Talking Turkey

After taking a half-hearted but enjoyable stab at the early urban deer season, I returned to my bow. Firearms turkey season is in full swing, and I’m more likely to poke a hole in a bull’s-eye with a shotgun than an arrow, but the particular turkey I’m after is a resident of Columbia. He lives under the protection of city ordinances that prevent discharging a firearm within the city limits. Yet I must pursue him. He’s been bothering my wife. It’s personal.

Ann had been seeing this turkey strutting about the area where she works. He had a defiant air about him. She wanted him dead, and in the kitchen. I’m a man, how could I turn her down?

I had now done just enough archery practice to establish that I would be lethal at close range. By close range, I mean about the same distance that people stand from the dart board in a bar. But Ann was confident in me. “You can do it,“ she said. “I was over at the building that I always see him next to, and he wasn’t even paying attention to me.”

Yes, the building. Although Ann’s office is on a small conservation area in Columbia with an acreage of woods, the turkey that she is seeing is right at her office, by the parking area, near an old house that they used for storage.

Although it’s convenience to our home couldn’t be better, I was nervous about hunting at a place called “Central Regional Headquarters.” Multiple conservation agents, who enforce hunting regulations, work there. They are friendly, straight up people, who work hard to protect wildlife and help keep hunters safe. I did not intend to do anything illegal. But to hunt in their backyard makes me nervous. It’s like having a highway patrol car on your back bumper when you’re driving down the road. The whole time I think, “No need to be nervous, I’m not doing anything wrong,” while I stare at the patrol car my review mirror and just wait for the lights to start rolling.

But what could I do? With four more turkey recipes in Cooking Wild in Missouri, Ann couldn’t put up with this turkey taunting her, harassing her, the first thing in the morning at work every day. I’d have to take him out, or at least scare him off.

So after agreeing to do the hit, I called Ann at work when she got there.  No sign of him. So I go to my office, only to arrive to find my message light blinking. It’s a voicemail from Ann. “He’s out there again, right out in the open. I’ve been watching him. You’ve got to come get him. He’s huge.”

 I make a quick motorcycle ride back home, I grab some camo, my bow, and head to Ann’s office in the truck. She meets me in the parking lot. “He was right over there,” she says, pointing to the old house.

I’ve put a camouflage rain jacket on over my work clothes, and have slipped on a mesh camouflage mask. Camo waste up, waste down I’m in black slacks and brown leather wingtips. As I begin to stalk around to the backside of the house, I begin to question my camo.  Is this the appropriate way to hide when I’m in a yard? Maybe it would be more effective to dress as a groundskeeper. I could be pretending to put new string on my weed-eater, and then when the turkey walks by, I shout “Surprise, Tommy!” and spin around to face him with my bow drawn.

No, that might be effective, but it would just be too silly. I continued to stalk around the house, moving silently thanks to the freshly mowed and raked lawn. “That will make it easy find my arrows after I miss,” I tell myself.

I’m also well aware that despite my camo, I’m in full site of the office, and I’m possible being watched, perhaps by several people. I considered that when I see the turkey, I should ceremoniously blindfold myself before I let an arrow fly. Considering my archery skills, being blindfolded wouldn’t really affect my odds of hitting the turkey all that much. And if it did hit it blindfolded, the moment would be legendary.

But I didn’t have the chance. Once I circled the house, it was clear that the turkey was no longer there. As I started to walk back to the office, Ann pulled up in her truck. “I just saw him on the hill by the driveway.”

It was just like in the movies, where the hero is on a bogus trail while the bad guy continues causing tormenting someone elsewhere. Ann takes off to her meeting, and I walk down the hill, hoping he’s still there, not riding with her because I don’t want to be hunting from a vehicle.

No sign of him. Apparently he had crossed the road onto private property, a safe haven for him.

I’ve killed some turkeys before. I know they are very wary. I’ve heard all the folklore. “A turkey can see a 300-degree arc without moving its head.” “A turkey can see you blink at 100 yards.” “A turkey can hear a car door open half a mile away.” “A turkey can tell the difference between a Windsor knot and Cavendash in the dim light of an evening party.”  Attempting to sneak up on a turkey within my very limited archery range would be challenging.

But Ann thinks this is a different kind of turkey. He seems cavalier. Perhaps he’s unaware that you can archery hunt in the city limits, and thinks that he is safe in the presence of numerous game wardens.

The next day I tried the more traditional method of arriving before sunrise, hiding and waiting. No sign of him. Two days later Ann joined me. Again, nothing.

But Ann’s still watching for you, turkey. And I’m keeping my bow handy.