Remembering Fallen Heroes, Celebrating Fathers And Sons
We hope you’re having a fun, safe but also significant Memorial Day that honors our nation’s fallen service members. Here’s a really inspiring father-son hunting story that’s running in our May issue.
By Logan Sebela
The weekend was bittersweet, to say the least. I have been taking my son Deacon out into the field to hunt with me since he was 5 years old or so. Ahead of most of his peers, he harvested his first bird when he was 8 years old.
But this spring felt like a culminating event, as he will have aged out of the youth turkey hunts after this season. I am sure that we will continue to hunt together, but he is moving into the adult realm and leaving his childhood behind. This was just another reminder of that, so I tried to savor it just a bit more.
WE GOT TO THE ranch in the foothills around Fresno at about 5:30 a.m., giving us plenty of time to set up and listen for gobbles. We picked a high spot so we could hear both sides of the property. Several sets of gobblers sounded off early, but a group of two birds were especially close.
As the sky began to gray, we made our move to the cover of a large oak tree. A thin layer of fog masked our movements as we set out our decoys. The branches nearly touched the ground, creating a canopy to break up our outline.
We have been hunting this property for a number of years, and I have always desired to take a bird from this setup. I had tried several times before, but it never quite worked out. The tree is strategically positioned just out of sight of a popular roost tree, with
a wide-open field in front and a game trail to the left. It has some options and we have seen birds come into this location from several directions to strut and do their morning business.
The two nearby birds gobbled pretty consistently and with about 20 minutes until fly down, I began to interject with some soft hen yelps. Not too long after, a hen began to argue with me about the morning plan with increasing volume. The toms shut up, and it was just me and her engaging in
a verbal altercation. She’d fire up and I’d step all over her with my yelps.In case you’ve never tried this, it can work one of two ways: She flies down and leads the toms away from the hussy across the way, or she comes in to set the rival hen straight. She went for option No. 2.
Taking this jake made it worthwhile for Deacon. (LOGAN SEBELA
TWO HENS APPEARED FIRST, followed quickly by the two toms about 100 yards out. The toms seemed hesitant as they strutted back and forth, never once gobbling. I strained my eyes to see if long beards were present. I quietly whispered to my boy in front of me, “I think they are jakes.”
The one larger bird had a fully formed tail fan, while the smaller bird had some clear indicators of being a jake. I was merely providing my son information to help him make his decision if the opportunity presented itself. He had wisely ranged some rocks in front of us to help guide his actions as the birds moved closer.
At one point, the jakes seemed to be drifting off as the hens milled around. I began forming secondary plans and moves we could make if the birds moved out of sight. But as if right on cue, the hens moved in closer to investigate our strutter decoy and his hen. At almost 10 steps, I was sure we were going to get busted by the feathered ladies.
We both froze and watched the display. The jakes, in turn, began weaving closer to us until they were\ right on our decoys. Deacon had several shot opportunities as they moved in, but I could tell he was contemplating his options. This is the same kid who passed on a jake when he was 8 because he wanted a “big tom.” I’ve let him run the show for a while now, and was not going to interject on his hunt.
THE TWO JAKES PACED back and forth for several minutes. On their third pass by the decoys, I saw Deacon slowly begin to inch his gun up to his shoulder and weld his cheek to the stock. He could endure the temptation no longer. The bird was quickly on the ground, and as the smoke lifted, he was all smiles. No regrets. It was not his biggest bird by a long shot, but he was proud, as was I.
The show the birds put on from the roost to the field was what turkey dreams are made of. I will be replaying that reel in my head for many years to come.
As we walked back to the truck, a mix of sadness and joy intermingled in my head. I am so proud of the man Deacon is becoming, but feel a bit homesick for the passage of his youth I was privileged to take part in. I am excited to see what God has in store for him. I know he will do well, and I am eternally thankful for the time we have spent together in the woods. CS
