upfrombottom
Well-known member
I know some of you are still deer hunting, but this time of year I always start thinking about my favorite sport turkey hunting. I begin to think back on previous years hunts, and start reminiscing fun times.
I read alot on theses boards and sometimes when I see someone is from Florida or they write about some Yankee moving down South, or their new neighbor just moved there from the city, I'll think about the time I went turkey hunting in some place and encountered so many different than I. I am in know way prejudice toward other cultures, but when one runs across something that is a great deal different than what he is accustomed to it either scares the heck of of him or makes him laugh his youknowwhat off.
I thought of a turkey hunt that I went on in Florida that was the first time I have ever hunted in that state. My wife's sister lived in Orlando, and she wanted to take a trip down there to visit. Naturally it just had to be in the middle of our local turkey season and I begged her to wait until it was over (actually I believe I said that I had work I had to be finished first) before we went. I searched around and found a phone number for the Florida Department of Wildlife. I called down there and got them to send me info on their turkey season and wildlife management areas there. It was great, their season would be open and not far from where my sister in law lived, was a management area open to out of state hunters.
The afternoon after we arrived, while the wife and her kin talked about old times, I went by the Game and Fish office, got my hunting and fishing license (I have been fishing there many times), and got the directions to the management area. Then I went and checked out this place. I'm glad I did, because they had a gate and check station that you had to drive through to get on the place and after talking to the attendant, I found out that only a few people would be allowed in for hunting each day. First come first served. I didn't want to get left out, so I was there very early the next morning.
Anyone who has been to Florida, knows there are very few true Floridians, in fact, most are retired Yanks, running from the cold weather, so I was surprised to hear a southern lingo that I was familiar with when I pulled up to the gate. This place was called "The Green River Wildlife Management Area" so assuming there was a Green River near, I asked the attendant if I could fish while I was in there and was told that I could.
Having never been hunting at this place, the first thing that I thought I should do was to find a place with maybe some large trees where turkey would like to roost. I drove down the road for a ways and pulled over to wait for daylight where I could see a little better. When It had gotten lite enough, I started driving, and looking for what I thought was a big tree. Being from Arkansas, a big tree was something in the 60 to 70 ft range, 2 to 4 ft in diameter. I had never thought about it before but trees just aren't very big down there, so I just found a decent place to pull over and got out to do some scouting. Something else I had never encountered was Palmetto. This stuff was a thick as hair on a dogs back and if you found a place to sit, you couldn't have seen a turkey three feet from you.
Where I'm accustomed to hunting, turkey like to roost over water, so my next adventure was to find the Green River. I got back in the truck and started there, trying to remember witch way to go from having looked at the map stapled on a billboard out by the gate and from what I was told is the only one in existence. The roads there were all sand and it had rained the night before so if any turkey tracks crossed the road they would have to be fresh, so as I was driving, I was looking out of the window looking for tracks. I saw where several hens had crossed but no gobblers. I drove up on a one lane wooden bridge that couldn't have been over twenty feet wide. At the end of the bridge was a sign that said, you guessed it, Green River.
When approaching the bridge, I noticed turkey tracks everywhere in the road, and pulled over and got out to do some more scouting. I walked up on the bridge and while trying to figure out why they named it the Green River (because the water running in it was almost black), I did a little calling with my diaphragm call. As I was standing there I saw a bass hit the bank just up from the bridge a bit. I went to the truck and got my trusty rod and while walking back a white car pulled up. Two guys got out and one with a New England accent, asked "Seen any turkey". I said "no" and he replied "We haven't even seen a track". I was thinking that's kinda weird all they had to do was look down.
One of the first things you learn about turkey hunting is: turkey have a very keen eyesight and the best concealment ( camo fer those where I'm from) is sometimes not enough. Without the accent I would still have noticed they were Yanks by their clothes. They must have shared the same closet because one had on a snow camo shirt and the other had on the matching pants.
They opened the trunk of the car and got out their poles. I fished one side of the bridge, as they fished the other other. They were sitting on the bridge side by side, when I kinda unconsciously yelped very lightly on my diaphragm. I heard Pants say (Since I don't know there names I'll just call them Shirt and Pants.) to the other: " Did you hear that!", "I heard a turkey!". The other guy said he didn't hear anything and so did I. In a few minutes, chuckling to myself, I did it again a little louder and Shirt jumped up and said: " I heard it that time." as his rod went in the river. I did it once more and Pants yelled: "Get your gun". Shirt ran to the car opened the trunk and took out a shotgun and box call. He laid the shotgun on the truck lid and started calling, with Pants standing beside him with his hands cupped over his ears listening. Believe me when I say I didn't dare make a peep.
After what seemed like twenty minutes they put the gun back in the trunk and came walking back over to where they were fishing. When they were even with me on the bridge, I yelped again and Pants said: "That was you." and I could see real fast it was time for me to go.
When I drove up to the gate, the guy with the southern accent asked if I had seen anything. I replied: "Only a few Yankees." He laughed and said: "There's no bag limit or size limit on em down here. We consider em varmints."
That was over twenty years ago and I can remember it like it was yesterday. I have been back twice since then and, although not at this place, have taken a turkey each time.
I read alot on theses boards and sometimes when I see someone is from Florida or they write about some Yankee moving down South, or their new neighbor just moved there from the city, I'll think about the time I went turkey hunting in some place and encountered so many different than I. I am in know way prejudice toward other cultures, but when one runs across something that is a great deal different than what he is accustomed to it either scares the heck of of him or makes him laugh his youknowwhat off.
I thought of a turkey hunt that I went on in Florida that was the first time I have ever hunted in that state. My wife's sister lived in Orlando, and she wanted to take a trip down there to visit. Naturally it just had to be in the middle of our local turkey season and I begged her to wait until it was over (actually I believe I said that I had work I had to be finished first) before we went. I searched around and found a phone number for the Florida Department of Wildlife. I called down there and got them to send me info on their turkey season and wildlife management areas there. It was great, their season would be open and not far from where my sister in law lived, was a management area open to out of state hunters.
The afternoon after we arrived, while the wife and her kin talked about old times, I went by the Game and Fish office, got my hunting and fishing license (I have been fishing there many times), and got the directions to the management area. Then I went and checked out this place. I'm glad I did, because they had a gate and check station that you had to drive through to get on the place and after talking to the attendant, I found out that only a few people would be allowed in for hunting each day. First come first served. I didn't want to get left out, so I was there very early the next morning.
Anyone who has been to Florida, knows there are very few true Floridians, in fact, most are retired Yanks, running from the cold weather, so I was surprised to hear a southern lingo that I was familiar with when I pulled up to the gate. This place was called "The Green River Wildlife Management Area" so assuming there was a Green River near, I asked the attendant if I could fish while I was in there and was told that I could.
Having never been hunting at this place, the first thing that I thought I should do was to find a place with maybe some large trees where turkey would like to roost. I drove down the road for a ways and pulled over to wait for daylight where I could see a little better. When It had gotten lite enough, I started driving, and looking for what I thought was a big tree. Being from Arkansas, a big tree was something in the 60 to 70 ft range, 2 to 4 ft in diameter. I had never thought about it before but trees just aren't very big down there, so I just found a decent place to pull over and got out to do some scouting. Something else I had never encountered was Palmetto. This stuff was a thick as hair on a dogs back and if you found a place to sit, you couldn't have seen a turkey three feet from you.
Where I'm accustomed to hunting, turkey like to roost over water, so my next adventure was to find the Green River. I got back in the truck and started there, trying to remember witch way to go from having looked at the map stapled on a billboard out by the gate and from what I was told is the only one in existence. The roads there were all sand and it had rained the night before so if any turkey tracks crossed the road they would have to be fresh, so as I was driving, I was looking out of the window looking for tracks. I saw where several hens had crossed but no gobblers. I drove up on a one lane wooden bridge that couldn't have been over twenty feet wide. At the end of the bridge was a sign that said, you guessed it, Green River.
When approaching the bridge, I noticed turkey tracks everywhere in the road, and pulled over and got out to do some more scouting. I walked up on the bridge and while trying to figure out why they named it the Green River (because the water running in it was almost black), I did a little calling with my diaphragm call. As I was standing there I saw a bass hit the bank just up from the bridge a bit. I went to the truck and got my trusty rod and while walking back a white car pulled up. Two guys got out and one with a New England accent, asked "Seen any turkey". I said "no" and he replied "We haven't even seen a track". I was thinking that's kinda weird all they had to do was look down.
One of the first things you learn about turkey hunting is: turkey have a very keen eyesight and the best concealment ( camo fer those where I'm from) is sometimes not enough. Without the accent I would still have noticed they were Yanks by their clothes. They must have shared the same closet because one had on a snow camo shirt and the other had on the matching pants.
They opened the trunk of the car and got out their poles. I fished one side of the bridge, as they fished the other other. They were sitting on the bridge side by side, when I kinda unconsciously yelped very lightly on my diaphragm. I heard Pants say (Since I don't know there names I'll just call them Shirt and Pants.) to the other: " Did you hear that!", "I heard a turkey!". The other guy said he didn't hear anything and so did I. In a few minutes, chuckling to myself, I did it again a little louder and Shirt jumped up and said: " I heard it that time." as his rod went in the river. I did it once more and Pants yelled: "Get your gun". Shirt ran to the car opened the trunk and took out a shotgun and box call. He laid the shotgun on the truck lid and started calling, with Pants standing beside him with his hands cupped over his ears listening. Believe me when I say I didn't dare make a peep.
After what seemed like twenty minutes they put the gun back in the trunk and came walking back over to where they were fishing. When they were even with me on the bridge, I yelped again and Pants said: "That was you." and I could see real fast it was time for me to go.
When I drove up to the gate, the guy with the southern accent asked if I had seen anything. I replied: "Only a few Yankees." He laughed and said: "There's no bag limit or size limit on em down here. We consider em varmints."
That was over twenty years ago and I can remember it like it was yesterday. I have been back twice since then and, although not at this place, have taken a turkey each time.
