In the Outdoors
West Virginia rematch
With Oak Duke

One can't help but notice the trees change, when driving down south in the springtime.

The further south one travels, the further the leaves have popped out.

West Virginia turkey camp held out an offer for a rematch with an old gobbler that had won the first and only duel between us, two years ago.

Actually, to make things perfectly clear, this trip was a West Virginia gobbler hunt, and it was never mentioned, billed, or even hinted at that a "rematch" was even a flicker of a possibility.

The challenge to get an out-of-state turkey, any long-beard is enough, especially for a part-time turkey hunter (that is, not an Expert,) especially in the rugged mountains of West Virginia.

But the possibility of a "Round Two" surfaced to awareness.

Just a fantasy on the long highway headed south, down Route 79.

"Yeah, right," a little voice squeaked under my camo cap, "What in the world are the chances that you could run into the same tom, in all that wild country?

And even by some miracle that you did, how would you ever know?"

"Get real. Get your head screwed on straight."

"If you don't put on your 'game face,' you're gona get beat."

After all, tom turkeys are remarkably similar to each other, and just because the bird had a black rope for a beard, two years ago, it might be scraggly and even broken off today. Or it could be 11 inches long.

Any gobbler would do.

Hunting West Virginia is certainly a challenge.

Hunting gobblers is a challenge.

And hunting gobblers in West Virginia beats a lot of good hunters.

The steep terrain in the central and western part of the Mountaineer State is not all that different from some of the mountainous and hilly country of the Southern Tier of New York.

So, theoretically at least, the terrain shouldn't be too bad. Remember the story of B'er Rabbit?" "Oh, please don't throw me in da briar patch…"

Crazy thoughts and dreams after those crazy birds.

"Face it. You are never going to see the same bird..."

Yeah, it's a dream.

But the thoughts of the gobbler hunt of two years ago seemed to play out like on a TV screen, as the Pennsylvania landscape unfolded on the further drive south.

Slowly, the buds were getting larger, and even flowers like daffodils and tulips were out as Pittsburgh drew nearer. But back home, the buds hadn't even begun to pop. The maple trees still wore their winter grey. Not even a hint of red flower fuzz on the ground beneath the maple's wide open winterlike canopies.

Two years ago we had walked nearly a mile from the camp in the dark to "The Listening Point," a high knob on the rim of a steep hollow on the side of a West Virginia mountain.

The only bird we heard sound off at dawn was a long ways away across the hollow, and the only way to him was to climb down the steep hollow from "The Listening Point," cross a stream at the bottom, climb the other side, get in position and then call him in."

Hopefully, the gobbling tom wouldn't be spooked by the weird and out-of-place spectacle of a Yankee turkey hunter, sliding, climbing, and slipping down a very radical southern mountainside.

The toughest natural obstacle of the descent was a sheer, moss-covered, dripping, rock drop-off just above the creek that required a little rock climbing. And once down in the bottom, a tough climb up and around, worked out to be the lucky setup for the duel.

Slowly, the tom worked his way in to the gun.

Careful, judicious yelps on the Lightning Strike box call, a few clucks on a slate/glass friction call, and some purrs on a diaphragm was all the calling needed. (Trying to replicate a group of hens slowly working across the side of the hollow, above the tom.)

He circled and came in; sneaking, cautiously.

Sold, but still skeptical.

Sealed, but not delivered.

At 30 yards, his white and red head were juxtaposed on the front sight of the shotgun.

"Bang!" "Flap, flap, flap…" He just flew away.

A clean miss.

Unforgettable disappointment.

But how?

Man, that was a good bird!

Two years later, almost to the day found that same mountain ridge alive with gobblers gobbling at dawn.

Groups of gobblers, lone birds; screamed their primal rattling yells into the orange and pink sunrise. It seemed we would have any of them in the bag. But by 8 am, there had been no gunshots, and all the gobbling had stopped - all but one, that is.

And that one lone gobbler was still gobbling way across the hollow.

And it sounded like a good bird; demanding, a tone of authority, and a gobble with a real roll and depth to it.

The other guys decided to stay up on the spine of the ridge, saying, with a dismissive wave, "Go for it."

The glimmer of a twoyear old rematch flared up and beckoned, probably foolishly - but nonetheless compelling.

The long descent seemed almost familiar, crossing the stream at the bottom in virtually the same place.

And the climb up the other side seemed the same as before, almost like a dream, like "Deja Vu, all over again."

This was almost the exact spot where two years ago, the gobbler had dodged fate, a load of copper-plated sixes, and a place of honor in the upright freezer.

Just over there, 30 yards further, on the other side of the little draw.

The big rocks, large as cars and trucks, gave perfect cover to flank the gobbler.

(Supposedly, during the Civil War, the rocks were used as a natural corral for locals to keep their horses hidden from the marauding troops. Doesn't matter which side, West Virginia was on both.)

Up on a flat bench, above the big rocks, the scene was set.

By the clock it was 10 a.m. and getting late.

Just a few slow, soft yelps on the box call, and a hen answered immediately from down below. She was one of five that appeared, coming up from around the big rock, and behind them floated the tom in full strut.

The big, fanned out gobbler never broke out of full display, appearing black, his beard swung, nearly dusting the brown leaves as he pirouetted and displayed his fan, first to one hen, then another in his harem.

Once again, the red, white, and blue head was centered in the front sight of the full choke 12-gauge, but this time, he didn't fly away.

After almost a two-hour climb back out of the hollow, the guys back at camp thought the bird was at least a four- maybe fiveyear old tom.

His legs had grown heavy, sharp, and black 1 3/8-inch spurs, starting to hook, The beard measured e1even inches.

Was it the same bird?

Turkey hunting makes you wonder, even when you get lucky and make the second-to-the-last mistake.