My new obsession

After a 15 year hiatus I have rejoined the ranks of bowhunters. I always loved shooting a bow and the release of being focused on the flight of the arrow and tuning my skills to their finest. Now , as of christmas , I have rekindled my relationship with the stick and string. My how things have changed since my old 87 model bear compound and the monstrous arrows we used to shoot. The main thing that has changed has nothing to do with my bow but with me. When i was fifteen years old 65 pounds on my whitetail compound was nothing. Now , at 36 , 42 lbs on my diamond razors edge is a strain even at 75 -80 percent let off. It has taken me 4 months to finally work up to actually cranking the poundage up to close to 50. Between multiple football related shoulder separations , a 8 year stint of powerlifting , 14 years of baseball , your basic farm, ranch and saturday night idiot accidents , and one very invasive shoulder surgery , I have the shoulders of a 65 year old man. The funny thing about the situation is that I absolutely can't get enough shooting in during the week. I have already started going thru the arrows and having to buy more. My target is getting eaten out from the carbon punishment that it has been taking. Now for the first time in months I can draw the bow without a sharp stinging shot to my left shoulder. I am obsessed.
  The reality of the situation came to me yesterday while i was shooting. I need to fire at something alive. It's time for me to set the trap , lay the bait and bring home the bacon. Feral hog season is on and it's time to find one. The question in the wind with my scenario relates back to a time in my life when I decided I was going to be a cowboy. I roped the dummy religously and honed my roping skills on the ground so that when my time came I would be ready. I could go 50 for 50 on the ground. When i loaded the horse into the chute for that first run I went down like a gut shot dog and never made it to the steer let alone even got to swing a loop at him. Spitting out dirt was my taste of victory that day. Now I only wear a cowboy hat to keep the sun off my bald head while I cook out. Let's hope that the next arrow i shoot at an animal doesnt find the proverbial dirt like I did....adios , thanks for reading and be sure to check out our sponsors. There are some great outfitters and people contributing to this site..

Campfire Talk :The off season

I am officially in spring cleaning and preparation mode . I have made it thru the school year and am ready to get focused on getting my lease ready for the upcoming hunting seasons. It never fails that this time of year when I have more spare time on my hands , I obsess about my huntng grounds. I have serviced and modified my polaris ranger , cleaned it thoroughly , cleaned and prepared my stealth cams , put at least 100 arrows a week thru my Diamond razor edge , and spent many hours analyzing what i need to scout/hunt via google maps. What I would like to know is what rituals do you guys go thru in the off season? I am curious to see if all hunters are as obsessed with hunting as I am. Do you feed mineral? do you spend time scouting in the offseason? Am I wasting valuable back yard barbecue and shiner bock time to be in that mesquite covered red dirt hole?..Basicly feedback and discussion is what I am looking for. If you aren't able to follow this blog because you haven't got a google membership or cant figure it out , get a clue..find a way , overcome those obstacles that separate you from the enlightenment provided in these hallowed texts created by over worked , under payed and hunt deprived texas educators...discuss..someone throw me a bone or throw gas on the fire..JW , Caprocker , Olinecoacher , jackass , fat boy , coash

"Turkey Tips" by M-O prostaff writer Kent Thomas

Tip for Windy Spring Time Turkey Hunts :
I’m sure that most of you, as you have headed into the spring turkey woods, have encountered a windy day that played havoc on your decoy(s). I found a way to combat the wind and use it to my favor as it added great movement to my decoys.
When using a single decoy, I strongly recommend you purchase a Primos decoy stake. The one that I am speaking of is the one that primos came out with when they introduced their B-Mobile gobbler decoy. What makes this stake great on a windy day is the wing-nut on the top of the stake. Once screwed down, your decoy will simply sway from side to side on the stake and you won’t have to worry about it suddenly catching a gust of wind that fills the inside of the foam body and launches it straight up into the air!!
I am very fond of the Feather-Flex breeding pair (Jake that sits atop a hen), but my use of these has been very limited because of our windy West Texas days that happen so often in the spring. Well, I solved that problem this season. I, once again, use the Primos stake and punch it straight through the hen’s tail and sit her directly on the ground. I then position the breeding jake on top of her and mark two spots, one on each decoy, where I then attach fishing swivels to attach the two. I affix the swivels to the decoy body by using a fastening brad (the thing in a folder that a kid uses for school to keep loose-leaf paper). You should be able to get these by the box at any office supply store. If you have trouble finding a box of these fastening brads, simply buy a folder that has them and gently remove them. I paint them with a flat black spray paint as well as the swivels and they worked like a charm this spring. What you will end up with is the swivels coming out of the jake’s chest and snapping to the swivels on the hen’s back. With the jake being screwed down by the wing-nut on the Primos stake, he will dance from side to side as he sits on top of the hen. Very realistic looking!! This particular set-up withstood an hour’s worth of 30+ mile per hour winds on one particular hunt.
Hopefully this tip will help you as you fight the wind on your next spring turkey outing. Good huntin.

Kent Thomas

"Rios On the Red " by M-O Prostaff writer Kent Thomas

“Rios on the Red”
The multiple gobbles thundered along the bed of the Red River as the early morning sun lit the eastern sky with pinks and oranges that no artist has ever duplicated on a palette. We were on ‘em. The mischievous little grin that stretched across my face was soon replaced as I remembered one of turkey hunting’s most famous sayings, “Roosted ain’t Roasted.” As the birds pitched off their nighttime limbs, no truer words were ever spoken. We estimated some 100 or more birds roosted over the big wheat field that separated us, and when all was said and done, we were left watching a group of only nine, one big Tom and eight of his girlfriends. We had placed a set of breeder decoys out in front of us and ol Tom would glance occasionally at them, but his female companions had other plans and he faithfully followed them out of the field and left us shaking our heads and quietly snickering at the two foam bodies that remained in the field.
It was time for a move. We headed west in hopes of getting in front of the Tom’s band of beauties, and ended up alongside a road that gently sloped uphill for a distance of about 200 yards. We figured that the group of birds was just on the other side of the hill carrying out their spring time ritual. We were right! We began calling and had an immediate response from a lone gobbler. Over the course of the next two hours, I became engaged in the most “blissfully, frustrating” day I have ever spent in the turkey woods.
A lone hen came heading down the road and ended up a mere ten yards from my partner and me. My immediate thought was, “Awesome, we have a live one here now, won’t be long until he follows her.” Was I ever wrong. What took place next was something that I never dreamed I would witness. She roamed about in the jungle thicket that Tyler and I had set up in for the next ten minutes. It was driving her crazy that she could not find the other hen who had been making such sweet sounds. As she turned to exit the thicket, she dipped well under a fallen branch, and laid down. I was astonished. I have witnessed deer bed down within plain sight, but never a hen turkey. In my very simple mind I started to put 2 and 2 together, and I came up with this: WE WERE SUNK in this particular spot. If she was coming to nest, the Tom was already finished with her and would very likely not come to our calls. If she was simply resting, we had to re-position without spooking her out of the area and “putt” calling to the Tom on the other side of the hill. We managed to ease her out of the thicket, and sure enough, two eggs lay in her cleanly, swept-out nest.
I told Tyler that we had to get closer to that hill. He devised a plan, and with the stealth of a ninja, we crept to a large oak tree that stood 85 yards from the crest of the hill. We settled in and began another calling sequence. Three different gobblers sounded off from behind the hill and our excitement rose. We waited, then called again. The gobbles crushed the air around us. They were moving closer. We waited, then called again. This time, the gobbles sounded muffled. They were now moving away. “This is no good”, I whispered to Tyler. Another lapse in silence was disturbed by our plea on an M.L. Lynch fool proof box call to come back. No luck. Still they gobbled, and still they sounded a thousand miles away. “We need to move again”, I told him. “We need to position ourselves where we can see the other side of that hill.” He agreed, and I told him that if we could get that done, I would call one in close enough for him to choke it. I needed to see what was going on over there. Just as we prepared to exit our hide-out, a booming gobble erupted followed quickly by the following sounds….. “FWAP, FWAP,,,,,PURR, PURR, PURR, GOBBLE, FWAP, FWAP, FWAP”. We eased ourselves back down and I whispered to him, “Geez-oh-Pete, I think they are fighting over there!” The fight lasted for about 10 seconds, and then came one last gobble that almost blew our caps off. Here they came! Two mature gobblers, over the top of the hill, one looking for the hen and the other in full strut. As the lead gobbler closed the distance to 35 yards, Tyler’s 12 gauge belched a load of #4 shot at the bright, red head of the Tom. It was done, but my heart pounded for the next 30 minutes and I sported a smile that industrial strength 409 could not have washed off. As we carried the Tom back to the truck, I made a point to take in all of the spring sounds that were singing along the banks of the mighty Red.
Kent Thomas