Living on Turkey Time

California Turkey Camp with a few old friends

This year, the opening morning of wild turkey season landed exactly on the day after my final day working for Huckberry—marking the end of a 10-year run. Yeah, that’s a whole lot of hours of staring at a computer screen. It was officially over, and wild turkey season was officially beginning.

Spring turkey season is not just about the start of a hunting season. It’s much more than that. It’s a metaphor for the earth stretching as it comes awake again, and for the trees cracking out their stiff joints. And for a few short weeks, the woods smell fresh, new, and hopeful, teeming with life that hasn’t been this happy in months. It’s the season of renewal. It’s like a big exhale from the planet as if the natural world is ready to reveal something truly incredible to you (i.e., an iridescent-feathered gobbler strutting your way), but you have to immerse yourself in it and be still in order to earn it. This year, the turning of the page brought on by spring was more significant for me than it had ever been, and the anticipation of what we might see was far stronger than ever.

We arrived at our campsite on Wednesday evening and set up our tents that would be camp for the next few days. We’d have two spring mornings to hunt together in an unfamiliar place that none of us had ever stepped foot on. The only thing we knew for sure, was that a Thursday bird would probably be more willing to play than a Saturday or Sunday bird. So we planned to hunt hard for 2 days and jet out before the weekend crowds arrived.

I met Jeff and Jonny a decade ago. Jeff has been hunting turkeys for 20 years, and we’ve tried to get together for a hunt in the past but haven’t been able to make it happen until now. He won’t admit it, but he knows his way around a turkey call very well, and has probably killed as many turkeys as any decent turkey hunter in California. He is, like me, consumed by wild turkeys. He’s a turkey hunter. If he told you he’s called in a hundred turkeys over the years, he’s probably lowballing.

Jonny, on the other hand, was new to turkey hunting this trip. He is an OG from my steelhead days - we spent early mornings in our younger years going up and down the north coast chasing the silver ghosts of the lost coast rivers, mostly getting skunked, as steelheading often goes. But turkey hunting is a different pursuit—this was new for him. Jonny, to his credit, already understood that the bird doesn’t owe you anything. If it wins, it wins. And you need to be ok with that. That’s how you know you’re dealing with a respectable outdoorsman. But, I could tell he really did want to kill a turkey.

As we settled in for the night, the air was eerily quiet. Absolutely no gobbles rang in the distance as the sun went down. Not even one. Owls hooted and crows called, and you’d think that a gobbler would’ve sounded off too - but nothing. We tried to sleep, but there’s something about the night before your first day in the woods that’s electric. You cannot settle down and your mind is racing. You’re already out there, even if your body’s still in the tent.

We’re up at 4:30, and the cold and wet morning air sticks to our bones as we flick our headlamps on. Jeff and Jonny head north, I head south. We part ways, but not far enough to lose the sound of the wild. 75 yards into my walk, and the oaks explode with gobbles from every direction. The game is on.

As I’m tucked into a tree and the first light cracks the horizon, all the gobblers go quiet. Too quiet. A few hours pass, and I move my set up to a nearby grassy meadow, hoping for some sign of life. The glass call in my hand feels like an old friend, but the birds are not really talking today. Then, in the distance, a shotgun cracks.

“Was that you guys?”

“Yeah, Jonny just missed one.”

“No shit!!”

Turns out, Jonny’s shot had sailed high. But these woods were thick with birds. Jeff had called in a few that morning, a couple jakes and one tom, trying to get Jonny on the board. The shot didn’t connect, but it was a start. We were figuring this place out and we were close.

The morning dragged on, and my luck wasn’t any better. I heard a few birds here and there, but nothing came close enough to do the dance. Mid-morning, I said fuck it and hiked a mile through the bush to see what else was out there. When I stumbled into a narrow meadow with knee high grass, the sun was almost all the way up, and I spotted a lone gobbler in the distance. All I could see was his neck and head, everything else obstructed by grass. He was standing in the middle of the field alone like he owned the place, but also as if he’d lost his hen, or was desperately looking for one. This was a bird that might play—and he hadn’t seen me yet. I slid back and tucked under an oak, back against the tree, and made a few very soft calls. 10 seconds later and the gobbler was hauling ass straight for me. His white and blue head raced across the tips of the tall grass until he was 15 yards away from me, and as soon as I had a window, I let the 12-gauge talk. He dropped, and I was on him before his wings stopped moving.

I sat there for a while and soaked it in. These kinds of moments come rarely, and should be reflected on. This is the real inauguration of spring - not anything having to do with calendars or ground hogs. Boots off, a mini shooter of Maker’s Mark in one hand, a Romeo y Julieta in the other. Because if you’re gonna smoke a cigar, it should be after you’ve killed a turkey. A tradition, one of my favorites, that I learned down in Mississippi from the Mossy Oak crew. I’m not really a cigar guy, but for moments like this, you keep a couple in your vest.

By noon, I met back up with Jonny and Jeff. As we walked back to camp we stumbled onto something almost as good as a wild turkey – wild blonde morels, perfectly fresh, hiding in plain sight right next to the trail. I stuffed my vest with them and knew that dinner was going to be a serious affair: mule deer backstrap steaks that’d I’d brought in anticipation of not killing any turkeys, and a handful of big fresh morels. The woods were officially alive, and we were set to eat like kings. This is living.

The next day, Jonny would shoot his first turkey, right after seeing a gobbler and a hen put on a show as they flirted 200 yards across to us on an open field. And towards the end of the morning, Jeff and I managed to call in yet another weary gobbler that came in to a close enough distance to close the deal on him in quite possibly the most beautiful grassy green meadow of oaks that I’ve ever sat in. In between those moments, we saw and talked with over a dozen birds—it was one of the most active and incredible days of turkey hunting I’d ever seen. The woods were alive and well. It was one of those days that, with no better way of saying it, was a perfect spring morning.

As we packed up to leave, we remained on turkey time in our minds. Jeff and I talked about turkeys for the entire ride home, throwing out theories about the birds there. As Jonny wondered what kind of fucked up disease Jeff and I had been consumed by all these years, I knew deep down that he was catching the fever.

We parted ways all wishing we were still in the woods, but were unfortunately heading back to reality. Jeff was off to his family and responsibilities, and Jonny was preparing for a new job after a year-long hiatus. But me… I was just stuck on turkey time, and I plan to continue to be. This trip was the beginning of more things than one for me, and the journey had only just begun. Thirty days of madness lay ahead, and the rest of the story is still to be written.