A SONG AND A DANCE

Bill Cooper

-Singing ocellated turkeys and baby tarpon dancing on their tails in the land of the Mayas-

Today’s adventures begin in the soul, an enigma inspired by recollections of the travels of bold characters of the past. Caught in a lane too fast for my liking, the words of John le Carre`, “The desk is a dangerous place from which to view the world,” kept running through my mind.
Saltwater spray stung my nostrils as Cpt. Miquel Encalada (campecheflyfishing@hotmail.com) brought the Mako flats boat up onto plane and sped across the placid blue waters of Campeche Bay, Mexico. “Welcome to my world,” Cpt. Encalada yelled above the boat engine’s roar. His tanned smile echoed heart stirring emotions, “Our adventure begins.”
I felt the swell moving up my throat. I had waited a lifetime for such an adventure. My break came at the invitation of Luis Augusto Garcia Rosado, the Director of Tourism for Campeche State, Mexico. Over the next twelve days I would dive into the charming cultural, natural and historic world of the land of the Mayas on theYucatan Peninsula of Mexico.
The Los Petenes Biosphere Reserve stretches for 80 miles near Campeche City. Mangrove estuaries, turtle grass flats, innumerable channels throughout the jungles, freshwater creeks and spring upwellings all contribute to the idyllic hides for baby tarpon.
A swelling sun burst red and orange stripes onto towering clouds to the East. Daybreak approached as Cpt. Encalada completed the 30 mile run and swung the boat towards a lagoon encircled by dense jungle.
“We are on a falling tide,” Encalada said. “The water will be flowing from the mangroves. We will intercept tarpon as they leave the mangroves to return to the bay.”
With stripped line piled at my feet and a chartreuse Tarpon Toad in my hand, I stood ready for the first cast. “Watch for the bubbles,” Encalda instructed. “Cast five feet in front of them and begin stripping the line as fast as you can.”
“There, there, 50 feet ahead. See them?” Enclada excitedly queried. Mikey turned the boat to offer me the best cast.
I whipped the 9 weight Temple Fork Outfitters rod into action and shot a line towards the cruising fish. Flyline burned across my fingers before I’d had time to make my first strip. A 5-pound Silver King danced across the dark waters of the lagoon. My Tarpon Toad landed next to the boat.
“That happened too fast,” I exclaimed. I had just learned rule number one when flyfishing for tarpon: Be ready. Encalada kindly suggested that I keep my rod tip touching the water while stripping and to use a series of hard yanks, with the rod pointed at the fish, when a strike came.
“More tarpon ahead,” Encalada whispered. I took a deep breath and began my casting routine, attempting to get enough line out to reach the pod of fish 70 feet away. One, two , three false casts and I let the fly fall on the fourth and final haul. “Perfect,” the Captain complimented.

“They are chasing the fly, strip, strip, strip!” The commotion of a striking tarpon will unnerve the most experienced fisherman, but I kept my composure and set the hook. A 12 pound beauty flung its silvery body straight up out of the water slashing its massive head side to side attempting to eliminate the sting in its jaw. I bowed slightly as the fish crashed back into the water, hoping to keep my tippet in tact.
Three jumps later the tarpon tired and slid to hand. Mikey boated the splendid fish. I marveled at the rugged beauty of this ancient species. Such moments should last forever. On the other hand, the morning had just begun. More tarpon adventures lay in the mangroves ahead.
Campeche is a laid back Spanish Colonial town of about 400,000. Well off the beaten tourist path, it offers a peaceful, tranquil ambiance sought by man travelers. A diverse history is well documented in the many parks, sculptures, museums and ancient churches which dot the city. Mayan ruins are nearby as well. Cobblestone streets, built from the great wall which once completely surrounded the city to deter pirates, compliments the colorful buildings.
With my first tarpon under my belt, I turned my attention to the ocellated turkey which inhabits the jungles in a 50,000 square mile region of the Yucatan Peninsula in the states of Quintana Roo, Campeche and Yucatan as well as southern Tabasco and Chiapas. Small populations also exist in northern Belize and Guatemala.
Outfitter Jorge Sansores (snookinnjorge@hotmail.com) joined me at the beautiful Campeche Plaza Hotel for a late dinner. March and April are the prime months according to Sansores. Although it was May, Sansores agreed to take me and my hunting companion, well known turkey hunter Ray Eye, to the field the following morning near teh farming village of Carlos Cano Cruz.
I had been intrigued the evening before by Sansores’ description of vast corn, milo and soybean fields surrounded by thick jungles. All of the research I had done indicated that hunters pursued ocellated turkeys in the dense jungles and shot them out of trees. As the tourism van bumped down the last of the rough roads before reaching the hunt headquarters, I silently wondered what my first day of ocellated turkey hunting would bring.
Across the dirt road from the main lodge stood an old open air shed. It would serve as our hunting headquarters, since the main lodge had already been closed since it was so late in teh seasson.. There in the predawn Eye and I met Sansores, his son,xxxxx and two Mayan Indians, Aurelio Sanches Hernandez and Margarito Campos, who would serve as our guides.
Laughter filled the archaic hut as introductions were made and we as hunters from two vastly different cultures sized one another up and began to understand that we were all of a kindred spirit. Eyes twinkled as we each took turns pantomiming some past personal adventure of turkey hunting. Ray Eye charmed everyone with his owl hoots, loud yelping and thunderous gobbles.
“El pavos sings instead of gobbling,” Sansores laughed.Eye, a big man, responded by pirouetting like a strutting gobbler while simultaneously singing a bouncy tune. Any concerns about the ensuing hunt faded with the uproarious laughter.
Roadblockers flitted in the headlights ahead. The whip-poor-will, the same bird we listen to in the Ozarks, earned its monicker because of its incessant habit of perching in the middle of the dirt roads of Mexico. Seven miles from the village, the driver pulled over.
Our hunting party trekked a mile down the edge of a plowed cornfield surrounded by jungle. “We’re going to hunt these birds just like we do back home,” Eye quipped.
Aureilo dropped his gear in the red dirt and hacked his way into the jungle with an oversized machete. Within minutes he had a space perhaps 10 x 20 feet opened. He motioned for us to bring our camp chairs.
Thirty minutes prior to daylight, Aureilo pointed to his ears and then pointed across the corn field to the jungle on the far side. I heard it distinctly, the singing of an ocellated gobbler.
Bongo-like bass tunes continued steadily. The cadence of the singing gobbler quickened and increased in volume until it reached a crescendo where upon the bird issued a high-pitched, but melodious series of chops. I quickly fell in love with this new found sound to me, the song of el pavo.
“Pavo, pavo,” Aureilo whispered. I borrowed his Nikon binoculars and laid eyes on my first ocellated turkey. My heart pounded with excitement.
The majestic bird strutted and sang for the next two hours. “These turkeys act just like ours back home,” Eye said. “We will have calls when we return next year. I’ll call el pavo to the gun.”
Aureilo indicated that the singing bird sported perhaps two inch spurs, one of the trade marks of ocellated turkeys. The peacock colored birds lack beards, but make up the difference with charm and beauty.
The giant bird, perhaps 15 pounds, strolled across the corn field and into the jungle 200 yards away. Aureilo signaled that the time had arrived to call it quits for the morning.
Sandwiches, cool drinks and hammocks for a siesta awaited us at the shed. Only the sounds of crowing roosters interrupted the snores that echoed from the hammocks.
At 3 p.m. we headed back to a blind further down the field. He had not been in position long when Aureilo ducked down while while indicating a turkey approached from the left. Eye turned slowly towards me and said, “It’s 25 yards out. Stand up and shoot it!”
Before I spotted the bird, it stuck its head inside the jungle 5 feet away. We held steady. At 7 yards, I pulled the trigger on the ancient xxxx shotgun, fulfilling a pair of lifelong dreams to enjoy the song of the ocellated turkey and see the dance of the Silver King in the land of the Maya.