From the Archives
In the Gobbling Season
By William J. Bacon
Originally published in [Magazine Name], [Month/Year TBD]
William J. Bacon’s “In the Gobbling Season” captures the old rhythm of spring turkey hunting in the Great Smoky Mountains: cold dawn air, wing-bone calls, limestone ridges, deep hollows, and the timeless chess match between hunter and gobbler. Written in the language of its era, the piece offers a vivid look at early turkey hunting tradition, calling strategy, and mountain woodsmanship.
More than a century later, the lessons remain familiar: get above the bird, sit still, call sparingly, and never underestimate the eyes, instincts, or stubbornness of a wild turkey.
The frost was still in the air and the breeze which blew gently in our faces had an edge to it that made a heavy wool shooting jacket feel comfortable. The spot was an ideal one. It was in a deep valley, which sloped upward on both sides in scarred ledges of limestone, where scrub oaks, elms and cedars found a scant footing.
A pretty little brook babbled over the rocky ledges and pebbles. The morning star burned brightly, just visible through the leafless trees which stood sentinel-like upon the crest of the rise to the right, appearing like a signal light in some mountaineer’s cabin.
Caressing a small bone from the wing of a turkey, with cupped hands and carefully pursed lips, I caused it to yelp, softly, gently and as persuasively as ever a hen turkey called to her lord and master, sounding the three abrupt notes of the turkey’s call, waiting a long minute and then repeating it.
I was attempting to get an answer from some big gobbler before he should leave his roosting place, so that I might make a circle about him and take up a position beyond him, higher up the mountainside, before he should fly down from his lofty perch.
I do not know whether it is true, but there is a well-defined belief among old turkey hunters that a gobbler cannot be called down a hillside. They say a gobbler will ascend readily to a higher altitude, but that an attempt to call him down a declivity is but energy wasted.
“There is one cardinal rule to be remembered in turkey hunting… never move a muscle until you raise your gun to shoot.”
Faithfully I yelped, listening intently for the answer. The dawn grew apace until the scrub oaks, elms and cedars began to peep out of the gloom, gray and mysterious in the uncertain light, and the gray limestone ledges took on fantastic shapes that made some of them appear like crouching wild animals, ready to spring upon us.
I knew there were turkeys in this vicinity, for it was a famous breeding ground for them, even for Tennessee, far away from the railroad in a region of few farms and undisturbed except for an occasional tie-hacker and a less occasional hunter.
As the dawn spread its wings I yelped more seductively and, finally, so far away that it sounded more like an echo, there came the answering roar of a gobbler.
“He’s over dar in Gum holler,” the guide breathed in my ear. “We’ll have to git a move on us if we gits dar ’fore he flies down.”
I had some familiarity with the region, both from the knowledge I had possessed and by my guide, and I knew that he spoke truly. I did not wait for further urging. Picking up my shotgun, I arose and set out up the mountainside immediately before me.
It was a half-mile climb to the crest of the ridge, then we stole along upon its level top for a quarter of a mile farther and descended into the head of the deep cleft which was known as “Gum hollow.”
We took positions at the edge of a thicket, with our backs planted against a huge ledge of rocks, almost the color of our clothing, seating ourselves facing in the direction from which the turkey was expected to approach.
My rifle, which the guide had carried thus far, was across my knees and my shotgun lay beside me. There is one cardinal rule to be remembered in turkey hunting, the rule of which, if followed, will save much humiliation and mean the bagging of more game.
Never, under any circumstances, hide behind a rock, tree or log. A turkey’s eye is sharper than the eye of a hawk, and he will see you every time, unless it is an accident, when you peer out from your place of concealment, and that is the last of him in that neighborhood.
Take a position with your back to a tree or a rock, facing in the direction you expect the game to approach, and never move a muscle until you raise your gun to shoot.
I gave a low call upon the wing-bone. Not two hundred yards distant there arose a hoarse answer, a gobble that set the echoes ringing and started the warm blood coursing through my veins.
“Well, I’ll be sho’, Boss,” the guide whispered softly, an eagerness in keeping with my own showing in his face.
I knew from the sound that the gobbler had not left his roost, for which I counted myself in luck. Occasionally, a gobbler under such circumstances, when he leaves his roost, will fly almost to the feet of the gunner, but such was not to be my good fortune on this occasion.
I yelped again, after an interval, and again there came the answering gobble from the big bird. For two full minutes I waited, counting the time by the throbbing of my arteries, and then I called once more, so low that the sharp ears of the big gobbler could not detect a false note if my call failed to ring true.
Instead of answer there came the sound of heavy wings in flight, the snapping of a broken twig and the whirring of the released limb upon which the big bird had been seated.
Far through the bare trees of early spring, I saw the glint of the rising sun upon the burnished back of a turkey as it ponderously sailed earthward. It did not come toward me, but swept some eighty yards to the right of its roosting place and plumped down among the bushes to the carpet of dried leaves, the impact of its alighting sounding plainly at that distance.
Not a note did I utter on the call until the gobbler had sounded his roar three successive times. Then, and then only, did I answer; a single soft yelp, an indifferent invitation, as coy and shy as ever maiden turkey gave her lover.
For 150 yards before me I could see unobstructed an open glade yawning in the matted undergrowth of the mountainside. Not a portion of it escaped my keen scrutiny.
Tawny-streaked ground squirrels scampered across it, scudding from rock to rock, pausing a moment to survey the horizon and dodging out of sight into a crevice under some larger boulder.
A busy fox squirrel chattered at me from the security of a stunted scrub oak, seeming half inclined to come down to earth and run me out of his domain, so vehement was his protest.
Now and then I could hear the “puff” of the gobbler as he strutted and the rasp of his distended wings upon the earth, and every little while he paused and gobbled his defiance to all the lords of the neighborhood.
From across the great valley from which Gum hollow “emptied,” there came an answering gobble of defiance. Luckily it was too far distant to tempt my quarry to heed it further than to bellow back his challenge. This delayed matters somewhat. Nevertheless, I could tell that he was approaching me.
Ten, and at last twenty minutes went by, during which I held silence, then I called, a single low note as before, and the gobbler answered, just outside the glade.
I heard the rustle of his heavy feet in the leaves and a dry twig snapped, and in all his stately majesty, he stepped out into the clearing and paused to gobble.
Not an eyelash did I dare to move, never a muscle twitched, until the big bird turned his feathers the wrong way, dropped his wings and pranced forward in his pompous strut.
Turkey hunters say a gobbler cannot see when he is strutting. I took advantage of this and swept the rifle to my shoulder.
How the feathers did fly! And what a marvelously quick getaway that scared gobbler did make! I had been too slow, and, aiming at the base of his outstretched neck, not wishing to shoot through him, had cut out a cloud of feathers and perhaps a bit of skin, but injured him not at all.
But not so fast, my brave gobbler. I had my shotgun for just such an emergency. Jumping up, I dropped the rifle as it was, with the breech open, I having involuntarily started to jack in another cartridge.
Snatching up the shotgun, I took a quick snap shot with that “long” left barrel, loaded with buckshot, and it seemed to me the big bird crumpled almost at once.
After him we tore, my guide in the lead and empty handed, as I stopped to pick up the rifle, hoping for a chance long shot. And as I toiled up the opposite slope of Gum hollow, my heart pounding in a riot of excitement and effort, the guide, pausing on the ridge above, let out a ringing whoop.
“Hyah he is, boss!” he yelled. “Hyah he is, boss! No need to hurry. You-all done shot ’im through de haid!”
But there was cause to hurry, nevertheless; for when the guide reached for the gobbler which was “shot through the head,” the bird came to life and ran.
Sam ran as he never ran before, yelling at every jump, but to no avail. A turkey gobbler requires a lot of shooting, and this one had only been temporarily stunned by a chance buckshot wound on his wise old head.
But the wound befuddled him and the blood ran in his eyes, and when, hard pressed by Sam, he took wing, he came beating drunkenly back, smashing through the trees like a goose in the fog, flying almost directly over me as I stumbled over the ridge.
The totally unexpected never came to me in a more amazing form in all my hunting experience. But I wanted that gobbler—and I gathered him in.
Original Magazine Page
Scan from the original appearance of “In the Gobbling Season” by William J. Bacon.
![Original magazine page of In the Gobbling Season by William J. Bacon]()
The Author’s Guides in the Great Smoky Mountains. Where turkey-hunting is a time-honored institution.
In The Gobbling Season
From the Archives
In the Gobbling Season
By William J. Bacon
Originally published in [Magazine Name], [Month/Year TBD]
William J. Bacon’s “In the Gobbling Season” captures the old rhythm of spring turkey hunting in the Great Smoky Mountains: cold dawn air, wing-bone calls, limestone ridges, deep hollows, and the timeless chess match between hunter and gobbler. Written in the language of its era, the piece offers a vivid look at early turkey hunting tradition, calling strategy, and mountain woodsmanship.
More than a century later, the lessons remain familiar: get above the bird, sit still, call sparingly, and never underestimate the eyes, instincts, or stubbornness of a wild turkey.
The frost was still in the air and the breeze which blew gently in our faces had an edge to it that made a heavy wool shooting jacket feel comfortable. The spot was an ideal one. It was in a deep valley, which sloped upward on both sides in scarred ledges of limestone, where scrub oaks, elms and cedars found a scant footing.
A pretty little brook babbled over the rocky ledges and pebbles. The morning star burned brightly, just visible through the leafless trees which stood sentinel-like upon the crest of the rise to the right, appearing like a signal light in some mountaineer’s cabin.
Caressing a small bone from the wing of a turkey, with cupped hands and carefully pursed lips, I caused it to yelp, softly, gently and as persuasively as ever a hen turkey called to her lord and master, sounding the three abrupt notes of the turkey’s call, waiting a long minute and then repeating it.
I was attempting to get an answer from some big gobbler before he should leave his roosting place, so that I might make a circle about him and take up a position beyond him, higher up the mountainside, before he should fly down from his lofty perch.
I do not know whether it is true, but there is a well-defined belief among old turkey hunters that a gobbler cannot be called down a hillside. They say a gobbler will ascend readily to a higher altitude, but that an attempt to call him down a declivity is but energy wasted.
Faithfully I yelped, listening intently for the answer. The dawn grew apace until the scrub oaks, elms and cedars began to peep out of the gloom, gray and mysterious in the uncertain light, and the gray limestone ledges took on fantastic shapes that made some of them appear like crouching wild animals, ready to spring upon us.
I knew there were turkeys in this vicinity, for it was a famous breeding ground for them, even for Tennessee, far away from the railroad in a region of few farms and undisturbed except for an occasional tie-hacker and a less occasional hunter.
As the dawn spread its wings I yelped more seductively and, finally, so far away that it sounded more like an echo, there came the answering roar of a gobbler.
“He’s over dar in Gum holler,” the guide breathed in my ear. “We’ll have to git a move on us if we gits dar ’fore he flies down.”
I had some familiarity with the region, both from the knowledge I had possessed and by my guide, and I knew that he spoke truly. I did not wait for further urging. Picking up my shotgun, I arose and set out up the mountainside immediately before me.
It was a half-mile climb to the crest of the ridge, then we stole along upon its level top for a quarter of a mile farther and descended into the head of the deep cleft which was known as “Gum hollow.”
We took positions at the edge of a thicket, with our backs planted against a huge ledge of rocks, almost the color of our clothing, seating ourselves facing in the direction from which the turkey was expected to approach.
My rifle, which the guide had carried thus far, was across my knees and my shotgun lay beside me. There is one cardinal rule to be remembered in turkey hunting, the rule of which, if followed, will save much humiliation and mean the bagging of more game.
Never, under any circumstances, hide behind a rock, tree or log. A turkey’s eye is sharper than the eye of a hawk, and he will see you every time, unless it is an accident, when you peer out from your place of concealment, and that is the last of him in that neighborhood.
Take a position with your back to a tree or a rock, facing in the direction you expect the game to approach, and never move a muscle until you raise your gun to shoot.
I gave a low call upon the wing-bone. Not two hundred yards distant there arose a hoarse answer, a gobble that set the echoes ringing and started the warm blood coursing through my veins.
“Well, I’ll be sho’, Boss,” the guide whispered softly, an eagerness in keeping with my own showing in his face.
I knew from the sound that the gobbler had not left his roost, for which I counted myself in luck. Occasionally, a gobbler under such circumstances, when he leaves his roost, will fly almost to the feet of the gunner, but such was not to be my good fortune on this occasion.
I yelped again, after an interval, and again there came the answering gobble from the big bird. For two full minutes I waited, counting the time by the throbbing of my arteries, and then I called once more, so low that the sharp ears of the big gobbler could not detect a false note if my call failed to ring true.
Instead of answer there came the sound of heavy wings in flight, the snapping of a broken twig and the whirring of the released limb upon which the big bird had been seated.
Far through the bare trees of early spring, I saw the glint of the rising sun upon the burnished back of a turkey as it ponderously sailed earthward. It did not come toward me, but swept some eighty yards to the right of its roosting place and plumped down among the bushes to the carpet of dried leaves, the impact of its alighting sounding plainly at that distance.
Not a note did I utter on the call until the gobbler had sounded his roar three successive times. Then, and then only, did I answer; a single soft yelp, an indifferent invitation, as coy and shy as ever maiden turkey gave her lover.
For 150 yards before me I could see unobstructed an open glade yawning in the matted undergrowth of the mountainside. Not a portion of it escaped my keen scrutiny.
Tawny-streaked ground squirrels scampered across it, scudding from rock to rock, pausing a moment to survey the horizon and dodging out of sight into a crevice under some larger boulder.
A busy fox squirrel chattered at me from the security of a stunted scrub oak, seeming half inclined to come down to earth and run me out of his domain, so vehement was his protest.
Now and then I could hear the “puff” of the gobbler as he strutted and the rasp of his distended wings upon the earth, and every little while he paused and gobbled his defiance to all the lords of the neighborhood.
From across the great valley from which Gum hollow “emptied,” there came an answering gobble of defiance. Luckily it was too far distant to tempt my quarry to heed it further than to bellow back his challenge. This delayed matters somewhat. Nevertheless, I could tell that he was approaching me.
Ten, and at last twenty minutes went by, during which I held silence, then I called, a single low note as before, and the gobbler answered, just outside the glade.
I heard the rustle of his heavy feet in the leaves and a dry twig snapped, and in all his stately majesty, he stepped out into the clearing and paused to gobble.
Not an eyelash did I dare to move, never a muscle twitched, until the big bird turned his feathers the wrong way, dropped his wings and pranced forward in his pompous strut.
Turkey hunters say a gobbler cannot see when he is strutting. I took advantage of this and swept the rifle to my shoulder.
How the feathers did fly! And what a marvelously quick getaway that scared gobbler did make! I had been too slow, and, aiming at the base of his outstretched neck, not wishing to shoot through him, had cut out a cloud of feathers and perhaps a bit of skin, but injured him not at all.
But not so fast, my brave gobbler. I had my shotgun for just such an emergency. Jumping up, I dropped the rifle as it was, with the breech open, I having involuntarily started to jack in another cartridge.
Snatching up the shotgun, I took a quick snap shot with that “long” left barrel, loaded with buckshot, and it seemed to me the big bird crumpled almost at once.
After him we tore, my guide in the lead and empty handed, as I stopped to pick up the rifle, hoping for a chance long shot. And as I toiled up the opposite slope of Gum hollow, my heart pounding in a riot of excitement and effort, the guide, pausing on the ridge above, let out a ringing whoop.
“Hyah he is, boss!” he yelled. “Hyah he is, boss! No need to hurry. You-all done shot ’im through de haid!”
But there was cause to hurry, nevertheless; for when the guide reached for the gobbler which was “shot through the head,” the bird came to life and ran.
Sam ran as he never ran before, yelling at every jump, but to no avail. A turkey gobbler requires a lot of shooting, and this one had only been temporarily stunned by a chance buckshot wound on his wise old head.
But the wound befuddled him and the blood ran in his eyes, and when, hard pressed by Sam, he took wing, he came beating drunkenly back, smashing through the trees like a goose in the fog, flying almost directly over me as I stumbled over the ridge.
The totally unexpected never came to me in a more amazing form in all my hunting experience. But I wanted that gobbler—and I gathered him in.
Original Magazine Page
Scan from the original appearance of “In the Gobbling Season” by William J. Bacon.
The Author’s Guides in the Great Smoky Mountains. Where turkey-hunting is a time-honored institution.