Earlier this month I found myself in a sparsely populated corner of Nebraska for a media turkey camp coordinated by Arterburn Outdoors. We made our temporary home in an open field, where we spent the first afternoon unloading a large, meticulously packed travel trailer. Bin by bin, the components of tent camp were sprawled in vague categories in the grass. What looked like chaos over the course of an hour or two became a fully functioning headquarters for our hunting camp. A large main canvas tent served as the communal gathering place and kitchen, while individual sleeping tents lined the field in the back.
Different personalities, representing several brands, from various regions of the country and even Canada, converged under the wide open sky to learn about each other, the brands each collectively represented, and turkey hunting in the Cornhusker State.
After camp was set up on the first evening, we drove around to scope out the current turkey situation. A bilow of red dust hung in the rear view as we wove through gravel roads. I took in the surroundings from the back seat of the flatbed truck, the floor rumbling beneath my boots. Turkeys dotted the landscape in almost impercievable numbers. I would soon learn that seeing birds doesn’t mean easily tagging birds.
So Many Birds
There were a ton of birds, but many were too close to the road, or standing on land we couldn’t hunt. Or they were hens and jakes, but we were targeting toms. Specifically toms in a huntable scenario. This part of the country holds a mix of turkeys: Merriam’s, Rios, and a hybrid blend of the two. Either way, different from the birds I pursue in the Northeastern region of the country, where we only have Eastern turkeys.
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So Many Almosts
That first evening, we decided to hike up to the tallest ridge and have a look around. From that vantage point, we spotted two big toms and a hen traveling together in an open field at the bottom. Our guide thought we could slip down the ridge quietly and use a line of hay bales for cover.
We engaged our best stealth mode and crept downward. Once in position behind the hay bales, our guide Logan set up a tom decoy, and he and I tucked in tight behind it. When he called, the response was immediate. The toms ruffled up and came in hot, angry, and committed. There was a millisecond of opportunity.
“Shoot—no, don’t shoot,” he whispered.
I took my safety off of the Franchi Affinity 3.5 I was carrying, but never pulled the trigger. They were too tight together to take an ethical shot. In some states, it’s legal to take two birds with one shot. In Nebraska, it’s not.
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The Moment Stretches On
Logan and I held position while the toms moved in sync across the field and into the tree line without ever giving me a clean shot. Once they dipped out of sight into a drainage ditch, we followed with low, careful steps until we were close to the treeline where we last saw them. The guide called again, and in response, two red heads popped up like targets, but out of range. He called once more, and they started back toward us.
They came within ten yards but were still glued together, before casually turning and slipping back into the timber. Just like that, it was over. A chance that built fast and disappeared faster.
The Next Day
We dragged ourselves out of our cozy sleeping bags and into the communal tent at 5:45 a.m. We we fully feeling the chill of the 26 degree morning. Steam rose from our coffee thermos’ as we piled into the truck and headed back into the hills. Same general area but a new plan.
We’d hike to the top, glass the other side, and locate birds from above. Logan’s keen eye spotted toms in a field below a roost tree. We dropped down to a line of hay bales again, but the birds were out of range. We watched them work their way toward the back edge, disappearing behind a ridge. So we backed out and climbed through tall, wispy grass, careful to dodge the prickly pear cactus, as the weather started to turn from simply cold to also wet.
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The rain came first in heavy drops, soaking us from top to bottom. Next up was a flurry of unseasonable hail, creating a surreal juxaposition against the scenery. What followed that were big, soft snowflakes that coated the ground and stuck to everything.
We spent the morning chasing those toms up and down the steep hills, the weather getting worse with every step. It was miserable, good old-fashioned fun.
During the walk out, we had one final opportunity when we again spotted two toms with a hen (a different set). Logan and I crawled in as the snowfall drfited down around us. It felt like being inside a snow globe. The world went quiet, and for a moment, it felt like it might finally come together. That perception was as fleeting as the weather.
The hen slipped in between us and them, and rather than blow it, we backed out and called it a morning.
Try Again Tomorrow
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That evening we huddled in the tent over enchiladas, telling stories of our hunt and of adventures we had had in other places. Two turkeys had been tagged that day by other members of camp. Everyone else remained hopeful.
The next day started out at as frosty as the day before. Our group split in two, with Logan and I heading in one direction, and Alice and Andy in the other. Alice tagged a bird by 9am. After photos and congratulations, we reconvened as a group and hunted through the morning with no further luck. By midday we dragged ourselves back to camp worn down and discouraged.
By the time we went back out for the afternoon, the sun was high and bright. I opted still to wear my jacket. An hour into the hike I was sweating but not slowing down.
Hide and Seek
Two and a half miles later we located a set of three toms. Our first attempt at them had Andy and I crawling to them, using a grass wall and tractor tire ruts as cover. They moved on before we could get into range, tucking behind a sandhill and seemingly disappearing into the abyss.
Logan anticipated where they would go, but to get there, we had to double back behind different hills and creep our way the long way around to where they were going. It was a lot of hurry up and wait, as we kept running into stray hens and jakes that we didn’t dare to alert to our presence.
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We finally made it to the back of the hill where he thought they would be on the other side. It was near a pasture filled with very pregnant and newly calved cows. While Logan crawled to the top to get a look, he told us to wait where we stood.
This plan made sense to me, but the cows definitely didn’t agree. They gathered at the edge of the fence, stomping and grumbling and giving us the narrow eye stare that only an angry mother can give.
While Logan was on his reconnaissance mission, I did my best not to further offend the cows, who had progressed to aggressively mooing in our direction. Once he finally returned, he explained that the turkeys were indeed where he thought they would be, and traveling upward. The plan get to the top before the turkeys and be ready.
We began our ascent, but soon came to realize we were matched in speed by the turkeys, because as as we crested the summit, so did they. What followed was a quick and lethal battle involving one shot of the brand-new Final Strut ammo by Remington sent from the end of my 12 gauge. My tom was down and the survivors frantically dispersed.
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Not Done Yet
This was a beautiful bird, and I was grateful for the experience of being able to hunt in an entirely new terrain. I basked in the glow of success and reflected on the privilege it was to chase a new subspecies and to test my endurance all in the same timeframe.
But Andy and Logan still had a tag to fill. So we again loaded up and headed to a new place. They spotted two toms in a recently turned over field. I was instructed to wait in the truck, and the boys headed out and down the hill. They were gone for less than an hour and when they returned, they did so with the biggest bird that would be harvested at turkey camp.
It was all smiles from there on out. When we returned to camp, we realized that every single turkey tag has been filled that day, which added up to eleven tags filled between the two days. Not too shabby for an eclectic group of media people. That night the laughter under canvas lit up the night sky, as we celebrated turkeys, the people who pursue them, and the unique piece of America that is Nebraska.
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