"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