Photo by Ralph Hensley

"Fall turkeys don't respond to calls." How many times have you heard or read this statement? In my case, more times than I like to recall.

This all changed last year during my annual fall turkey camp. Each fall Bob Whitehead, Joel Vance, and I meet in an undisclosed location in the Ozarks that lies alongside one of Missouri's more famous smallmouth streams and next to one of the largest blocks of public land in Missouri. We hunt both private and public lands.

Fall turkey hunting provides an excuse to meet, companionship with old friends, good eating, and a reason to forget the office for a time. Such fringe benefits have tended to be the highlights of these three days each year -- and good thing, too, because this event has for several years been characterized for us by little if no success in hunting fall turkeys.

Last fall, in addition to my partners, Ray Eye, videographer and producer of Eye On The Outdoors, joined us to video a fall hunt and shoot introductions for his program. Ray sleeps, eats and talks turkey. The first afternoon after setting up camp, I changed to camouflage, loaded my 12-gauge Remington turkey gun, and walked downstream to an old pasture, brush-hogged earlier in the year. Last year I discovered turkey broods using this field during late afternoon to feed and some days to roost near the field.

I set Gertrude, my hen decoy, along the field edge and pushed back 10 yards, there to sit concealed against an old white oak. I called softly several times, using my slate call -- because I could. The afternoon remained silent. Mosquitoes buzzed my headnet, seeking admission. A redtail hawk that had been gliding overhead settled in a pine tree across the field for no longer than it took a flock of crows to harass it into taking wing again. The afternoon was quiet, warm, relaxing. I warmed in the afternoon sun. My eyes grew heavy, and presently I dozed, enjoying the day, letting the world back at the office recede into remote triviality.

Turkeys squabbling in the field interrupted my dreams. A brood of half-grown poults and two hens had wandered out into the field along the opposite edge; there they fed while poults chased each other, working to establish dominance within their very literal pecking order. I was reminded of teenagers hanging at the mall.

I called again. No response. Neither hens nor poults paid any attention either to Gertrude or to my calls, though they could doubtless see her and definitely hear me. They paid no attention. I once again confronted my limitations as a turkey caller, and remembered about fall turkeys not responding to a call.

Frustrating.

As the sun disappeared behind the hill and shadows spread over the field, a doe and yearling fawn joined the turkeys, feeding on new grass. As darkness fell, someone in the turkey club decided to move to a roost, and the entire flock flew across the field to settle in trees about 60 yards from my position. I had a decision to make: Wait until the turkeys settled down and then, using the field edge for cover, back out, leaving Gertrude? Or retrieve my decoy, possibly spooking the birds?

Gertrude spent the night in the field.