Mom’s Chop had always been a spot for success - three hardwood ridges paired with a creek bottom flat and a pine thicket that bordered the north end of the largest ridge. I always made sure I would call or text my uncles to make sure they knew I’d be there bright and early in the mornings we all hunted together. My stepfather would usually hunt close to the house. He was a true modern-day mountain man. His brothers were my uncles, and his son was my best friend. See, ol' K.P., “my stepfather,” took me in and made me his son when I was in a rut and had nowhere to go. He taught me things, showed me things, and helped me when I didn’t even know at the time that I really needed it. I killed my first turkey with his shotgun, a Mossberg 500 12 gauge, which kicked harder than a mule and had a bark louder than an angry Rottweiler. However, it killed. It killed his first turkey as well as mine. We lost K.P. one tragic day in January 2014, but we didn’t lose the memories or his spirit.
I woke up one morning with the feeling that it was going to happen. I had watched the gobblers every morning leading up to this one. I knew where they were headed and where to be. At least, that’s what I thought. As I crossed the small creek bed and entered Mom’s Chop, I could hear a faint gobble. I thought that bird had started early this morning. As I reached the halfway point to my original spot for the morning hunt, I stopped to listen for any birds. Nothing. Pure silence. Agony. For three mornings in a row I had heard birds by sunrise, seven or eight different gobblers sometimes. However, it was silent this morning. I decided to go to the top of the ridge where I had seen the birds go the morning before. As I got to the top where it would flatten out, I decided to sit down and just listen. For a whole hour I heard absolutely nothing. I ended up letting the run 'n' gun inside of me get the best of me. As I walked down the ridge to my original spot, I began to kick the leaves and get really aggressive with my butt-naked hen mouth call by Tom Teasers. As I neared the bottom of the ridge, a gobbler struck out a hard with a long gobble. I nearly jumped out of my vest. I remember I smiled and said checkmate.
I managed to get as close to the bird as I could without getting too close. As I calmed down, I realized that the tom was uphill from me and there were three others as well. I suddenly began to think that it was going to be a bust. I had always been told, "You can call a bird uphill but not downhill.” I decided to shut up and listen. I noticed that the ol' tom hadn’t gobbled in a few minutes and neither had the other three that were uphill. I took out an old slate call I had won eight years prior. I gently dragged the striker across it and made the perfect purr. With that, the woods exploded! The tom that was directly in front of me up the ridge began gobbling as did the other three up the ridge. This caused the gobbler by himself to shock gobble at them. Before I knew it, a bird with a loud and deep gobble erupted from the ridge I had sat earlier in the morning. Where was he earlier? As I began to purr some more, I heard a hen with the gobbler behind me start chattering. I knew that if I beat the hen I could have a chance at the gobbler. Before I knew it, she and I were cutting and yelping at each other like two women arguing over hairdressers. Finally, she decided to take her man behind me and leave me be.
I was now focused on the four birds above me. After 30 minutes or so, I could finally see the birds. As they slowly and cautiously crept closer, I could see that the three birds together were two Jake’s and one young tom. His beard couldn’t have been six inches. As they crept closer towards my decoy, I began to wonder where the fourth bird was. He was the one lonesome gobbler. No sooner had I finished this thought than he appeared in full strut. I stopped everything and watched as he moved slowly and elegantly. I had no safe shot and knew that if I waited patiently I may have an opportunity. I let out a soft cluck and followed it with a gentle purr. Three younger birds began gobbling, causing the lone tom to react. Before I knew it, the lonesome bird was fighting with one of the three birds. As that bird ran off, he picked another bird and began flogging him and causing complete chaos. Then it was silent.
I knew he was coming towards me, but I didn’t know where he would end up. As I thought of a plan and about that the hunt may be over, I felt a gentle breeze on the back of my neck. I smiled, and to this day, I believe that was K.P. telling me to stay put. I began purring again, and the tom let me know he was still interested with a gobble that shook the leaves on the ground. Knowing he was still not in shooting range due to the hill and trees, I began to crawl on my belly to get to a point that would give me a quick shot. As he began to play his games of catch me if you can and trot away gobbling, I made my move. I reached a dead oak tree, sat upright, and began yelping and cutting, following it with a shock gobble. He couldn’t stand it. The lonesome tom broke away from his strut zone and began to get closer. There was a five-minute period that felt like five hours where neither one of us said anything. I scratched some leaves, and he let me know he was ready to meet the mysterious hen he had been looking for all morning with a giant double gobble. Realizing he had come downhill and all that separated us now was a small rise with two small dogwood trees, I quickly cut at him and yelped one final time. Finally, after one of the longest hunts I had experienced in the turkey woods, he showed himself. However, he was very weary. Knowing if I called at him anymore he would realize that something wasn’t right, I froze. Then, like magic, the wind blew again, causing my decoy to move softly. The lonesome gobbler couldn’t stand it and had to get a better look at the decoy. As he walked on up, I put the bead on his head and smiled as I squeezed the trigger.
I remember I jumped out of my vest and thanked the Lord as I picked my turkey up. You see, this was the first bird I had killed by myself and the second bird I had killed since I had begun turkey hunting, both with K.P.'s gun, a gun that means more to me than anything I own. As I sat on that ridge in Mom’s Chop, admiring my bird, I reflected on the memories of sitting at the kitchen table talking hunting stories with K.P. and my uncles and smiled knowing that this turkey hunt would be one of the most memorable hunts I would ever endure in the turkey woods. Realtree Outdoors says it best, "Family, friends, and the outdoors." Without those three things, I don’t function as a human. I believe we all need to spend more time outdoors, fellowshipping with our family and friends and thanking the Lord for his beautiful creations like Mom’s Chop.
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