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The oak hills of California are alive with the sound of turkeys. So are the pine forest edges of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, and that's unusual. Lewis and Clark never heard them. Nez Perce Chief Joseph and his people wouldn't have known a turkey gobble from an elephant trumpet. Not even the forty-niners panning gold in California laid ears on a wild turkey. But we can. "There's one!" Ken Sandquist said as he jabbed a finger toward a wide, deep canyon in north Idaho. "Sounds like it's down there." "Let's go." We hike briskly along the soft dirt of a crop field bordering the forested gorge, eager to close in on the lusty gobbling that again rolls through the damp dawn air. "This is probably close enough. Don't want to spook him." We glance around, looking for an ambush point with a clear 40- or 50-yard view. It is difficult to find. The land slopes too quickly. Brush chokes the few flat areas. We sit against one tree, then another and another, checking and rejecting the views. Finally, the eastern sky lightening, we must choose. "That one back there looked best, don't you think?" Ken asks as he nods toward a big bull pine. Its massive trunk will provide a comfortable rest and camouflaging background. We take it. The tom we've targeted has been booming its love call every two minutes for a quarter hour now. It is time to reply. I slip a box call from my camouflaged vest pocket and scratch out three soft yelps. His answer almost lifts us off the ground. I look at Ken and see the whites of his eyes, the only part of him not covered by camouflage. During the next 15 minutes, as the sky lightens, our gobbler thunders his passion. Twice more I rasp out seductive responses. Then we hear big wings flapping. He's coming. The next gobble is muted by foliage and the crown of the slope. Panic. Has he gone down canyon? I yelp excitedly. He gobbles. Then all is silent. Ken has his gun leveled across his knees, his cheek resting on the comb. Robins whistle. A towhee calls. A woodpecker drums. What has happened to our turkey? Did he have hens with him? Did he hear us walk in? Should we move? Should I call again? Why doesn't he gobble? I lift the paddle of the box call, gently drag it across the walnut lip of the box and all heck breaks loose. Not one but two gobblers thunder back at me. And another answers from farther down the canyon. We're into gobbler gravy. The wild turkey migration into the Pacific Northwest has been no accident. Fish and game departments, aided and inspired by the National Wild Turkey Federation, have made a concerted effort during the past 20 years to establish these magnificent game birds into the land of salmon and black bears. Historically turkeys ranged no farther north than Colorado, no farther west than Arizona. The vast deserts and sage lands prevented them from pioneering any farther, even though a rich habitat of pines, oaks, and grassy meadows awaited just beyond the dry lands. When hunters began releasing wild birds into the area, they prospered. Today thousands of Northwest sportsmen are discovering the challenges, frustrations, and delights of spring gobbler hunting. Spring hunting usually runs from mid-April through mid- to late-May. In most states licenses and tags can be bought over the counter. Some areas even permit the taking of two gobblers. Compared to elk and deer hunting, turkey hunting is relatively unpopular. It is still possible to enjoy a hunt without seeing another two-legged predator afield. But that is quickly changing as more and more sportsmen discover the joys of outwitting these huge, cautious birds. If you want a piece of the fun, better start now. Take to Lakes for Early Fishing Spring fishing in the West is often as frustrating as turning the calendar during our long mountain winters. The trilliums may be blossoming, the tanagers singing, but runoff makes streams and rivers too fast and muddy to fish. During big snow years, such as this one, deep drifts block back country road access to isolated waters until June, sometimes July. The winter wait becomes an interminable spring wait. So I go lake fishing. Rainbows are a great ice-out fish, ready to bite even on blustery days with spitting snow. When I can't tolerate another day of inactivity, I throw my float tube into a cold mountain lake and paddle along the edge of ice flows, dragging a dark Woolly Bugger fly. Fortunately, because casting arms are rusty and fingers cold, finesse is not necessary. Just get the fly into the water and paddle to keep warm, varying depth with tin split-shot on the leader or sink-tip lines until something hits. Often a bit of flash in the fly's tail rings the dinner bell. Sometimes the fish are fussy about color, but usually they want black, brown, dark green, or purple. Size is often as critical as color, so I pack buggers from size 12 to 4. Gold-ribbed Hare's Ears are also good, and in some waters scud patterns turn the trick. After the ice has been gone a week or two, I watch for three or more consecutive warm, calm, sunny days. This lures crappies, bluegills, perch, and bass into the shallows where they seem to enjoy sunbathing. Really. They suspend over a dark bottom in a few feet of water, slowly rise toward the surface, and just hover as if taking in the warmth. These are cautious, nervous fish and not very aggressive. But they can be caught. The trick is to fish slowly with a light touch. Small floating plugs on ultra-light spinning tackle work. Cast beyond the school, reel slowly up to it, and let the lure sit. Eventually a fish will ease up and "kiss" the hook. The ensuing fight is considerably more exciting. You'll have to wait several minutes for the school to surface again. Oddly, at these times yellow perch and even bluegills will smack floating Rapalas several sizes larger than they'll hit later in the spring. An even more subtle approach can be made with a fly rod throwing the lightest line possible behind a long leader tapered to two or four pounds. A six-weight line will suffice, but if you have a four or even a three, give it a try. Fly patterns are not critical. Rather than wear out my trout flies, I use rubber-bodied ants, beetles, and similar patterns that float high and take a beating. Crappies are least likely to rise for a surface fly. Try a slow sinker on them, something bright that you can track visually. Cast to the nearest fish and when you see him slowly open his paper mouth and suck in your offering, strip him quickly away from the school, then play him out of harm's way. In this fashion you should be able to sneak a number of tasty fillets out of the water before putting down the school. Backwater bays and sloping mud flats are the places for this brand of fishing. Look for these shallows near adjacent deep-water sanctuaries out of which the fish may conveniently rise with warming temperatures and sink with returning cold. Remember, three or four consecutive sunny, calm, warm days are prerequisite for pulling the fish shallow. Daddy, Let's Go Camping I may be spoiling my daughter, but I'm spoiling her for the outdoors. "Daddy, let's go camping," Sarah says. "Okay, where to?" "The back yard! With the doggies and a fire so we can roast marshmallows." Reluctantly I click off Dan Rather and follow my excited five-year-old upstairs where the tents and sleeping bags are stored. Yeltsin and Russia will have to muddle through their latest crisis without me. I've important work to do. "Right here," Sarah says and points to a flat spot beneath our biggest pine. "Hmm, looks like a nice flat spot for sleeping, but what about those branches overhead?" I point and tilt my head up. "They'll give us some nice shade." "Yes, that's a good idea, but what if the wind comes up and knocks down a branch? It might land on us and that would hurt." We jointly select a new, safer location and begin putting tent poles together. Ours is not an adventure most hunters and anglers would relish, but it is important to Sarah and our future. This generation of impressionable youngsters will be deciding the fate of wildlife, wild places, hunting, and fishing in less than 20 years, and they are the most removed from the natural world. The average American child grows up in a cocoon of artificiality, isolated from the intimacies of nature that have created the great naturalists, anglers, and hunters of the past. Kids play indoors, watch television programs and movies about cities, suburbs, and fantasy lands. Outdoorsmen, if they are shown at all, are depicted as slobs, buffoons, and murderers. Animals are fawned over or deified. Our culture is sowing the seeds for the destruction of what remains of the wilds and wildlife. So when Sarah wants to go camping or fishing or light a fire in the back yard, we do it. I direct her attention to insects and leaves, flowers and bird songs. Last night I carried her into the cold on my shoulders to listen to a pygmy owl calling. When she was two I lifted her to the rim of a robin nest so she could see the blue eggs. She was canoeing and fishing with me when she was a year old. Although she can't keep up with me in the field, I bring pheasants and grouse home, hide them about the yard, and the two of us hunt them. I play the part of our setter and point the birds. Sarah arms her rubberband gun and shoots them. Then I retrieve, we admire the pretty feathers, and pluck one to put in her hat band. She helps me butcher the carcasses, asking questions about lungs and hearts and wings. Fathers are many things to their children. One of the most important and most enjoyable is mentor to the outdoors. Copyright (c) 1997 All Outdoors, Inc. All rights reserved. |
