Old guy's doing stuff

turkeymanwade · May 11, 2026

A tom for Uncle Joe

My Uncle Joe is just a few months shy of 20 years older than me. He’s been a friend, mentor, father figure, coworker, carpool driver (aka ride to work), hunting buddy, and fishing partner. Until recently, he didn’t show a lot of interest in turkey hunting, and I didn’t push the issue. I tried to make it known that he was welcome to hunt with me, but I knew turkey hunting ain’t for everyone.
One evening, I was preparing my gear for the next morning’s pursuit of a longbeard, and my phone rang; the caller ID said Uncle Joe. He had been talking to a local farmer and his son and was fired up about killing a wild turkey. I told him I was his man, and we hatched a plan to go the next morning on a piece of land the farmer had just acquired. The farm was reported to be loaded with turkeys.
Due to the weather, expectations were not high. Cold and rainy is not good turkey hunting weather. The morning dawned without any gobbling at all. We were set up where the landowner’s son had seen turkeys. After about an hour of hear no turkeys and see no turkeys, I eased around in the woods to get a peek at another part of the field. There out in the middle was a tom turkey and several jakes. Best I could tell, they had come from the other side of the field. Other than the gobbler chasing two jakes out of the field and three jakes chasing the gobbler out of the woods, the morning was uneventful.
The good news was, I had a plan for the next day. Maybe not a winning plan, but a plan. When legal time came, we were sitting on the other field edge, and again no gobbles had been heard. Just as I started to become discouraged, a gobble rang out behind us and close. Less than 100 yards. I let out a few soft yelps and was rewarded with an immediate gobble. The turkey hunter waited until he gobbled another five times before yelping again and again the tom gobbled right back. Maybe not in the catbird seat but at least we were in the game.
At this point in my story I should back up and explain something. My shooter is 83 years young and more spry than some 50-year-olds. But time and loud noises have taken away most of his hearing. It was obvious that my uncle hadn’t heard the tom’s gobbles. So I eased up onto my knees, leaned over to my left and said in a load whisper, “there’s a tom gobbling right behind us.” He replied in a normal voice, “What did you say?” I repeated a little louder, “There’s a gobbling turkey right behind us.” I pointed for extra emphasis. This time his reply was “I can’t hear him.” Now that Uncle Joe knew there was a bird that might be heading our way, I eased back to my seat.
Before long the tom gobbled again, and he was without a doubt on the ground. He answered my soft sexy yelps and clucks immediately. The next time he gobbled, he had closed the distance. He was coming. I picked up a stick and punched my uncle in the shoulder. When he turned to look, I did my index finger in a twirling motion and pointed in the direction of the gobbling. I wanted him to turn and get ready to shoot, but he just turned to look. The tom was gobbling every few minutes but the “hen” he was trying to entice was totally silent.
After what seemed like forever (about 10 minutes) I saw a dark spot that wasn’t there before. The dark spot moved just a little to its left and showed its bright white head. There he was at 35 yards, with plenty of trees and bushes to hide the raising of a shotgun. My shooter wasn’t in position, and I didn’t know why. I wasn’t even sure he had seen or heard the bird. I’d say I could have easily killed the tom. But a little over a week before, I had missed one, albeit in different circumstances, at about the same distance. Didn’t matter, this was Uncle Joe’s hunt.
The younger of the two hunters had had his head turned all the way to the left for so long that the kink in his neck would be still there three days later. The longbeard was so close and gobbling so loud that you could feel him gobble, not just hear him. With the turkey behind a big tree, I slowly turned my head to look at my companion. He was breathing hard enough that I knew he was seeing and most likely hearing the tom. But his gun was still pointing in the wrong direction. The spit and drum of a wild turkey is something you just have to experience. It’s almost impossible to describe in writing, and a recording doesn’t do it justice either. Strutting, spitting, drumming and gobbling, this bird was putting on a show.
The bird worked its way around even more behind me until see was out of sight unless I turned around and look over my right shoulder. Not wanting to spook the tom I elected to just sit and see how it played out. After several minutes, he gobbled and it sounded like he had left the area. “Oh well,” I thought, “it was fun while it lasted.” But then the next time he gobbled he was back just over my right shoulder. I’ve witnessed this before; somehow, a tom turkey can throw his voice just like a ventriloquist. I took a full minute to turn my head to the right. While I was straining my eyes to find him; he gobbled right where I was looking. But I still could not see him.
We were set up about 20 yards from a corner of woods that juts out into the field. Two hen decoys were about 20 yards in front of us. When I finally found the longbeard, he was crossing the little ditch around the corner from the field edge we were set up on. Hope was not lost. The turkey turned to his left and headed for the part of the field where the decoys were. At the corner he again turned to his left and made an agonizingly slow beeline for the fake hens. The tom never took two steps in a row. One step, stand and strut, another step, stand and strut. Ever so slowly, he closed the distance. This kind of excitement is what turkey hunters live for. Now, if we just don’t do something to mess this up.The longbeard started to turn away, still in full strut. I could see Uncle Joe tighten his grip on the old 12 gauge, and I knew he knew what to do. When his tail fan is between the hunter and the tom’s eyes is a good time to raise your gun. With the gun in position and the shooter looking down the barrel, I cut loudly on my diaphragm call. Making the tom break strut and stick his head up. The old Savage roared, but the turkey didn’t go down. In a voice loud enough for anyone to hear, I said,"Shoot him again!” This time, the load of number six’s found its mark. I jumped up and in seconds had my snake boot on his neck. My uncle and me were both were grinning like horses eating yellow jackets.
After I was sure the tom was dead, I walked over to where my uncle was still sitting. I said,”Man, you’re killing me.” He said “what do you mean?” “First you couldn’t hear the tom, then I wanted you to turn around and shoot him when he was behind us, and then when you finally shot you missed.” He replied that it wasn’t too easy on him either. First his left hearing aid quit for no apparent reason, then his feet were tangled up in vines and briers so all he could do was watch the tom going around behind us. Then he said “how in the world did I miss with him right there, that close?” I told him, I’ve been there, it’s easy to do. We laughed, took pictures and enjoyed the moment. Then I carried his gun to the old F-150 and he carried his first wild turkey.
What a hunt. That tom did everything you could want him to do. He gobbled on the limb, he flew down and gobbled some more while closing the distance, he strutted, he spit and drummed, and in the end he road home with us. What a hunt.