Tommy Sancic, 9, harvested his first turkey in Cadiz, Ohio, with his grandfather. Field & Stream Online Editors
It was already starting to get light (my fault) on Saturday morning as we snuck into a small woodlot where we heard a bird gobbling. We sat side by side with our backs to a soft maple.
The turkey gobbled half a dozen times from the limb, then flew down and went silent. I called. Nothing. A few minutes later I called again. No answer. Then John whispered calmly, “I see him.” I turned to look, expecting to see a gobbler walking or strutting off in the woods somewhere. Instead, the first turkey John ever laid eyes on was 50 yards away and closing at a run, beard swaying, long legs carrying it toward us as fast as a turkey can go. There was no time to give instructions other than “take the safety off.” The turkey crossed in front of us at 25 yards. I yelped. The bird skidded to a stop and put his head up. I said “Shoot him.” There was a boom and John’s shout of triumph. We had been sitting for all of 15 minutes.
I have not seen a turkey run that hard to the gun since my own first bird 20 years ago. That turkey, like John’s, hopped off the branch, clamped its beak shut and sprinted to me. It only took a few minutes for the bird to run from on the roost to in range, but in that time, my springs changed forever.
John insisted we have turkey for Easter dinner. We’re drying the fan and he wants the spurs strung so he can wear them around his neck. Early indications are he’s hooked for life. He’ll have many, many years to learn that turkeys hardly ever come running when called. –Philip Bourjailly, Shotguns Columnist, 2006 Field & Stream Online Editors
