A couple months ago, I penned a story for the Star Tribune about my lack of success at hunting wild turkey, and about Aidan’s amazing success [cough, luck, cough]. Here’s a clip:
For years, I didn’t see the allure of turkey hunting — or, to be honest, of any dogless hunting. If I couldn’t have my Labrador retriever out there with me flushing a pheasant or retrieving a duck, I wondered, what’s the point? But over time I softened because, as many hunting addicts know, you take what you can get. And in the spring, all you can get is a turkey license.
You can read the rest HERE.
Well, I took to the woods with my brand new Super Black Eagle III this fall, in search of a gobbler. A couple days, I saw and heard nothing. One day a bird with a beard dragging on the ground walked about 15 yards behind me; I tried unsuccessfully to call him in to the hen decoy in front of me, but I never saw him again. Another day I was set up in the perfect spot, between two gobblers in the roost. At the appointed time, those two and four hens descended, but they flew over my head, landed out of range, and ran out into a corn field.
On the penultimate day of the season, I was out again. A lonely gobbler was perched in a white pine, and I took up my position beneath. When he came down, I shouldered my SBEIII and shot. He was at the edge of my range, and, to be honest, I was impatient. I’m confident (but not certain) that I hit him, but it wasn’t a kill shot. I searched the area toward which he flew for a couple hours, but found no sign of him.
Anyone who’s hunted has wounded an animal and not retrieved it. It’s a sick feeling; I hate it, but it’s part of hunting.
So my turkey season ended with a bang and a whimper, and with a mental note that I need to be more patient next year.