A STEP BACK IN TIME

Bill Cooper 11/11



With all of the high powered ritz and glitz of the hunting world today, it is occasionally refreshing to take a step back in time and go hunting the way our grandfathers did in the 40’s and 50’s.
A small group of my outdoor writer friends and my wife, Dian, did just that recently. We gathered at a rustic old cabin on the Big Piney River for a weekend of laid back, no pressure, fun be first, old fashioned turkey hunting.
The rules proved simple. Everyone would wear period clothes, including bib overalls. Felt hats, which many of our fathers and grandfathers wore, put us in the jolly mood so often exhibited by those relative hunters who taught us the ropes.
Our period turkey hunting camp would allow no modern super turkey guns nor the magnum shot shells that go with them. Instead we utilized double barreled shotguns with number 7 1/2 shot which our forefathers used for everything they hunted.
Camp members spent the better part of an evening by the fireplace reliving hunts from the past and pondering what game hunters of old might have taken with the three side-by-sides we gathered for our festive hunt. Doubles were preferred by many hunters in the 40’s and 50’s. It is easy to see why they fell in love with the guns they used. Our group marveled over the fine work put into a Parker 16-gauge double as well as a classic L.C. Smith double duck gun in 12-gauge. Everyone chuckled at the Sears and Roebuck double 12. Everyone recalled the Sears catalogs in the outhouse more so than the shotguns.
Our turkey calls consisted of handmade varieties including wingbone calls, cedar scratch boxes, school house slates and a couple of old snuff cans. A couple of us reverted to whistling to imitate lost, young turkeys.
Nostalgia ran deep as we swapped stories and recalled favorite hunts and hunters from long ago. Sentiments waxed heavy as members of our group realized that we were now the old timers. With the steady decline in interest in the hunting sports, we wondered aloud if our grandchildren would host a hunt in our memory someday.
Fall colors had begun to fade from the peak of two days previous. However, the brilliance of the autumn woods bode one to explore the hills and hollows along the Piney and secretly hope to encounter a flock of fall turkeys along the way.
I slowly walked down a familiar ridge in the early morning darkness. I well knew that if I found birds, they would most likely be at the far end of the ridge, a mile away, where it tipped off steeply to the Piney River far below.
Old turkey hunters often speak of intuition. They sense that turkeys are nearby. The sensation overtook me enough that I paused in the blackness of the morning. The silhouettes of a cluster of tall pines stood stoically just down the ridge tip towards the Piney. The perfect roost site for a flock of turkeys.
I slowly eased towards the pines, hoping to scare a few birds from their perches high in the pines. Too, testing the quality of my intuition weighed heavily on my mind.
The sound of heavy wingbeats, then another, and another verified my intuitive skills. Indeed, I had become an old time turkey hunter.
Immediately I quietly sat down at the base of one of the mighty pines from which the turkeys had flown. I silently hoped I had not emptied the roost. Young birds do not like to be alone for long. Shortly after daylight they would begin to return to the point of the scatter, especially if there were live birds there calling.
After 20 minutes had passed, I took my cedar scratch box and began stroking it on the stock of my shotgun. Soft yelps echoed from the tiny box. From across a steep hollow and far up on the distant pine covered ridge I heard the faint whistle of one of the young turkeys I had scared from the roost.
The morning had played out perfectly and I leaned tighter against the pine trunk at my back and ran my hands over the fine wooden stock of the Sears and Roebuck double barrel. My old fashioned turkey hunt panned out perfectly.