Turkey Chasing In Ohio

August 3, 1876.

In Turkey Chasing in Ohio, originally published in Forest and Stream on August 3, 1876, we’re reminded that long before modern gear, mobile maps, or custom calls, turkey hunters were dealing with the same things we are today—the obsession, the frustration, the humor, and the pull of one more push.

Some things don’t change.

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Turkey Chasing in Ohio by Aliquis, originally published in Forest and Stream, August 3, 1876.

LEWIS CENTER is not a great way from the geographical center of the noble State of Ohio. It is but a town of ten thousand inhabitants, though should it ever have Lake Erie give it a seaport, it might get up to two hundred. It was in November when my friend Wilson, his pointers Sam and Liz, and myself dropped off the southward bound train at this point. Wilson was acquainted with a farmer named Clayton living three miles out of the village who had invited us down to shoot quail. We enquired for a hotel, and were referred to old man Lewis. He received us willingly, and we remained some days with him, making splendid bags of quail in the near vicinity by luckily dodging some proprietors upon whose “preserves” we were unconscious trespassers.

We also heard some large stories about turkey shooting around there, which excited our desires and anticipations. At last we went over to farmer Clayton’s. When we arose on the morning after our arrival, we found four or five inches of snow and plenty more coming in large damp flakes. Said Wilson, “it will hold up before long, and we will go ahead.” Said Clayton, “I cannot husk corn to-day, so I will go with you.” Said I, “We might as well stay at home; the quail will not run, and we shall be most decidedly wet and uncomfortable besides.” Of course, when they started, I went with them.

We often do most intensely foolish things by association. I hold that one is not responsible unless he does an act of his own free will, ab initio. When we play second, we have but little control over the tune. Clayton had what he called his two-barreled gun, weight about ten pounds, length of barrel about thirty-four inches, sure death every time to a squirrel upon the top of the tallest tree, like many another gun brought up in the country. The snow was just deep enough to be too deep for pleasant walking. As we went through stubble-field after stubble-field, the tendency was very great to follow in the footsteps of the man ahead, the dog coming number four. This was hunting quail Indian file.

The more I reasoned upon the matter the more certain it appeared that the quail would not run even on the slowest kind of a walk, but if we should find them, wouldn’t they catch it. Two hours passed, and by great good luck we tramped into a bevy. We were fully as much surprised as they. Wilson and I brought down three upon the first rise, the “long Tom” blazing away as they went across the field; it didn’t kill a squirrel that time, whether it killed a quail or not the snow was too thick to see. The direction was towards an orchard near an old deserted house. The branches of the large apple trees, covered with snow, came down almost to the ground. We thought we had them sure, but they had treed. Our dog was not accustomed to pointing up a tree, and as they went out at uncertain times and places, we managed to kill just two in seven shots. The next disappeared in the storm.

A team came by and the driver called to us, “Don’t you want to shoot some turkeys?” That suited me. “Of course we do.” Wilson demurred; Clayton agreed that turkeys were desirable. The man said a flock of sixteen had just crossed the road above there. Two men were after them and had killed one. I pulled out my number 8’s, replacing them with number 4’s. We struck the track, followed up rapidly, and in three-fourths of a mile we came across the turkey hunters. One of them had a gun, the other a live turkey. The tracks led across the open fields towards a patch of thick trees and brushes. Clayton was pushing ahead at a fearful rate, and I wondering what he was at, tramped on as well as I could. Wilson kept along for fear of getting lost, but with many a groan.

Altogether, we five men and a dog, made very creditable time through the wet snow. As we reached the corner those ahead turned to the left, I turned to the right, where the ground was broken by a small ravine. Flap! flap! not four rods beyond me, like a great windmill, starting to fly. Again, flap! flap! until the air was full of flaps broken by the reports of the stranger’s single-barrel and the long Tom. I could not manage to get a glimpse of a feather. Sixteen turkeys rising within eight rods, and not a chance at them! I did think one might have turned my way, but turkeys are great for straight lines.

I dashed through the thicket—too late! Clayton and the stranger had started them within a few rods, and had seen nearly all of them. Alas! they were not squirrels, up on the top of the tallest tree. While they were loading, I, having got my Ebenezer up, took the lead. In the course of half an hour the stranger came up with me. He would push ahead, I would catch up and pass, then again he would overhaul me, until I was about dead. I reflected that tomorrow was Sunday—a day of rest—and ahead I went with utter disregard as to wear and tear of muscle. The walking grew easier the more difficult it became, and I felt fresher the more wearied.

Where the turkeys were leading I knew not, and cared little. My indefatigable companion still kept the lead the major portion of the time, and I wondered where he got that pair of legs. We were now passing through a large forest, and on the low ground, thirty rods ahead, were our feathered friends. I fired both barrels, but it didn’t appear to disturb them out of their walk, which was a very slow walk indeed—too slow, at. I loaded as I went on. A turkey had turned to the left. My friend took the single track, and I saw him no more. I did not slacken my pace; had just got into good walking order; could see the flock every little while thirty rods ahead, and as they would go over a knoll I would make a rush to shorten the interval, and when I got up where I expected to see, could never see them at all, but—

—had to take the track again; and when I did see them again, there was no some old thirty rods between us, and they, walking off serenely, like so many aldermen with their hands under their coats. At last I had them cornered; to be sure it was only in a corner of the woods, but they did not seem inclined to go into the open. As they hesitated, I made a tremendous rush and fired into them, at what I supposed was about ten rods; I measured it afterwards and found it nearer twenty-five. I expected to kill half of them at least. They rose and broke, some going to the left, some to the right. There were no dead ones lying about. I was tired of hunting them through the woods, so I took after five or six who flew straight across the open.

Struck a track in a large cornfield, and by the time I reached the woods they were all together. After manifold twists and turns we came into a briar patch, much broken up by ditches and logs, and on the farther side came upon them in a corner of the fence at ten rods. The first barrel laid low one. As they rose I covered another, but he did not come down. I left the dead turkey under the fence and kept on, soon finding the tracks of the others. I was now reduced to number 8 shot. I reasoned that if the turkeys were half as tired as I was, I should certainly overhaul them. A mile and a half farther on I did overhaul them in an open field, and fired both barrels at 20 rods, hoping to hit one in the eye; but, am afraid I did not.

At this I took the back track, soon coming to my dead turkey, which was a fine gobbler. Taking an observation to ascertain my whereabouts the briar patch appeared familiar, and I found I was at the rear of Clayton’s farm, and not half a mile from the house. Being so near home made me feel hungry, so I shouldered my turkey and was soon at the house, where I found Clayton and Wilson. They had followed my track, expecting to pick up the dead turkeys, but didn’t pick up any, and didn’t think much of turkey shooting. They said they had overtaken my friend with the active legs, and he was very anxious to learn who that chap was who got over the ground like a “quarter horse.”

It was about two o’clock when we finished our lunch, and had stowed away a large amount of cider, and I announced that it was time to start. Wilson and Clayton were horrified. “Why, we are all wet through; the snow is deep, and comes faster and wetter than ever,” they said. I replied, “it is just the time to hunt turkeys—especially these turkeys, for they haven’t had any dinner—and cider, so we shall have the advantage of them. Always take advantage of a turkey, when you can do so legitimately, as you would of a man; which simply means, whenever you get a chance. If you will be good boys and behave yourselves you can stay at home.” Andrews spoke up: “If you will go, we will go with you, and it will be best, instead of going to the left where you left them, to go to the right into the ‘big woods,’ which they will certainly go through on their way back.” Following I consented and we paddled away to the “big woods,” and floundered around until dark; not a turkey or anything else did we see.

Wilson would have sworn if he had been alone, and hadn’t been a church member. Clayton was the unfortunate cause of our troubles, and I was too tired to waste any strength in useless imprecations.

Sunday morning came off bright and warm. We were sorely tempted to go out, but drank cider and read Godey’s Lady’s Book. About two o’clock a man passed the house with a rifle upon his shoulder. Clayton went out to interview him. When he came in he said that two of our turkeys had just crossed the road within eight rods of the house. The rifleman had been after them but he was not going home. We went out, and there, sure enough, were the tracks; they had gone into a piece of woods just beyond the house. We discussed the propriety of pursuing them for some time, the getting them was such a sure thing that it was hard to give it up, but we decided not to trouble them. About four o’clock I proposed to Clayton that we take his big brindled bull dog and walk with the turkeys. He was willing, and we were soon in the woods, guns in, but with two pairs of legs that stiffened from yesterday were very ready to be limbered up.

We followed the tracks upon a run thinking there would be no harm in trying to catch them. Thus we were rushing along over logs and through old fallen tree-tops, laughing at the idea of running turkeys down with a bull-dog, when ahead of me, within six rods, I saw one of them, and we put after him in earnest, getting within three rods before he flew. Whether he was tired, or hungry, or wounded I know not. If it hadn’t been for that last three rods he would have been a gone turkey, if it was Sunday. I verily believe Clayton would have gone back for his gun if I had said a word favoring it, but I was perfectly satisfied as it was. If we had caught the turkey wouldn’t Wilson have torn his hair? As we trudged slowly home Clayton proposed to go for the turkeys early on Monday morning. Wilson agreed, and we turned out about an hour before daylight. It was very cold, and had frozen hard during the night. Every step was a thunderclap in the still woods.

I took my station about the middle of a high rail fence which ran across the woods. Wilson and Clayton were about 60 rods below, I was covered above by the high fence, and below by the top of a fallen tree. I had a turkey-caller, and amused myself with an occasional yelp! yelp! Everything was perfectly quiet. Half an hour passed, when above me I heard a rapid pat, pat, pat through the crusty snow, and there, thirty yards off, was a turkey coming almost directly towards me. He reached the rail fence three lengths one side of me, and hopped upon the top rail. I waited anxiously for him to get down upon my side; perhaps he was waiting for another call. I could not see him, and did not dare to stir. At last, getting desperate, I rose up quickly, and shot him off his perch before he knew what hurt him. I lost my balance in some way, and as I went down upon my back among the branches of the tree top, away went the other turkeys. I reloaded. In half an hour it was daylight. Wilson and Clayton came along up. “We have seen no turkeys; what did you fire at?” they asked. “A red squirrel,” I said. Clayton was indignant. “The idea of coming out here before daylight of a cold frosty morning to shoot at a red squirrel!” “Suppose you pick him up,” I replied; “he is a big one, with feathers in his tail.” Clayton was standing within ten feet of the turkey, which lay where it fell. He pounced upon it like a wild cat upon a June bug. Wilson growled out something about “what great sport it must be to shoot a turkey off a rail fence at thirty feet,” and we went to breakfast.

— ALIQUIS.