I left that spot after I found the tree stand. Even though it was public land, something about it felt off. I had spent the morning learning the terrain on my own, following sign, finding a path and a bedding area, just to walk up on somebody else’s ladder stand tied to a tree at the end of the trail. It took some of the air out of the moment. At the same time it was a quiet confirmation that I was reading the woods right. Still, I didn’t want to hunt right on top of another guy’s setup, so I left.
I drove about an hour to the new area I studied on my onX Hunt map while I was in class. The elevation changes, drainages, and benches looked promising. As I rolled in, the scouting started paying off in real time. I slowed down and pulled into a small clearing where a sign posted the hunting rules. Just beyond it I could see a cornfield. A reliable food source sitting that close to cover meant I finally had a real ambush setup.
I stepped out of the car and started running mental plays for a shot, telling myself I wouldn’t let my nerves take over this time. The second the door shut, the trees around me came alive. Branches crashed together. Then came the heavy floomb-floomb-floomb of big wings beating the air.
A large brown bird dropped out of a tree across the way and glided into the treeline on the other side. It had a long neck, a wingspan that looked wide enough to cover the hood of the car, and a thick, round body that seemed too heavy to stay in the air. I knew what it was the moment I saw it, but I still couldn’t believe it.
A wild turkey. I already had a tag for them.
All of my gear was still in the rental. The Nissan Altima had way less space than I was used to, so I had to open every door to get what I needed. My bow was in the hard case in the trunk. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through me as I scrambled around the car, opening and shutting doors. I decided the bow, my release, and a diaphragm call were all I needed. I didn’t even have a real bio-harness yet—just a cheap POV chest rig meant for a phone and keys with a clear window for action footage.
I nocked an arrow and made a slow stalk across the road to where I had last seen the bird. There was barely any ground there before it dropped straight into a ravine. The drop was steep—fifty feet or more—and the ridge on the other side was even steeper. I figured the turkey couldn’t have gone all the way down, so I doubled back toward the parking lot and the cornfield, a little disappointed but still buzzing. Whitetail was no longer the only thing on my list. I now had the urge to close the distance on a wild bird.
I had practiced the turkey diaphragm even less than the whitetail grunt. This is where my real education in the woods started. My only plan was to try to call it back in. I had no knowledge of call types or strategies—just the yelping sequences I had heard online. Because it was only my third time ever using a diaphragm, the sounds came out slow and raspy. Nothing like the clean sequences the influencers made look easy. To my own ears it sounded more like a goose than a turkey. Still, something answered me with the same broken sound I was making.
I kept calling, trying to keep it talking so I could close the distance. Most of that calling happened only about forty yards from the parking lot, between the cornfield and the car. When the answers stopped, I moved along the edge of the cornfield by the road, hoping to cut it off. I walked slowly, arrow nocked, release on the string, careful not to crunch leaves or snap twigs. A few steps, a few yelps, then listen. After about forty yards I decided it wasn’t working. I disengaged the release from the D-loop and lowered the bow.
I caught something dark in contrast to the pale yellow corn stalks, emerging from the edge. Another turkey. Then two more followed. There were three of them. This they looked different from the first bird I had seen—smaller, and the heads looked a little darker. These were hens
I turned fully toward them, clipped my release back on the D-loop, and started to draw. Then I stopped.
New York regulations require a safe distance from roads and public highways. Even if I could make the shot, the birds were moving toward the road. An arrow that passed through or missed high could end up on the pavement—or worse. A car. A hiker. Someone’s kid. The easy tag wasn’t worth the risk of labeling my first harvest as a poach or putting anyone else in danger.
I let down and watched them walk.
Part of me was disappointed. I had been a stone’s throw from my first successful harvest. The other part of me understood the bigger picture. I hadn’t tagged yet, but every hunt I had been on was still a successful hunt. My online scouting had put me in promising areas that held game. I had found public land with a reliable food source and drainage. I had also found a flock with both males and females, which meant the population was healthy and their roosting area was probably right where I was standing.
I came back the next day with whitetail still on the priority list. There was no way, I told myself, that I could bump turkeys twice in the same spot and have them return the next day. I was still figuring out my saddle. The platform was solid, but the climbing sticks were cheap generics from Amazon because the matching ones that came with the saddle were more than my student loan budget could handle. I didn’t understand the straps and how to make them lock on the tree. I finally got the first one fastened, stepped up about three and a half feet, and heard a loud crack. The stick slid straight down the trunk. I landed unharmed, more embarrassed than anything. I looked around to see if anyone had seen me fall, even though I had entered the woods alone and hadn’t seen anyone since.
That’s when I seen moving shadows under the shade of the timber.
A small group of turkeys was creeping along the hill to my right, silent as ghosts, fifteen or twenty yards away. They looked enormous at that range. My tether was still wrapped around me and the seat. I went for the bow and simultaneously tangled myself in the ropes. I nocked an arrow and drew. The pin jumped but I kept it on the biggest bird and fired. The turkey dropped just under my line of fire. The arrow hit the rocks with a sharp snap and the whole group disappeared along the ridge.
I came back the next day with a blind, three foam decoys, and my Australian Shepherd, Ballerina. It was legal to bring dogs for fall turkey recovery, and I figured she’d be good insurance if I actually got a shot. She had zero training.
I set the blind on the edge of the cornfield and got settled. Ballerina found a little spot behind me near the zipper door I left slightly cracked at the bottom. I started soft yelping on a pot call, mixing sequences of yelps and purrs, then throwing in a few diaphragm cuts. With multiple decoys out front, I was trying to make it sound like a small group of birds already on the ground.
We sat from sunrise until about noon. Nothing.
I opened a bag of sunflower seeds and shook a few into my hand. I was facing the cornfield, watching for any movement, when I heard Ballerina huff behind me. I turned. Her ears were straight up. She had stuck her head through the bottom zipper of the blind.
I unzipped that side just enough to peek.
A group of turkeys was coming down the hill. They were still out of range, but closing. Before I could even think about drawing, Ballerina let out a bark that echoed through the woods. The birds flared and disappeared back up the hill.
I left frustrated.
The next time out I left her in the car and went back to creeping the edge of the corn with no blind. When I called, a bird answered right back. I stayed disciplined, moved to where I figured they would exit, and could see the dark shape moving through the stalks. I drew, and the release slipped off the D-loop. The bow fired early. Birds exploded out of the corn. One passed right over my head while I was still trying to nock another arrow. That whole sequence is on film from the chest rig.
On the last day I came back with the same small blind. One bird started working toward the decoys. I began to draw and my elbow hit the side of the blind. The noise was sharp inside that tight space. The birds spooked and took off up the hill.
I climbed out fast. The quiver was still on the ground inside the blind—I had taken it off to get more comfortable. I already had one arrow loose from the quiver resting inside the tent. I grabbed it and started up the hill. I took a 45° angle of pursuit just like I was playing defense back in high school, aiming for the spot I thought they would reach. I had to work harder and run faster than they were moving, but I got there first.
I nocked the arrow again, drew, and held. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my eyeballs. I was aiming for the head. I released.
I saw a tuft of feather puff into the air. I heard the arrow make contact.
But the turkey kept going.
Now I was deeper in the woods with no arrow left. The rest of my arrows were still fifty yards downhill in the blind. As I was making my way toward where I heard the thump of the arrow hitting a tree trunk, I stopped, dumbfounded. There was a clearing about forty yards up the hill. The turkeys were standing there looking down at me. They appeared as winded and surprised as I was. This was clearly their roosting area, and I was out of arrows.
My breath started to steady. It was almost the end of shooting light. I quietly turned around and made my way back down to the blind. I didn’t even bother going back up the hill. I was gassed.
A few days later the rental car had to be returned. I lived in Brooklyn, a couple hours away, and there was no public transportation that could get me close enough to hunt the area. The fall season was over.
I hadn’t put a tag on anything, but the season still paid off. My research on animal movements and terrain features held up. I found game or fresh sign in every new location I tried. The online scouting had put me in the right kind of habitat — food source, cover, deer sign, and turkeys. I learned what real calling sequences sound like in the woods and how to get birds to answer. Most of all, I learned that proper preparation creates better chances at proper execution, and that patience still has a place even when everything is moving fast.
A new thrill had been unlocked. The first animal that intrigued me about hunting was the elk I saw in Sedona as a teenager, but the first animal that made me fall in love with hunting was the wild turkey.
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