The Hop-A-Long Boss

The Hop-A-Long Boss

By Paul Kamenar

It was 7:30 p.m. on the eve of the spring gobbler season, and I was getting ready to “put some birds to bed.”

After asking the farmer (who we will call “Old MacDonald”) for permission to hunt his ground, he pointed me in the direction of where he had seen some turkeys earlier in the week. I asked him if anyone else would be hunting his property. He responded, “Nobody has stopped to ask permission. You’re the only one.”

I had begun volunteering my time to “Old MacDonald” two years earlier. Hanging fences, pushing cow manure and bailing hay were just a few of the jobs around the farm. Since then he has always welcomed me without hesitation.

The privilege to hunt more than 400 acres in exchange for a few hours work has always sounded good to me.

As I made my way to the back of his barn I was greeted with the sound of a double gobble. Six gobblers were trying their hardest to impress five hens that shared the field.

An hour passed as a blanket of dusk slowly laid claim to the day. The birds crossed a nearby creek and flew into the treetops to roost for the night.

I awoke the next morning with the anticipation of putting a double bead on one of those handsome birds. I loaded my gear into the truck and arrived at the spot an hour before daylight. The decoys were set, fluorescent orange hung, and the flashlight was killed.

As I sat in the darkness I was consumed with the sounds of the night. Only the stream rolling gently behind me muffled the distant hum of the milking machine. I closed my eyes and prayed for the safety of the other turkey hunters taking to the field that day and Lord willing … a nice gobbler for my oven.

A truck pulling into the field broke the silence of the morning. I shined my light in the direction of the vehicle so my location would be made known. A minute or so passed when the truck started and pulled away. I settled back against the tree.

The excitement of the day was slowly coming to an end when minutes later two more vehicles pulled into the field. Again I made my location known. The four silhouettes were now crossing the field in front of me.

Ignoring my signals they took up residence 200 yards to my left.

Dawn was disrupted once more, but this time by a chorus of gobblers not 75 yards behind me. The hens chimed in with a series of yelps and clucks. Shortly after I too began to quietly do the same. I hoped to draw all attention to my decoys. I set the mental boundaries for my shooting lanes as not to endanger the hunters downfield.

Within minutes, the hens descended from their lofty perch only to fly 200 yards to my left, right into the laps of the other guys. Four gobblers followed their lead and I expected shots to ring out as soon as they touched down.

The gobblers immediately each began displaying their best plumage. Strutting and circling one another, the intimidation rituals began. As the “gents” were preoccupied with their own good looks the hens began to feed farther from the hunters.

Still no shots were fired.

Keep going, I thought. Much to my surprise the hens began to turn and move in my direction.

One of the gobblers finally took notice and began to close the distance. The other three would not be left out and joined the chase. Now a good 250 yards from the hunters they began to strut once again.

When I turned my head to the left, a fifth gobbler materialized in the field. I recognized this old bird from the close of the 1999 season. His distinctive, one-legged hop was a dead give-away. His atrophied leg was not going to deter him from finding a mate. His beard nearly touched the ground each time he leaped forward.

The hens passed in front of me, paying no attention to the decoys. However the testosterone of the gobblers drew them like a magnet. When the group of four realized “hop-a-long” was now in the lead, things began to heat up. They went from full strut to a dead run in seconds.

My cheek snuggled the stock as the double bead settled on the biggest bird. A quick peripheral scan identified a closer target. Being an opportunistic trophy hunter, whatever happens to be the closest, I swung the gun onto it.

As I walked to my truck I crossed paths with the other hunters who had spent the morning with me. I ask one of them if they had permission from “Old MacDonald” to hunt his property.

His reply, “No, I pass by here every morning on the way to work and figured I would just bring my son out here to get one of those birds. They’ve been out here almost everyday,” replied one of the hunters.

Old MacDonald would probably let anyone hunt without expecting anything in return. It is people like this, however, who take advantage and have no regard for others and their property. People like this gives the hunting community a bad name.

I could not find any sign of damage to his significantly smaller right leg; possibly a unique stamp given by the Creator. “Hop-a-long” weighed 18 pounds and carried an 11-inch beard. Battle-scared spurs over an one and one eighth inch long adorned his legs. The beauty of his iridescent feathers were unmatched by any plumage I have ever seen.

Thank You for this wonderful gift of the wild.