November Was Always the Best

Every day spent in the November woods is a gift. This is the essential truth of hunting in North America. Through most of the continent, November is the fullest realization of our sporting hopes and dreams. The whitetail rut comes on during this time and the tremble-inducing buck of a lifetime makes the rare decision to expose himself to mere mortals like myself. The fall migration of waterfowl also begins in earnest during this season and those endless V’s of Canada geese trumpet their way through the moonlit sky. Squirrels, sensing the imminent onslaught of winter, scurry hastily to put up the required store. There is no finer time to be alive. Robert Ruark, a man of inestimable literary talents far surpassing the humble sentiments that I jot down, put it succinctly with a chapter title in The Old Man and the Boy: November was Always the Best.

In Ruark’s exchange between the Old Man and the Boy, the Old man favors November because it reminds him of himself: slightly aged, but sensible enough, experienced, and not quite at the end of his rope. The Boy has more pragmatic sentiments about November:

“What’s your idea of November?”, he asked, his eyes half-closed. I wanted to tell him that it was mostly the opening of bird season, the Thanksgiving holidays, the persimmons wrinkled and ripe on the trees, when the weather was real nice, and it was hog-killing time in the country, and the punkins  looked yellow and jolly in the fields, and the sun set good and red, and a lot of other things; but I couldn’t manage to squeeze it all out because I had no way with words.   

Like the Boy, I can muster no better justification than to say it is the best because it is the season of the hunter. Yet, the profundity of November is much deeper than that. If I might, let me offer you a brief story about how November began for me this year.

Saturday, 5 November 2016. My wife was away to a distant friend’s baby shower and that left me alone at home with nothing but my own inclinations. If you have known me for any amount of time, you might guess these inclinations would involve boot-leather and a shotgun. You would be right. I splurged for breakfast, knowing that I would make a day of rambling, and anxiously waited in line for a Chick-fil-A spicy chicken biscuit. This is the proper way to start any adventure. I then buzzed over to a local public hunting area where I had been so many times before. Yet, I was disappointed to find that a truck was parked in the lot when I arrived. Undeterred, I decided to check a large oak where I had found a Hen of the Woods mushroom a few weeks past. Since I knew where the other hunter’s stand was (and his salt piles—tsk tsk!) I knew that the path to the oak would prevent any confrontations.

The tree had previously produced a 3 lb 11 oz hen. These mushrooms (Grifola frondosa) are the ultimate fungal delicacy. Thus, I was overjoyed to find not one—not two—but three hens on the same tree! I harvested the larger two and left the third to propagate more of the enticing gray-brown pored clusters. Another hour of hiking was essentially fruitless. I found neither mushroom nor quarry and decided to relocate.

A few miles down the road I had returned to a spot not visited since fall of 2015. Like the first location, I knew there were large oaks abounding on the property. Yet, despite the prime hen habitat I did not find a single tree that was dying or injured. This is essential for hen flushes. Disappointingly, I also noted the particular absence of game of any kind. Other than a few crows I had seen no animal activity. At this point, I had been walking for about three hours and had covered some serious ground. I stopped near the bend of a creekbed and rested on the grassy bank above. It was here that I decided to lay out my gear for some glamour shots. If I didn’t harvest any game at least I could look cool!

I watched small fishes surface in the creek for 20 minutes or more and then recalled that a green, grassy field border had held turkeys the year before. So, I once again grabbed my trusty 870 and made my way across the remaining soybean stubble. This was going to be my last hoorah before returning home for a nice cup of black tea. Little did I know that I minute I stepped upon the grassy veranda I would begin to hear footfalls in the timber to my right. I immediately went prone into the grass and listened. The sound very well could have been a squirrel, scuttling around in the carpet of oak leaves. But, there was a heaviness and a cadence to the shuffling that suggested something else. I fished a diaphragm call from the front pocket of my red-green Christmas flannel shirt and made three soft yelps: yawp, yawp, yawp. This was met by more leaf shuffling and then a calculated reply: yawp, yawp.

I couldn’t believe it. The perfect scenario, incalculably rare, had presented itself. I retreated ten yards back to the welcoming arms of an oversized cedar and wedged myself tight against the base. Yawp, yawp, yawp. This series of yelps was answered by not one bird, but many—I had stumbled onto an entire flock. We made small talk for five minutes or so when the sound of footsteps started to fade. This was a bad omen. Was the bird simply uninterested or had a made a calling error? I promised to slow my pace. Two minutes later I called again and the woods came alive with yelping to my right and purring from my left. I was surrounded by turkeys! The bird to my left sounded very close but despite my straining I just could not make it out. I yelped once more and saw a group of birds break cover on my right and enter into the green field. I clicked off my 12 gauge’s safety and began to mount the gun when I glanced left and saw that the lone bird had entered the field too.

My mental triage didn’t take long. The bird to the left was bulkier, full-plumaged, and appeared to be more mature. I could not discern any jakes or toms to the right and they all appeared to be smaller-bodied. I aligned the rifle-sights on my cylinder-bored barrel and let loose with 1 5/8 oz of No. 5 shot. The result was instantaneous and the bird was immediately grounded some 30 yards away.

All of sudden, my legs didn’t hurt and my lips didn’t feel quite as dry as they had. I leaped to the bird, made a quick coupe de grace, and rejoiced in knowing exactly what I was going to have for Thanksgiving dinner: roast eastern turkey with wild mushroom dressing! November was always the best.