RED RIVER VALLEY RIOS

BillCooper

Jan 2010

A tall, lean Texan thrust his hand into the fading early morning darkness and said, “Mornin’, Bill. Welcome to Texas. I’m Sherman Wyman.”
I felt at home already. Wyman planned to take me hunting for a Rio Grande gobbler on his 1,900 acre Clay County, Texas ranch. Daybreak approached rapidly as we spoke.
“I think you are in for a grand turkey hunt this morning, Wyman said with a Texas-sized grin on his tanned face. “I roosted a bunch of birds down on the river last night.”
I could not have heard sweeter words. Wyman knew his stuff as well as the lay of the land. There is nothing comparable to roosting birds the night before the hunt. It offers a great advantage when approaching the birds for the first calling setup the next morning.
“I have already been down there this morning,” Wyman whispered. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. This guy is my kind of turkey hunter. “I jerked an immediate response from a gobbler with my owl hooter,” Wyman continued. “We need to get going, but I think we will arrive just about right.”
Wyman hopped on his ATV. I followed in my pickup. We wound our way down a curvy ranch road through rolling hills of lush, green grass, a testament of Wyman’s dedication to this piece of land he had restored through his conservation efforts.
We paused briefly to watch a wild hog scramble over the crest of a hill to the east. We continued forward, flushing a pair of Bobwhite quail from lane side cover.
As my pickup topped the last hill, which lay cloaked in Indian paintbrush, a panoramic view of the Red River Valley appeared. Tall oaks, cottonwood and locust trees formed a riparian corridor which resembled a giant serpent stretched across the landscape in the fading darkness.
Wyman stopped 75-yards short of the heavily wooded river bottom. I scrambled for my gear while the cameraman shouldered the camera gear. We hoped to film the entire hunt for my first Rio Grande gobbler.
Wyman’s long legs covered ground quickly. Forty yards inside the wood line, he paused. Our surroundings looked very similar to a river bottom back home in the Missouri Ozarks.
Rumblings of distant gobblers echoed down the river valley from both directions. “Let’s set up right here,” Wyman said. We staked out a couple of decoys while the cameraman nestled into the abundant cover.
I unfolded my Cabela’s stadium seat turkey vest and made myself comfortable against a small hackberry tree. Being very comfortable, including back support, helps the toughest of turkey hunters to hang with the hunt a little bit longer. The lush bluestem grass made the perfect blind cover.
I stroked a soft tree yelp on my Quaker Boy slate call. Seconds later I increased the volume to a throaty yelp, then a short cackle. Multiple gobbles boomed back from 150-yards away, immediately. I shuffled 90-degrees to my right and reset. I cackled again. Surprise! The group of gobblers had already covered half the distance. They were coming fast.
I cackled non-stop for 15 seconds. The birds bellowed their approval of my serenade. They were closing in.
Sudden silence can unnerve even the wariest of old gobblers. I held my call. The first red head bobbled behind an old locust deadfall. Then another and another and another. Seven jakes scurried for position to arrive first.
I purred softly on my slate call. The youngsters thundered back at me, their combined gobbles creating a heavy rumble from twenty yards. I combined my mouth and slate call into a cackling duo. The jakes boiled into a gobbling frenzy like I had never heard.
Wyman’s ranch held lots of mature gobblers. The jakes presented an easy target, but it was only twenty minutes past shooting time. We elected to watch and listen as the jakes headed to a sandbar on the banks of the Red River, that thin line which separates Texas from Oklahoma. There they gobbled and danced like so many drunken ballerinas, an incredible show that I will long remember.
Rowdy gobblers from both the east and west of our location had begun to answer my calls. I suspected things were about to get very interesting.
Wyman and I estimated that the closest mature gobbler sounded off 300 yards away. We closed the distance by 75 yards and setup again. I waited five minutes to let thing settle down. My heart hit my throat so hard it gave me a headache when I made my first call from our new location. That old boss gobbler had closed to within 80 yards.
I have harvested over 80 turkeys in my lifetime, but I will never forget the tail fan of my first Rio Grande Gobbler as it appeared above the bluestem grass in that Red River valley hardwood forest.
The grand old gobbler bellowed once again as it broke into the open in full strut. I settled the bead of my shotgun at the base of its neck as it waltzed ever closer to our hide. The magnificent tom broke strut and periscoped its head looking for the lusty hen in the brush. The perfect shot opportunity – but I held my fire. The bird appeared perfectly comfortable and I didn’t want to rush the moment. I wanted to see the tom strut once more. Feathers glistened like diamonds in the morning sun. A palette of iridescent colors flashed as the tom edged closer.
As always seems to be the case with wild turkey gobblers, the grand old Rio gobbler finally smelled a rat. He folded from the strut position and nervously began to walk away.
My 30 years of experience hunting gobblers in several states did not help my steadiness. My heart pounded and I detected a slight shake of my hands. When the tom reached an open spot, 30 yards out, I slowly squeezed the trigger. The load of 3-inch, 12-gauge Hevi-Shot number 6’s put my first Rio gobbler down for good.
Wyman and I raced to the flopping gobbler. My short legs kept up with his much longer legs. “Look at those spurs.” Wyman gasped. “They are a good 1 3/8-inches long. This is the best gobbler ever taken on my place.”
After all congrats and photos, I sat for a while on a flower covered hilltop above the Red River Valley. I captured the memory of my first Rio Grande gobbler and the grand country which provided it.