I am not the most ardent hunter but I am a hunter. If I were Daniel Boone life would be hard and food might come a little slow but then this is modern America and I can be lax in my procurement of food.
This is to say I approach it leisurely. The first couple of days I might get up at 5:00 and head to my predetermined stand to see if any gobblers are in the area. As first light approaches the big boys start carrying on giving out their rather odd gobble as a way of announcing their presence to the girls, better know as hens. In making this noise they also announce to any hunter their exact whereabouts.
On my first outing, and I will admit I was a little late, I heard only a few distant gobbles and realized at this location I was probably going to entertain myself counting ticks and looking at song birds. The same thing happend at my other spot. There just were not many turkeys. It seems the last couple of winters have been hard on them. A rain in January followed by a frost covered the food. Not good.
As a result of the low population, I backed off on my efforts and settled for sitting in the woods for a number of hours calling my brains out, that is making lonely hen noises, trying to see if I could attract a willing suitor--not for me, of course. I had intentions of putting him in the freezer. No luck.
I did count numerous Wood Ducks in the pond, sandhills skirting about looking for that one perfect spot. Then there was the geese to the east who endlessly rattled about the swamp bickering and getting ready for goslings season.
The big event of the four days in the woods was finding a Black & White Warbler lying dead in the field where I hunted. There, simply discarded by nature, was this tiny bird of song. There were no marks of struggle, no missing feathers, no blood from it's tiny heart. It simply had ceased to be as a living thing. It's song was gone, a song I had been hearing as I sat tucked in the thicket thinking I was a hunter. It seemed a waste. It had not been consumed and appeared to be simply drying up in the sun. I guess that is the cycle. Maybe he had the warbler pox and couldn't get to the doctor. It was the first time I had ever seen this feathered minuscule angel of the forest. For that I give thanks and consider my stay in the woods worthwhile.
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