“For Whom the Church Bell Tolls”

That would be Tractor Tom, a fine bird that died fine on April the 3rd, 2005 one hour and five minutes after he pitched to the earth to holler his lovesick calls.

Let me begin with apologies for any images brought to the mind with this story but I’m gonna tell it from start to finish, just like it happened. Saturday, after I called up the same group of jakes that have fooled me twice into thinkin’ they were indeed longbeards, I noticed big ol’ gobbler tracks walking right past my truck. So Sunday morning, I decided to park in a different spot and walk to my usual in hopes of possibly getting there and meeting the turkey that fit those tracks in person. Well, no sooner than I’m out of the truck and puttin’ the vest on, did nature call. It being nearly 25 minutes until normal gobblin’ time, I had time to find a tree to hug. Just as I squatted did the ol’ boy ring out his call to me. Dang, this would have to be quick. It reminded me of a tom I took many years ago, I nicknamed “The No-Wipe Tom”, but we won’t go into that. Suffice to say, I’ve always been lucky when they catch me with my pants down. His gobbles came from my favorite section of a hardwood forest and I knew a quick and quiet way to get to him. Since it was nearly 20 minutes til fly down time, I had time.

Business done, I got back in the truck, hauled butt to the top of the property, parked and hit a four wheeler trail that led me right to him. I was hoping to get to my favorite sittin’ oak but just as I exited the pine ridge top, I spied him on the limb. Hardly a leaf on any of the big oaks dictated the obvious and I backed up right then and there against a pine. I watched him strut and gobble on the limb for 15 minutes and I let him know a hen was up my way with a few tree yelps on a JJ Tom coconut slate. He answered immediately and turned to face me while he stretched that neck and fanned his tail. Sure was a beautiful sight seeing him silhouetted against the gray morning sky. I was relieved when he pitched towards the oak knoll just before me. A hen followed his lead.

He wasted not a moment roundin’ up any hen in listening range. He promptly serviced the hen once she reached the knoll and for the first time I got to witness turkey conception in the wild. A first, for me, in 19 years of chasin’ these three toed critters. Pretty spectacular is all I can say. I could swear he gobbled while doing it too, but I can’t say for sure. I was pretty much in awe. At this point they were about 60 yards out. I pulled out my wing and did a fly down cackle once he finished his business and he went right into strut. Dancing his way closer, twirl and fanning, he closed to nearly 40 yards. His next move had me at wits end for nearly 40 minutes as the crafty devil chose a spot right behind two large oaks only 40 yards away to stand his ground. He gobbled and gobbled the entire time, only stopping to strut. His gobble sounded deep and long with a chug chug at the end that reminded me of an old timey hand crank tractor trying to start. He loved everything I threw at him from my Woodhaven mouth yelper to Tim Oldham’s glass slate. He even acknowledged the purrs from a Roger Lathem slate. It was all so good, except for those big oaks. As you would know, he evidentially left and went to the far side of the knoll to bellow out his pleas for eager company. I prayed I had not lost him.

I pulled out an Irving Whitt sassafras box call I fortunately won at this years NWTF convention. Some clucks and a few yelps from that box did the trick and he strutted and gobbled his way back to my side. Please come around that oak, I begged. When he came into view again, the hen was at the lead and she appeared to be headin’ my way. In a moment of silence, I heard the Culloden church bells ring for the 8 am service. I half way expected to hear a gobble but he left them to their own sweet sounds. The hen was heading straight for me but he seemed to be angling away to take the hill at a lesser slope. That would put him too far away and behind me once he reached the top. I had to find my opening. Small ones came and went, not many more left. So I started cuttin’ real loud to blow him up. He obliged and went into strut. He passed my perfect openin’ in full strut, dang. I frantically searched for the next and found it just as he came out, peering up my way, neck and head high. The shot silenced the woods to an eery quietness.

The next thing to ring the woods was my voice yelling “Ye Hi, Thank you Lord” Ah man, he died fine and I returned with him to my calling spot and just relived the last 65 minutes over and over as I thanked God for the opportunity to take such a fine bird. You almost wish you could wave a magical wand and make him come alive again but the closest way for that is through my memories. Tractor Tom was a king in his forest with a 10 1/4” broom beard, one inch spur with the other broken at 5/8”. 17.12 pounds was his weight with nary an acorn in his craw. I surely hope that hen is a good mother, as his offspring should be just as fun in a couple of years.