This is a documentary of Daily Cardinal writer Seth Bichler and his annual wild turkey hunting trip in Western Wisconsin.
For four years I have climbed the ridges of Buffalo County, Wis., in pursuit of the Eastern wild turkey. Each spring I return thoroughly humbled and empty-handed.
These birds have a commitment to survival that has proven more potent than my Browning 12-gauge shotgun, full body camouflage and supposedly superior intellect, combined.
Wednesday, April 26 I awoke at 4 a.m. with a gruff-looking group of men that have been like an extended part of my family for as long as I can remember. After the usual round of coffee, donuts, insults and greetings, we headed to the oak covered ridges of Western Wisconsin. Our journey was made in pursuit of a bird that Benjamin Franklin believed to be the true American symbol, more so than the scavenging fish-hawk that currently adorns our money and televised exhibitions of political punditry.
As I walked through a pastured valley beneath high walls of earth and trees, the birds began to gobble. Concerned that I was arriving too late, I took to the first spot that looked good and hoped for the best.
Having awoken from their roost atop the giant oaks of the Mississippi region, the birds flew into the center of the field to begin their strange and ancient courtship rituals at approximately 5:50 a.m. That was expected. What I didn't expect was the four-feathered bowling balls to whoosh directly over where I was sitting. At less than 10 yards I probably could have taken them out of the air but I had no idea that they would fly right past me.
After the big Toms (that's turkey talk for an adult male) made it to the field, they began their weird theatrics. Strutting, dragging wings, puffing up their feathers to appear enormous, and gobbling for a good 25 minutes. As an avid birdwatcher, I found it quite entertaining and more than a little comical. There is no other sound in nature that rivals a turkey's spring gobble, hearing four in the same valley complete with echoes was an intense experience.
Those birds were never decieved by my decoy or calling, and the rest of the day was quiet except for a few hens (off limits in the spring nesting season) clucking and purring near me. Back at the cottage I was late for cocktail hour, the Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey Manhattans on the rocks (seemingly a staple nutrient for the males in my family) were already having their effect. After a few hours of banter and insults we went to sleep early for the 4:20 am. wake up alarms.
As whiskey is required after the guns are put away, coffee is needed to get them back out. Thursday was cold, wet and silent. Ironically, this would be the day that our group got two gobblers, one Tom and one Jake (an immature male) taken by Captain Thomas Blumenberg, and Timothy Ebert, both alumni of UW-Madison. Two out of eight hunters in our group got one, roughly the same as the overall Wisconsin success rate.
In the afternoon I came very close to ambushing two huge Toms but they meandered behind some trees and avoided a trip to my freezer. The rest of the hunt was fairly uneventful. I relished the opportunity to reconnect with nature, see the sunrise, listen to the birds and actually see the stars. I still have never shot a turkey, but I'll be back to the land of vanished Buffalo and resurgent Turkeys before I leave this great wilderness that is Wisconsin.
