceal. A weird bittersweetness filled me. I would have loved to see my older brother shoot a Tom with his bow. But would I really? I had never done it before, after countless season attempts.
Proverbs 27:4 says, “Anger is cruel… but jealousy is even more dangerous.” I no doubt would have been jealous. But I guess I would never know, because it looked like the hunt was about to be over.
Just before I was about to call the morning off, I noticed a black fan appear over the skyline of the next ridge. No gobbles. No urgency. Just slow creeping.
As the bird closed in on my lone hen decoy, I saw his body puff up to twice its normal size as a signal of dominance and bodaciousness to impress the plastic hen.
At 30 yards, I noticed my brother carefully drawing his bow back.
“Surely if I can see him, the turkey can see him.”
Blinded by love, be it fake love with a decoy, the Tom was clueless.
My brother triggers his release, and a massive mechanical broadhead flies at 280 feet per second, hitting about four inches below the neck of the turkey.
As the bird flops its body around, kicking up leaves and grass, I instinctively yell “Go step on its head!”
My brother jumps up, hauls ass towards the downed bird, cranking its neck to the side. And then lifting it up, like a scene from Braveheart.
“Can you believe that!” He yelled. “You’ve never done that?”
“Well.. you know… beginner's luck.”