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Six Toms of Satisfaction

Or tales of success and failure turkey hunting at Great Nebraska Hunting

By Chuck Schroeder

Speed Hunting [Executive Summary of how to hunt turkeys at Great Nebraska Hunting]

• For the most part, these birds do not respond to calling early or late in the season. They will courtesy gobble, but don’t expect them to come running.
• Shock calling sometimes works, especially a coyote call.
• Listen for the spit-and-drum. Nearly all the toms approach without gobbling, but with lots of spitting-and-drumming.
• Aggressively close the distance on birds. Get a visual if possible and use the terrain to screen subsequent movement. Otherwise, stop and listen for boss hens helping and toms drumming.
• If you hear a boss hen (this is mid-April), chances are she’s breeding with the boss tom. Don’t try to call her. Use the sound to help you close the distance.
• Hunt travel paths and strut zones along the creek bottom. I move a lot, hoping to spot-and-stalk birds. Otherwise, bring a chair with a back and wait the birds out; tuck the chair into a juniper bush or bring a ground blind.
• You can get away with murder moving up close on these Rio-Merriams. Also, it seems like you can spook one bird out of flock and the others don’t seem to care.
• However, don’t even think about getting away getting skylined. If the birds are in the roost and you can see them, they can see you. They WILL fly away, even if you are 1000 yards distant. If you scatter the birds, listen for 15 to 30 minutes for gobbles and yelps. Set up between the toms and the hens the next morning.
• Not wanting to get up at insanely early hours to avoid getting skylined, I suggest hanging back and waiting until fly down, then aggressively closing the distance or looping ahead of the birds.
• Use the terrain to your advantage. “Head ‘em off at the pass” and ambushing them is my favorite tactic here.
• Be in shape. It makes for a more enjoyable hunt. For mobile hunting, hunt light.
  • Long shots are likely. Know the effective range of your gun, and learn how to judge distances (or use a rangefinder).
• Don’t get too discouraged if you bump a bird. There are lots of them here!

I hear tell that if you look at a map of turkey concentration, you’ll find more birds along Muddy Canyon Creek than any other location in south-central Nebraska. After three trips to Great Nebraska Hunting, whose property enables you to hunt a three miles of creek bottom, I can believe it.

While plentiful, hunting these birds is a far cry from the slam-dunk canned hunt offered by some outfitters. In fact, you’ll have to work hard to get your birds. While I took two toms on each of my three hunts, I also had plenty of failures in the process. I want to recap the hunts to explain the reasons for success, describe several incidences of operator error and share some insight into the birds’ behavior.

The Terrain

Any hunt description is worthless without understanding the terrain (see the Photo Gallery for images). The birds roost in the largest of the large cottonwoods that grow from the creek bottom. For the most part, this creek stays dry, except at the southern end of the property. Ninety-nine percent the trees grow up from the creek bottom and jut up into the air, leaving a significant air gap between the tree trunk and the steep edge of the creek banks. The banks may be 5 to 50 ft. high, which makes it very difficult for a hunter to find a tree to put his back against.

The creek weaves like a mad snake through the grassy plains. Almost every fold and bend creates a potential strut zone. Along either side of the creek, you’ll find plenty of juniper bushes. A hunter can nestle up inside these and hide very well. For those not so spry, a chair with a back is essential for sitting for long periods. Later in the season, millions of “ditch weed” hemp plants also provide good cover (ditch weed = looks like dope, smells like dope, but it only gives you a headache if you’re stupid enough to smoke it).

Great Nebraska Hunting is divided up to roughly a one mile-long north stretch and a two-mile-long south stretch. Accessing the north stretch is easy, as roads run on either side of it. This property holds fewer toms, but some great long beards. I have hunted it some, but had all my success on the south property (why I focused here, I’m not sure. I just chose to pattern most of the birds here). Accessing the south property involves dropping in from plains that rise above the creek. Be prepared to do lots of walking up and down these hills, as well as up and down the creek bottom (for western hunters, think of the creek bottom as an arroyo). I was in excellent shape for my last hunt, and it enabled me to cover miles of territory without struggling.

For the most part, the birds fly down to the flats along the creek. They linger here in the mornings, breeding and feeding. If it’s not too hot at mid-morning, these Rio-Merriams hybrids head out across the grassland to feed, searching for food plots and cow pies (a flipped over cow pie is a sure sign of birds looking for bugs, plus they eat the waste grain out of the pies). When hot, the birds tend to stay in the shade under the junipers. The birds follow well-worn travel paths on either side of the creek, working in north-south directions during the mornings and evenings. Of course, some days they move north and others they move south. It’s a coin toss as to which way to position yourself.

For the most part, I use the terrain as cover, dropping over the edge of the creek bank, using a rise in the land or hiding in a juniper. I’m on my belly a lot. When the weather is warm, I drench myself in DEET and perform a thorough (and I mean thorough) tick check daily. Fortunately, Lyme disease isn’t a risk here. Be sure to change your clothes after every hunt, and hang your hunting clothes away from the bed and your street clothes. Either this, or you can enjoy staying awake at night wondering if every little tickle is a tick and two of his buddies burrowing into your scalp (true story).

Late May, 2005

This hunt, my first, spoiled me. I was with Peter Carpenter, my usual hunting buddy. Great guy, but cursed with a streak of bad luck (he thinks its pheromones). Peter wanted to use his bow, which is the wrong weapon for the terrain here (there were no Double Bull blinds set up at this time). I had my Remington 870 shotgun with 3.5-inch shells (4x5x7 Hevi-Shot from Nitro Ammunition Company through a Rhine .660” choke. It consistently puts 9+ pellets in the kill zone at 50 yards).

We arrived late afternoon, and outfitter Arlo Schurr drove us around the property, explaining the birds’ tendencies. We started hunting at about 6 p.m., leaving us three hours of time on this late-May hunt. Setting up in a flat at the base of two beyond-massive cottonwoods (some of the few growing on level ground), we started calling. I used a mouth call for the first 30 – 45 minutes and got no response. Then I broke out a Quaker Boy “Gravedigger” curved lid boat paddle. I like this call, as it’s high pitched and really reaches out there. I barely started into the first series of yelps when two toms double gobbledand close! They couldn’t have been more than 75 yards away, but a slight rise prevented us from seeing them.

The birds gobbled again, and soon we could hear them spit-and-drum. They didn’t let up. Phitt-booooom! Phitt-booooom! Unfortunately, they stayed on the far side of the rise. More yelps on the box call produced raucous gobbles, but it didn’t bring them closer. The birds continued to drift south, heading toward their evening roost.

Realizing the birds were drifting away, I shucked off my turkey vest, crouched down and slunk over to the base of what Peter and I have come to call “the grassy knoll.” About 20 feet long and 7 feet high, the knoll overlooks a favorite travel path on the bench above the cottonwoods. I got on my belly a slowly eased up to the top of the knoll, inch-by-inch increasing my vantage point. I spotted the birds at what I estimated to be 45 yards. I put the crosshair of my Bushnell turkey scope on the wattles of the bird with the biggest beard and squeezed the trigger. He dropped.

Unlike Easterns, which scatter and fly at sound of a shotgun, the second Rio-Merriam hybrid tom stopped to look back at his buddy, pondering for a second whether or not he’d go over and peck his head once or twice for good measure. Bad choice. I crumpled the second bird 5 yards beyond the first. We later measured the shots with a laser range finder at 50 and 55 yards (thank you Nitro and Rhino!).

What Went Right:

• Setting up near travel path (blind luck that time, but I’ll take it).
• Using multiple calls to get birds to gobble.
• Recognizing the birds weren’t coming to the calls.
• Using terrain to aggressively close the distance, then hide final movements while sneaking into shot position.
• Using a shot-shell-choke combination that allowed for extra distance.

Peter hunted with his bow the next day, then switching to my shotgun thereafter. Had he used my gun the second day, he could have shot a jake at about 40 yards. The third morning was a bust. We got spotted by birds on the roost when coming in. Further, I totally lost track of my position as we attempted to loop ahead of the birds. I was 200 yards off, and we spooked them. A GPS unit with key features marked would have made early-morning navigation easier. Finally, on our last evening, we tried to hunt the same travel path I got my birds on, and we waited in vain. No birds appeared.

What Went Wrong:

• For Peter, no shot opportunities.
• Failure to enter the hunting area concealed from birds. Get in way early, or wait until after flydown (the saner option).
• Poor terrain knowledge.
• Failure to recognize that the birds would change roosting spots after being pressured.
  

Mid-April 2006

Both of us returned, this time with Peter using my 870 and me with a Benelli SBE II with fiber optic sights, Rhino choke and Nitro ammunition. This time, we spent our first evening hunting the north property. Walking, glassing and calling, we soon encountered a group of four birds. Hiding on the top of a knoll, I yelped on a mouth call and pulled the birds from the far side of the canyon over to our side. They stayed out 45 yards. I was 95% sure they were jakes, but I couldn’t see any beards through my binoculars. Without positive identification, Peter was hesitant to shoot.

Want Went Right:

• Spotting and stalking, then freezing immediately upon spotting birds and using the terrain to get into shot position.
• Taking the conservative, ethical approach and not shooting unless 100% sure of the target.

What Went Wrong:

• Failure to study the differences between hens and jakes. Rio-Merriam jakes often have stubby to non-existent beards. However, the jakes can be identified because they have no feathers on their heads, the heads do have some red in them and their breast feathers are noticeably darker than hens’.
  

Moving to the far north of the property, we heard and spotted a tom strutting on the road that marks the end of the property. Peter moved up on the bird along the east side of the creek, while I moved up along the west. In the process, I bumped a second bird that was crossing the road (my bad for failing to thoroughly scan a new flat before bringing my whole body into view). However, as I was between the bird and his roost site, the bird eventually drifted back my way, joined by the second tom. [As cool side note: while calling didn’t pull the toms in, it did bring a coyote to within 7 yards.]

With both toms on my side, Peter crossed and set up about 40 yards north of me, both of us watching the birds from over the lip of the canyon. The birds are about 70 – 80 yards out, and I’m thinking that they might be getting ready to make a big loop around us, when Blam! Peter fires.

What Went Right:

• Using the terrain to close the distance to the birds.
• Getting between the bird and the roost site.

What Went Wrong:

• Failure to estimate the distance to the birds.
  

We spent the next morning chasing birds and not getting near them, so we started working the creek bottoms and strut zones. As Peter crested the top of the grassy knoll, he suddenly drops and motions for me to do the same. He whispers, “He’s right there!” I tell Peter to take him. He says no, I took my shot yesterday; it’s your turn. To this day, I still feel bad about not insisting that Peter take the bird.

What Went Right:

• Not giving up after the morning gobbling stopped. I shot this tom at 9:30 as he tried to drum up hens coming off their nests.
• Not talking loudly while walking.

What Went Wrong:

• Me being selfish and not overcoming Peter’s generosity.

We continued to hunt, and within 300 yards of where I shot the bird on the grassy knoll, we spooked a bird hiding under a small juniper. I heard the bird alarm putting, had my safety off and was ready to drop him. However, having already been selfish, I wasn’t about to become a complete horse’s ass. Peter, using an unfamiliar gun, had trouble getting the safety off and even more trouble picking up the running bird through the scope. He fired once in vain.

The lesson to be learned here is that open or fiber optic sights enable less-experienced hunters to take faster shots. This lesson got reinforced in 2007 when my friend Phil used the same scoped 870 when shooting at two toms, each a foot to either side of a jake decoy. Having to make a quick shot, Phil drilled the first bird that appeared in the scope…which happened to be the decoy. Got it right through the wing butt, too. Wrong bird. Bad shot.

That evening, we again set up at the base of the two beyond-massive cottonwoods. The far side of the creek also contains a travel path and a strut zone, and we soon heard a tom in the strut zone. We attempted to close the distance, but somehow, the bird drifted out of sight. Peter choose to pursue this bird and some others heading to a roost spot to the north.

I stayed put at the cottonwoods until a coyote howled, causing a tom to shock gobble just to the south of my position. Staying on the low side of the same rise on which I already shot three toms, I slipped 100 yards south and then used a small draw to belly crawl up to the lip of the next bench. Three hens fed undisturbed about 40 yards out, but no toms. Then the coyote yipped again, cause the tom to gobble and betray his location. This time, I had his position fixed pretty well. I slid back down the draw, hustled another 100 yards to the south and stopped to listen for that sweet music: Phitt-booooom! Phitt-booooom!

There I was, on a bench just 15 yards below the strutting-and-drumming tom, and him totally oblivious to my existence. Once I again, I belly crawled up the rise, moving slowly and looking as thoroughly as the grass allowed, pushing my gun before me. There, silhouetted 10 yards away, stood the tom, his red head and snood bill clearly visible. He had spotted me raising me gun into position, but by that point, it was too late.

What Went Right

• Thank god for coyotes! Without their yips, I never would have known the birds were slipping by on the bench above me.
• Aggressively closing the distance between me and the bird, and recognizing that the birds weren’t coming to my calls.

What Went Wrong

• No bird for Peter (again).
  

April 12-14, 2008

After killing my first bona-fide Rio with a bow in Kansas, I called Arlo to see the weekend was open, and it was. Yeah, I had another tag for Kansas, but I just didn’t love the town I was in the way I love Eustis, Nebraska. Specifically, the Pool Hall, the local restaurant with an outstanding beer selection (sorry, but Coors Light isn’t exactly my beer of choice) and the Wurst Haus, a local butcher shop and market. Trust me: have Greg smoke your turkey and ship it to you. I pretty much drove four hours and 230 miles for Greg’s smoked turkey and to hit the Pool Hall for a steak and an Empyrean LunaSea ESB (OK, I’m a beer snob. Shoot me).

Exchanging the bow for a borrowed 870 (which I outfitted with an H.S. Strut Undertaker .665” constriction choke and Winchester #5 copper-plated 3” shells), I set out on Saturday evening. Dropping into the south property valley, I headed for the grassy knoll. I glassed a tom in the very same strut zone where Peter had one disappear on him two years ago. Why I didn’t try to put a stalk on this tom, I don’t know. Dumb decision. Instead, I dropped back to what I thought would be a spot on the birds’ travel path. I heard hens yelping and toms gobbling, but they never got closer than what I thought was 200 yards. Turns out, 400 yards¬at least a quarter milewas more like it. They roosted farther north than I thought.

What Went Right

• Nothing.

What Went Wrong

• Failure to close the distance on a known tom. Should he not respond to calling (typical for these birds), I should have put a sneak on him.
• Under estimating distances. Dang, sound traveled farther than I thought. Without trees or leaves to subdue the sound, birds were about twice as far away as I estimated. Getting a visual would have helped.
• Falling back on habit when evidence didn’t support current data.
  

The only saving grace about the first evening is that I knew where 40 birds were roosted. The next morning, I dropped into the valley from the north of the birds. This being my first time along this path, I spotted the birds roosting in their trees much later than I should have. Worse, looking at my back trail, I realized that I had been skylined the whole time. I stayed hidden about 300 yards from the birds, but as a result of my carelessness, several of the birds stayed on the roost until 8:00 a.m., a full hour after sunrise.

After the last of the birds flew down, I quickly closed the distance, listening for yelps and gobbles, using the terrain to get as close as possible. Hearing several boss hens yelp and fighting purrs from about 200 yards out into the plain (per usual, the rolling terrain prevented a visual), I headed that way when I saw red heads snaking their way through the brown, dead grass of last season. I crouched immediately, and two jakes started toward me. The first jake, which I estimated to be in the 15-16-lb. class, fed to within 25 yards of me. I scould have dropped him easily. The second jake, weighing easily more than 20 lbs., stayed 50 yards out.

Although I was merely crouched out in the open, 5 yards from a tree, neither bird spooked. I guess they thought I was just another fat juniper bush with my darker camo. Hmmm…that’s a good point to remember.

Anyway, I dropped back below a slight rise in the land, lay on my belly, and began calling to the toms and hens I heard 200 yards out. Next thing I know, Phitt-booooom! A tom sounds off just 10 feet from over my right shoulder. I look up and hear the tom alarm putting. Unable to see the length of his beard, I hold off on my shot. Rolling to my knees and then standing up, I see the birdnow 20 yards away and moving quicklydoesn’t have much of a beard. I put the safety back on.

I get back in position and continue to call to love-fest still carrying on 200 yards away. Nada. So I start to close the distance, getting to perhaps within 100 yards but still without a visual. I help, and the boss hen helps back. Having had success getting Eastern hens ticked off of pulling them in to my calling, I give her everything she gives me, plus one better. I can really work a raspy mouth call, and this hen and I talked it up for 10 minutes. And what did I get? A big fat lesson in humility. The whole flock shut up and drifted out over the prairie without me ever making visual contact.

What Went Right:

• Freezing, crouching and creating a shot opportunity at a jake.
• Calling in a satellite tom (likely a two-year old) while the boss tom and hens bred.

What Went Wrong:

• Getting skylined on the way in. The towering cottonwoods enable the birds to literally see everything entering the creek bottom for miles around.
• Thinking I could pull a boss hen or gobbler toward me while they were breeding. I’ll never be a world champion caller, but dang it, I ain’t bad. I can call birds. But I needed to shut my mouth and engage my brain more (a fact on which my wife often comments. She’s right, but let’s not go into details here).
• Failure to get a visual on the breeding flock, which would have enabled me to re-evaluate the situation.
• Although the birds flew up to the roost after coming in from the north, they headed slightly southwest after fly down to what was obviously a favorite spot. I had looped south thinking the birds were heading south…only to have the flock drift back north after finishing breeding.

After an hour nap and lunch, I headed to the southern most access point and began walking north. This was new property for me (as it was for Arlo’s patrons). This portion of the property actually has trees to put your back against. I tried out a few, calling and sitting for 15 minutes, then moving 100 yards further and repeating. Nada. After perhaps half a mile, I stood high on the southeast bank of the creek, looking over a 35-yard drop-off into a flat…where a tom strutted for two hens. Focused on the hens, the tom didn’t see me as I lay down and glassed him for 5 minutes. Based on previous experience, I didn’t figure I’d be able to call this bird, so I dropped back to put a sneak on him.

I saw a two-track trail leading down the valley where the tom strutted and headed down. I thought about stopping and calling, but instead took that fatal step. The one step too far where you look up and see a big red head looking right back at you, but only for a second before it does the turkey trot double time in the opposite direction.

What Went Right:

• Moving slowly and taking the time to scope out strut zones in front of me.

What Went Wrong:

• Getting totally lazy on my stalk. Note to self: ALWAYS keep looking at your intended target when dropping back. I got lazy, turned around and duck-walked back. Wrong move. The tom busted me, came out of strut and moved forward 10 yards.
• Getting lazier on my stalk. Not realizing my first lazy mistake caused the birds to move, I compounded stupidity by not analyzing the terrain sufficiently. I should have dropped back at least another 50 yards before moving in.
• Taking the fatal step. At the last moment, I realized I had misjudged the terrain and was 50 yards closer to the birds than I thought. But nooooooo. I had to close the distance just a little more…except that there’s no closing the distance with a bird that’s busted you. Game over.

Sunday night, April 13. At first, I decided I’d build a ground blind near the birds’ roost spot. There were so many potential entry points to the roost spot, trying to build a blind anywhere but on top of the roost would greatly lesson my shot opportunities. But then I got to thinking, why ruin a known roost spot, so I move out a tad. Good thing, as about 6:00 p.m. I heard a tom gobble close by. Again, he was on a well-worth travel path. I dropped down the side of the canyon with a juniper at my back and called.

Less than five minutes later, magic: Phitt-booooom! But from where? I couldn’t tell, and trees screened the travel path behind me. I slowly turned my head from side-to-side. Fortunately, the tom’s path brought him 25 yards directly in front of me, strutting all the way. I sharp series of cuts on my mouth call caused the tom to gobble, and that was all I need to see of his neck before pulling the trigger.

The bird was a two-year-old with stubby half-inch spurs and a 7” beard (all four previous toms were three-year olds with good beards and spurs), but I was damn happy to drop this tom. He could have been the bird I passed up in the morning. Amazing how beards look better later in the day.

What Went Right:

• Moving away from a specific roost site to a more generally used travel path.
• Dropping into a hiding position and calling after hearing a bird gobble almost of top of me (had I tried to close the distance, I would have spooked this bird).
• Being satisfied and proud of taking a bird, no matter what its size. Any tom honestly earned is a good tom.

What Went Wrong:

• Wasting time building a blind near the previous evening’s roost site. It turned out the birds roosted half a mile north, and on the neighbor’s property.
• Waiting until dusk to walk out. I had a bird in hand at 6:00 p.m. and could have had another relaxing dinner at the Pool Hall. I should have walked back to the car, breasted out the bird, and glassed the valley. Instead, by walking out at dusk, I got skylined and bumped 15 or so birds off the roost. They were at least 800 to 1000 yards away. Didn’t matter. They flew down and away as I walked out of the valley.

After several days of early rising, I wasn’t sure if I was going to get up at 5:00 a.m. to get into position well before daylight. I didn’t set an alarm, but I got up at 6:30 anyway. Figuring nobody kills toms in bed, I got up and at ‘em. I should have gone to the roost site where I scattered the birds the evening before. In fact, that’s a pretty sound tactic. Instead, I elected to approach from the far south end, figuring the birds, which had scattered to the south, would keep working that way in the morning. Wrong.

I had until 9:30 a.m. to hunt, after which time I needed to get back to the car, go back to the guesthouse (note: stay at Nature’s Retreat. It’s a little slice of home, and literally minutes from the hunting spots. Also, the bunks are extra long. I’m 6’4” and fit easily).

Given the short time available, I elected to go with an aggressive run-and-gun plan after the first hour of the day panned out. I heard distant gobbling and kept moving toward it, but the gobbling getting farther away. At perhaps 8:30, one short gobble sounded from a place I could somewhat pinpoint. I moved in to what I though was 100 – 200 yards away from the tom and yelped. I got a hen to respond, but no tom. Soon, the hen moved off.

I crossed the strut zone I had been overlooking, dropped down across the creek bottom and belly crawled up into the next strut zone. I called aggressively but heard nothing. I would have sworn that I heard hen yelps from this flat just 10 minutes before, but now there was nothing. After 5 minutes and time running out, I moved forward another 70 yards across the flat to view the next strut zone (it helps to picture the creek bottom and flats as an “S” curve with my travel path running straight up the middle like a $ sign).

The tom’s bright red caruncles first gave him away, and then I saw the four or five hens for whom he was strutting. Without that red, I’m not sure I could have avoided taking the fatal step. But flash red he did, and the game was afoot. The tom was perhaps 80 yards out and on the far side of the creek. I wanted to close within 35 yards to feel confident of my shot. When I first spotted the tom, he appeared on the near side of a dozen dense juniper bushes that created a natural 15-yard wide screen. I put the bushes between the tom and me and eased forward.

Soon, I saw a red head moving out from the far side of the bushes, as well as several hens beyond that. I assumed it was the strutter moving way, so I started to make a loop in front of them. Ooops! Turns out the strutter was still screened by the juniper bushes with his four or five breeding hens. I had found the entire submissive part of the flock, which included three or four submissive toms and 10 or so non-breeding hens. I froze in crouched position while birds fed within 8 yards of me. There is No Way an Eastern would let me get away with being a juniper bush, but these young Rio-Merriam hens didn’t bust me.

Then tom and his hens drifted into view 50 yards away. I watch him spit-and-drum and breed two of the hens. All the while, I inched ever closer. With the gun on my lap, I scooted on my butt, crab-walking inches closer. I managed to move 10 yards to the right and 10 yards closer and just had the tom in range when 1) a nosey hen started looking my way and 2) the tom and his breed hens drifted back behind the junipers. In a minute, it became clear the tom and hens wanted to drift to my right and out of gun range.

Even though the hen that had busted me was getting nervous and putting, the putts weren’t severe. Further, the tom stayed in strut and kept spitting and drumming. Clearly, he had breeding on the brain. At that point, the tom drifted into a yard-wide opening in the junipers. When the tom turned his tail to me, I used a large maple to screen my movement, stood up and hustled 15 yards closer. The hen kept putting, but the tom kept right on ignoring her. The tom turned around, walked into my only hope of a shooting lane and came out of strut. Game over.

I guess the bird was a three-year-old. He had sharp 1” hooks, but just an 8” beard. I gutted him on the spot, readying him for Greg at the Wurst Haus. With a mature bird tucked in my turkey vest, I carried a heavy load but had a light step as I hiked the mile-and-half back to the car.