"SON OF THE OLD GRAND MASTER"

By Fred Abbas

Genetically speaking, we sort of knew that the "Old Grand Master" (Greg's "1995" State record bow killed tom which sported a 15 2/16" beard) had in all probability passed along his superior genes somewhere out there. And if that being the case, it certainly wasn't on this farm. Although we had long suspected that, "somewhere out there", happened to be the next farm over, we couldn't quite get our foot in the door with the old Amish farmer who owned, or leased half the county. He had rejected all of our previous friendly, subtle $ overtures, and not so subtle $$ overtures. As time passed, rumors began to filter down to us of a huge gobbler, on, you guessed it, the next farm over. Every now and then we hire local kids to work around the farms, and local Amish kids to work the fields. Ironically, as luck would have it, some of these same Amish kids help out the old Amish farmer as well, and that's where the much appreciated scoop was coming from. When the Amish kids speak, we listen... intently. What we heard next almost made me spill my coffee, the huge gobbler's beard actually dragged on the ground when he strutted. That gobbler was exactly who we were looking for. One being so superior over all others, that he became exempt from the demanding nature induced challenges of the pecking order, thus, allowing his beard to grow unhampered. Then, what we heard next almost as a passing comment, did make me spill my coffee. Apparently the old old guy did feel that we were 11 properly neighborly',,' but didn't "give a hoot" for our hunting skills because he never hears any shooting over our way, and that he ought to pay us a visit to teach us a thing or two 7 Had I had false teeth I'm sure they would have hit the ground along with the coffee. At first I was astounded by this rather extraordinary revelation, then it slowly dawned on me, the old guy just didn't know that we were bow hunters, and of course he would draw that logical conclusion. Then like a bolt of lightning, it struck me, would he be a bit more receptive to us if we presented ourselves as strictly bow hunters ? Absolutely, because after everything was said and done, we walked away with exclusive bow hunting rights, and the old guy walked away with exclusive farming rights on nine of our acres ... sealed with a handshake.

when it can be harvested, and in what manner. That means, for instance, if it were a corn field, we control exactly how many rows, width, and back, from the abutting wood lines from any of the 4 corners, can be cut. Thus allowing us to create funnels and bottlenecks anywhere in the woods surrounding the corn field. A very effective tactic during the rut.) Now Greg took over gathering any, and all information that the farmer could offer so as not to waste too much time a field disturbing, yet learning the natural habits of the flock. According to our Topo, and aerial maps the terrain on that farm was more or less a continuation of our farm, and it turned out to be just that.


We had to sweat out the first and second turkey seasons praying that the gobbler would have enough sense to stay safely within his boundaries. Greg's permit called for the third season, and since he was a professional turkey guide busy plying his trade it was my duty to check the status quo every now and then, which was no big deal because it gave me the opportunity (excuse) to check out the deer as well. My report to Greg held very little encouragement, simply put, the birds had fallen silent, and to me, that meant Greg's biggest gun, his expert calling ability, would become somewhat neutralized. Greg arrived in camp the night before his opener, after assessing my report Greg simply shrugged and said, "if they don't talk, they still walk". That type of confidence had a most reassuring affect on my sagging spirits, in effect, in Greg's humble way, he was reminding me that he was just as comfortable using tactics as he was at calling. The bad news from Greg was my other son, Freddy, wouldn't be able to hunt with us until a couple days later. That truly was stressful news to me because that meant I would have to shoulder Lucky's tent blind, the camera, and a host of other equipment. Greg would carry his bow, and a smaller triangular blind along with calls and related accessories. Now you know why we nicknamed Freddy, "the mule". Greg only had 3 days to hunt before returning to his guiding. our worst case scenario greeted us as night grudgingly gave way to a rainy, windy day. We could see several birds with their legs and wings tightly wrapped around the branches hanging on for dear life, I even imagined their little jaws locked onto the branches as well. The truth was we were doomed by the wind's forceful, unusual direction that came out of nowhere, further Elnino effects, no doubt. The wind had changed direction so abruptly that it left us on the wrong side of their glide down. There wasn't a thing that we could do until the touch down. Greg motioned me to double back and take a long loop around the flock's path, If I could beat them to the pass and allow them to see me with a slow unthreatening movement, it would turn them back along a travel route that they just came from and knew to be safe. It wasn't to be, in fact the worst case scenario became the worser case scenario (if their was such a word) when I inadvertently flushed the flock by rushing pell mell to beat them to that point,' I had misjudged the location where I was supposed to cut them off from because I couldn't see very clear with all of the rain on my glasses, but I could see well enough to know that the last bird was no other, than the man himself. Unfortunately, with the tail wind factor they probably ended up two counties over, Greg just laughed when I told him what happened, we gave it hell though anyway, tomorrow's another day, he said.
Greg roosted the gobblers that evening, even sighting, then marking the exact location of the huge gobbler. Lucky for us the birds had remained on the same ridge, locating their roost about 200 yards South of their last roost location. That was very good news to us because that meant their
travel options would continue to be limited to the same three probable travel routes. We knew the bottom of the ridge was out of the question during the fly down. That left either ridge top direction, North or South, or the large field directly in front of the roost. Greg's game plan called
for a long loop below the sleeping toms a good two hours before first light. We wanted to end up about a hundred yards from the roost on the same wood line adjacent to the field, but roughly
even with the roost, and slightly down an incline. The toms would have to come over the rise before sighting our decoys. Greg and I would be in his Lucky tent blind, my only job now
would be cameraman. Angled 15 yards in front of us was three sexy hen decoys with a jake decoy poised next to one of the hens to give the illusion that he was about to do something
that he shouldn't be doing. We heard one of the birds fly down, that left three other toms in the roost. Greg gave soft tree yelps, then fly down crackles. That got their attention real
quick, now all of the gobblers flew down, yet none gobbled. Greg switched over to excited cuts and yelps, we were astonished to hear a playback of the exact notes which Greg just sang out ?
But it seemed to come from the opposite side of the roost. My God Greg, there's another hunter calling over there, he sounds terrible. No Dad, we got competition from real hens. No sooner
had the words been spoken when we spotted three white heads coming over the rise. All three came strutting in, dancing their fool heads off in an effort to impress the unresponding hen
decoys. Each had at least 10 inch beards. I was getting great footage until the battery died. Greg whispered, the hens stole the man from us. The toms, after getting a cold off from the
decoys turned their frustration on the jake decoy, and beat the hell out of him. They then continued down the incline looking for live action ... we understood, been there. We waited another two hours giving the big guy ample time to follow the trio, if he was so inclined, he wasn't. our only recourse would be to hunt food and water sources. We made contact with the trio twice, and even had opportunities at several other toms during the course of the day, but our objective eluded us. That's the way our second day came to a close, no more sightings, and still no gobbles.
Later in camp Greg said since tomorrow was his last day to hunt we would have to hunt more aggressively and take chances we norm ally wouldn't take. That said, he outlined each of our positions precisely. Freddy would cover the Northern ridge top route, standing inside the wood line where the ridge top falls away steep ly allowing only a few feet of cover at that point. Also, Freddy would wear his orange vest for visual effects, turkeys can  distinguish colors readily. Greg and I would attempt to get near enough to the roost to cover the Southern route and that portion of the field.

Since Greg's position was to be somewhat in the open he would be concealed behind his low profile triangular blind. My position would be slightly behind, and to Greg's left with my back up against a small pine tree, allowing perfect camera coverage. Two hen decoys were to Greg's far right near the wood line, the toms would not be able to see them until they committed themselves in that direction after fly down. That night we received a phone call from Freddy,. he had made a scheduling error and would not be able to come down, (we own "The Great Steak & Potato" in the Fashion Square mall in Saginaw, and Freddy has to schedule 15 employees) a very disappointed Greg relayed back to me, adding, "dummy". That's it, I shouted, we could borrow our neighbor's scarecrow dummy, you know that wooden cut-out of a man leaning against a tree ? Yeah, Greg said, and we'll name him "Freddy", we both laughed at that one. So did our neighbor when we explained why we needed his scarecrow (ornament). We dressed "Freddy" with the orange vest, and by the time we positioned him exactly where our Freddy would have stood, it was almost Midnight. Please don't judge my sanity, Greg made me do it) Early the next morning three other gobblers roosting near the big tom flew down, all ignored the decoys and Greg's soft calling, passing the decoys. from within the woods, heading South. All were in bow range. Finally we heard the big tom fly down to my left, my heart was in my throat as I started the camera. We wouldn't be able to see him until he came over the slight rise. As time went by it became apparent that the big tom had taken the Northern route where "Freddy" stood guard. I lowered the camera as both the big guy and Greg remained silent. A few minutes later I caught a motion from my front/left, it was the big tom," Freddy" had turned him back toward us and he was slinking back along the wood line heading along the path the other toms took, I was just about to raise the camera when he turned and headed directly toward me. Here I was, the camera half way up unable-to move a muscle or even blink, locked-in by the radar beam of the beast before me. he The worst part was even if Greg had spotted the tom, he was out of range, and I wasn't sure if he did. That tom ended up within 10 feet of my left, I thought I was about to blow another hunt for Greg with my loud heart beats. All of a sudden the tom began to display and strut, I couldn't see him, but I heard that distinctive noise that they make when they do. Off to my right I heard very soft yelps coming from Greg so I now knew he was fully aware of the total situation. I lost track of the tom's position when he circled behind me toward Greg. Then all hell broke loose when I heard a dull thud and wings flapping. I went running toward Greg's position, there he was motioning with hands of a crash landing, then pointing toward the flapping bird, then the thumbs up. After shaking Greg's hand, he said, the "Nuge" did a helluva job (Nugent blade, that not only accounted for this bird) but effectively helped us to harvest 3 trophy book bucks that year). C.B.M. official scorer/director, Gary Berger did the honors for us, The beard measured 14 15/16", and the spurs scored 1 2/16"- 1 1/16" and he - dressed out at 26#. Thus placing him second only to Greg's State record gobbler in the single beard category.