"QUEST FOR THE OLD GRAND MASTER"

By Fred Abbas

You name it, we had tried it , every turkey hunting tactic known to man. From high / low power calling to silent flock decoying, and then some. We were desperately trying to link up with an enormous gobbler who my two sons, Greg and Freddy swear is none other than "Surferboy" himself. That may be so, but to me, unlike deer, all turkeys look, well ... like turkeys. But I did readily recall the incident (because I had witnessed it) that would tag the big guy with that moniker though. It had taken place almost two years earlier where he was spotted charging pell-mell down a ridge with a couple of his buddies. All had their wings fully extended horizontal to the ground, lined up wing tip to wing tip, in a concerted effort to intimidate a lone doe and her fawn away from the acorns that they were quietly feeding on. The big guy's intimidating descent soon turned into a very memorable comedy act when he inadvertently stepped on his own foot long beard, causing the surfing like balancing effect ... even the fawn was amused. We too would apply a concerted effort in our hunt for this particular gobbler. It was nothing personal, trophy hunting in any form never is, he would be specifically targeted simply because he happened to be sporting a World class beard that could very well qualify him as a possible new State record, contingent on his unseen spurs. Since Greg only bowhunts trophy toms there would be no shotgun back-up, even though we were all aware that this tom had the potential of walking away with that title as well. At one time or another prior to the spring season all three of us on separate occasions had spent considerable time a field gathering bits and pieces of data on this tom, hampered somewhat by the farm's boundary lines, which of course had no effect on the tom's travels. Unlike deer, turkey can only be patterned up to a certain point, which under normal circumstances is usually sufficient enough to harvest most toms. They have what appears to be a nomadic tendency to wander aimlessly, but, like all living creatures on this Earth, MAN included, there are daily needs and functions that must be attended to... food/water, sex, sex, sex, and a bit of sleep. Each can offer strategic opportunities during certain times of the day. Ultimately, POSITIONING, as in ANY hunt, becomes the deciding factor. Bedding areas to a deer hunter are of extreme importance, so too are roosting areas to a turkey hunter. Secondary are feeding areas, but are also of extreme importance. Because of the luxury of retirement I was able to spend more and more time a field observing the big guy's daily routine, hidden from view in our "Lucky Tent Blind". No longer was he the clumsy clown that we had once known, he had now become a very worthy adversary that would definitely command our undivided respect, along with much more detailed planning.


Although we were quite easily able to hone in on his roosting area, (he himself would, as usual, tell us exactly which tree he preferred) we would fail to locate the all-important nest- of the hens. Certainly the nesting/roosting site wasn't on this farm, nonetheless we would later pay dearly for this lack of vital information. It didn't suprise us to find his roost to be strategically defensive, that's common with all trophy animals or birds. His roosting tree actually jutted out right where two high ridges met, affording a grand view from all angles, thank god he didn't have a deer's sense of smell or their night vision. Since our approach would be on the same level as his high ground, we would be severely restricted simply by this farm's boundaries which happened to end at the fence line 20 feet east of his tree. The moment of truth had finally arrived, it must have been a touch of insanity which compelled us to be on location two hours before dawn, give Greg the credit for that one, his dedication is total. The five hen decoys were set out about 100 yards from his roost on line with his sight plane. We were hoping to entice him into believing that our hens were his harem obediently waiting for him to descend, we were also hoping that his math was up to par. As the first rays of light filtered in the gobbles began, singles, hot doubles, and every so after a super hot triple came from all around us, but not a peep came from our boy. We knew from past scouting that the big guy was a sleeper who didn't bother to compete, when he was good and ready, he simply gobbled a note or two and the hens would come a-running, to HONOR and OBEY... chauvinist. It is this very type mentality so deeply ingrained in the toms that usually cause such chagrin to all callers , from novice to World champions. At full light I could see the huge tom walking back and forth on his limb scoping all before him with his 10x eye sight, suddenly he locked on to something, ME, (I was the closest to him) I felt about as inconspicuous as an elephant in the desert. Greg diverted his attention to the decoys (much to my relief) with a few very soft yelps, with Freddy chiming in with soft clucks and purrs. The big guy immediately flew down toward the decoys, WOW, this was going to be easier than I thought. Greg and Freddy were situated somewhat to my right nearer to the decoys, I was the cameraman. The tom was worming his way toward us, using the tip of the ridge where he could also see below him. The yelping, clucking and purrs were getting louder ? Some of the notes were god awful, I could understand in the heat of battle, one could toot a bad note? Surely these sour notes couldn't be coming from Greg ? That tuneless raspy sound must be coming from Freddy who may need a refresher course in novice calling.


I slowly turned my head to see what the hell was going on ? I was shocked to see the boys were surrounded by hens, our worst nightmare scenario had come true, our flank had been breeched. I found out later when the hens first made their presence known both Greg and Freddy shut down hoping to utilize the real thing to our advantage, had the hens worked their way behind and around the boys, instead of through them, the ploy may have worked. The hens continued through where they met up with the tom, they all went down the ridge and out of sight. Sometimes aggressive calling at this point using both diaphragm, push button, or other type calls in unison can lure the hens back to investigate with the tom in tow, it was not to be this time. Our only recourse would be to loop around and wait for them near their feeding field. Three hours later the flock finally emerged from the farm over, only to stay within their boundaries despite Greg's and Freddy's sensuous pleadings. The next day, even though we were working a different angle the exact same thing happened, only this time it was a jake that came from behind me sounding the alarm putt. Each morning's hunt would begin near the roost, and usually end somewhere nearby. The farm's boundary lines were beginning to take their toll, it was only a matter of time before the big guy caught on, was this cagey bird aware of that safety zone ? or becoming aware of it ? The only thing we had to be thankful for was the master still felt secure in his roost, and as luck would have it, he would neglect to alter that right to the end, During the next couple of days he took to free-falling on the opposite side of the tree and duck under the fence to safety, where he would then call-in his harem. During any lengthy and complex hunt, everything that happens, develops from what has happened. We would have to devise a counter-tactic to his new tactic. That came about from an old variation of the fence line trick that worked so effectively on deer. only this time we would build our own little fence using double strands of string formed in a U shape, hopefully to turn the bird back toward us. That morning we felt quite confidant that this would finally be our day. Sure enough, the big guy free-fell as usual. When he came upon our fence he did what turkeys do, marching back and forth, ignorantly baffled. Regardless of whatever wood wise intelligence turkeys may have possessed, they always seem to approach a fence... two sandwiches short for a picnic. My heart beat picked up considerably when I realized it was working. Just when he got turned around and was heading back in our direction he actually fell between the strands, he had been following the string with his breast pressing against both strands when he luckily stumbled through a loose strand, oh well. Later that day we once again made contact with the master and his harem in the open field. As usual they ignored our decoys and calling. Another flock of six turkeys suddenly appeared in the field opposite the first group, we had heard some gobbling from that direction but choose to ignore them, now they were responding to our decoys and calling, the last turkey was huge, he sure got our attention. We were sitting right smack in the middle of a possible showdown, great. Both Greg and Freddy grasped the significance of this opportunity immediately.


Would the Master defend his turf from the new comers ? We were certainly hoping that to be the case. As the new group closed the distance from our left, we could see that they indeed had the big guy's rapt attention. on and on they came, now we could plainly see that they were all jakes who would gobble in unison whenever my sons seductive calling reached their ears, displaying their limited wares in an effort to impress us, we in turn encouraged them on. The last bird that I initially thought was a huge gobbler turned out to be nothing more than the FATTEST JAKE in the world. All of a sudden the big guy charged across the field bent on extracting vengeance from the poor kids who had merely dared to trespass. The petrified group scattered to the winds, running and flying at the same time. It was Fatso who was targeted, poor guy, wings and feet doing 90, yet going nowhere. He got his butt kicked across the full length of the field. We were astounded by what we had just witnessed, the stunned silence soon turned into laughter. Greg motioned us to stay down and sit tight. Five minutes later the unrepentant tom reappeared, proud and strutting as though he himself had just won one for the "Sisters Of Perpetual over-Indulgence". All of us instantly realized that we had glimpsed an extremely unusual event. We also knew that we just may be able to turn that event into a new tactic. We didn't know what motivated the big guy into giving chase to that particular jake ? Could it have been simply intolerance of Fatso personally, or discrimination in whatever form ? We couldn't come up with a reasonable answer as to what motivated such unusual conduct, but we did know that it was worth a try to duplicate our strutting jake decoy into looking like Fatso That evening we bought a large balloon, pumping it with as much air as needed to give our Jake that bloated glutton look. The plan called for us to approach closer to the Master's roost than we have ever been, with the trunk of his tree blocking his view. That would be done over an hour before first light, we would also quietly grunt every so often to give the illusion of friendly deer passing through. My appointed role was of a very delicate nature, I had been tapped to duplicate the "Gurgle of a Gobble" that was expected from Fatso's cholesterol chocked lungs. Because, as Greg claims, my cholesterol level probably matched Fatsos. (Greg used to test me when he worked at the Clare hospital, now that task has fallen on Dr. Mienk, who probably would concur with Greg) It's true, I do eat lotsa meat, I love any, and all kinds of meat. But now that I have become an upstanding member of PETA (People Eating Tasty Animals) their support group has taught me how to eat sensibly, by choosing only choice cuts of endangered species, Grey Wolf, Bald Eagles, and such. There is just one restriction though, I mustn't wear fur or feathers, now that's what I call ETHICAL. The hen decoys were set in such a fashion as to discourage the big guy from flying directly into the jake decoy from his roost, sort of like a "fly-by spurring".
Everything was set, now each of us quietly awaited the new dawn locked into our own thoughts no doubt. I didn't have a clue as to how this hunt would end, but I did know that this was the most exciting hunt that I had ever been on. It was decided that we would not give the master a chance to call-in his harem, we could do without that type of interference. As soon as it was light enough to see his sights Greg would signal us for the showdown to begin. Greg was situated off to one side but even with the decoys, hidden behind his triangular blind. Freddy and I were roughly 20 yards behind but angled away from Greg's position. Greg nodded, that was Freddy's cue to toss a small sand bag into the limbs of a tree timed with his fly-down cackle, "plop", the first turkey had landed, then the second fly-down cackle timed with a larger sand bag, "ker-plop", fatso had crash landed. That was my cue to gobble, with-in seconds we saw a head peek around the tree. Here was fatso with one of the master's hens in a submissive receptive pose before him, and the rest of the master's harem all around him. The reaction was immediate, the big guy's feet had barely hit the ground when he took to the air heading straight for fatso, OH MY GOD , I could just see the explosion when his spurs hit the balloon. It was like slow motion, the master reminding me of a huge B-52 on a strafing mission, boring down on poor fatso. Luckily Greg's positioning of the decoys forced the master to land right in front of the receptive hen. Greg's sharp putt stopped him cold. I didn't see the flight of the arrow but I did see the hit as feathers flew everywhere, the big guy took to the air again with string trailing, marking his last flight plan. An elated Greg was giving us the thumbs up. We waited until the game tracker string stopped moving before we got on the trail. The master came to rest only 75 yards from the point of impact. Freddy and I were slapping Greg on the back and shaking his hand. We were in awe by the size of the huge gobbler, I think he was bigger than any of us had expected. After things quieted down a bit Greg asked us if we wanted to start our hunt, both of us declined, we had had enough excitement for that year.

C.B.M. scorer/Director Gary Berger from Houghton Lake, as usual, volunteered his time and expertise to officially score Greg's tom for entry into the C.B.M. record books. The tom dressed out at 27#, his beard scored an astounding 15 2/16", each spur measured 1 2/16", the final score totaled 17 6/16", thanks Gary.