Bowhunt America

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Winters can be cold and hard where I’m from in Colorado, and for a bowhunter you can throw in the fact that it’s way too long as well. It’s not that I mind the chilled temperatures or even shoveling drifts that can pile as high as the fenders on my truck. The terrible part is that winter signals the end of most of the bowhunting seasons in my part of the world. Besides, the fetching Mrs. Strickland of nearly 15 years firmly reminds me that I’ve been chasing one big game critter after another since mid-August and the honey-do list is getting extremely long.

Gradually, though, winter gives way to spring and then summer. When the green shoots start to reach for the sky, the days begin to get longer and that notorious honey-do list is finally whittled down, the outdoor afflictions that continually plague me start to raise their heads again. It usually starts with a nervous twitch but soon boils over into sleepless nights and counting the days until that moment arrives—opening day.

I’ve missed very few opening days over the years. In fact, I treat them pretty much like holidays. You’ll see them sandwiched between birthdays, anniversaries and all the other must-see events marked on my calendar. It would be hard for me to pick which opening day I like best. Certainly the first time I head into the whitetail woods with a bow in hand is high on my list. And I can’t forget the anticipation of the first season here in the West—pronghorns—or elk a few weeks later. But overall, I’d have to say that chasing those beard-dragging toms of spring may just be what I look forward to most. Although all opening days are special, it’s hard to beat the interaction between hunter and game that takes place in the spring turkey woods.

Until a couple of seasons ago, I chased the kings of spring with a shotgun in hand. Although bowhunting toms has been popular among many of my archery brethren for years, I had long felt that some critters asked for more than arrows and broadheads. “Heck, turkeys can be hard enough to kill with a shotgun,” I often told myself. “Why throw the use of stick and string into the equation!”

But in a moment of bowhunting addiction—or shall I say weakness—this past spring, I decided to pick up my bow and leave the scatter gun at home. My mission was a spring turkey smackdown, and I headed to Kansas to get that done.

Beyond Colorado, I’d have to say that the Sunflower State is my favorite bowhunting destination. A friend, Casey Ingold, had invited me to sample some of the long beards running around the northeast corner of the state, so with my pop-up blind and bow in tow, I pointed my truck east.

My plan was simple. Place my blind in the perfect spot, arrange a few decoys, send out some lovesick serenades and get ready to assault the first interloper that came into range. That’s exactly what we did, except for the assaulting part. Needless to say, it’s rarely as easy as the plan, and this time was no different. However, after a few setups and a couple of misses, I did finally head back to the truck with a 20-pound Eastern gobbler draped over my shoulder that opening day.

The following morning dawned slightly cloudy and cool, with a touch of wind––not so much wind as to make turkey hunting a foolish proposition but enough wind to make me think it might get much worse. In spite of those worries over the lack of the perfect day, I grabbed my blind and headed to a particular ridge where toms liked to strut their stuff during the morning hours.

As the sun smudged the eastern horizon a chorus of gobbles filled the air. With each passing minute the gobbles became even more urgent and at one point erupted into a crescendo. With shooting light still minutes away, all I could do was sit back and listen to them voice their lustful intentions. Sometimes there are moments in the woods when it doesn’t matter if you get to clip your release to your bowstring, and this was one of them.

Shortly after daylight a dozen hens began to move up my ridge. And just like it’s supposed to happen, three strutting toms were tagging along. As the flock broke from the trees, I hit them with a series of soft yelps. The three toms stopped and looked in the direction of my lone decoy. While they did show some interest in my lonesome hen, it quickly became apparent that they weren’t about the leave the dozen girls they had spent the night with. I guess I couldn’t blame them.

And that’s when another tom, God bless him, started to let his presence known from behind me. He came out of nowhere, literally, and when he popped into the view of the other toms, all three of them broke from the pack and trotted with a lustful rage in my direction. They weren’t about to share. In a matter of seconds, 80 yards melted into 20. Before I could pick the tom I wanted, all four were trying to out-perform the others around my decoy.

Needless to say, it was a fine turkey morning, and as I headed to my truck with another Kansas tom draped over my shoulder I couldn’t help but think just how perfect the morning really had become. The word “perfect” seems rarely applied to bowhunting turkeys, but on that particular Kansas morning it seemed just right.

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