A wild turkey has six toes and short, dull claws. A wild turkey hunter has 10 fingers and opposable thumbs. A wild turkey scratches through leaves and cow piles for food. A wild turkey hunter has battled to the top of the food chain. A wild turkey has a brain roughly the size of a peanut. A wild turkey hunter has a brain roughly the size of a cantaloupe. A battle of wits between the two and the outcome would be . . . well, a no-brainer.
But that wasn't the case between Ol' Soft Gobble and I.
Every hunter occasionally runs into a bird that gives them the slip and makes it personal. The hunter soon becomes fixated on that one bird; none other matters. "Season-wreckers," some call them. And for good reason. Even the best hunter can find a bird that will eat up his entire season without presenting a shot if the hunter doesn't have the willpower to concede defeat and find other birds to hunt.
I'm a far cry from one of those "best hunters," but Soft Gobble certainly had all the qualities of a season-wrecker. He earned his name for his soft gobble. If you weren't familiar with Soft Gobble, you'd almost swear the bird that had just gobbled on the next ridge was a jake. But if you were familiar with him, you'd just grin and say, "Nope. That's no jake. That's Ol' Soft Gobble." If you lined up Soft Gobble with a couple of other longbeards, I'm not sure I could distinguish between them. But there was no doubting the old boy's quiet vocalizations.
I do not remember the first time I heard Ol' Soft Gobble. Likely as not, I mistook him for a jake. But as that season (and the next) rolled along, it became obvious that Ol' Soft Gobble was one smart bird. A hunting buddy set up on the bird on several occasions. I set up on the bird on several occasions. On a few occasions, we both set up on the bird. But always to no avail.
Ol' Soft Gobble had a penchant for roosting in the same place most nights. On the edge of a narrow ridge lined with bluffs, he'd roost in a stand of white pines. Calling him into gun range was akin to talking a squirrel out of a hickory tree. The most seductive sequence of yelps, clucks and purrs were rendered useless by Soft Gobble's stubborness.
Still, unless he pitched off across the creek, there was only one way off the ridge. It would seem easy. Position one's self in the middle of the narrow ridge a hundred or so yards from his tree and intercept him as he leaves his bedroom for the happy scratching grounds on down the trail. But still Ol' Soft Gobble managed to evade us.
When push came to shove, we devised a plan, placing two hunters a hundred yards apart to cover both routes of possible travel from the roost to the open woods. But when Ol' Soft Gobble pitched down, he worked his way around the edge of the ridge among thickets of mountain laurel, gobbling occasionally to mock us as he headed for the deeper woods.
For the rest of that season and all of the next, one or the other or both of us hunted Soft Gobble from time to time. There were times when he almost didn't make it. On one occasion -- it was a Good Friday -- he was apparently without his usual harem and was responding somewhat to my calls. But I had foolishly forgotten to silence the ringer on my cell phone, and an untimely phone call spoiled the day. On another occasion late in the third season -- when Soft Gobble had to be at least four years old -- my brother and I managed to slip in close to the patriarch and a handful of hens traveling with him. For two hours, we were within 60-to-80 yards of the old bird. He was spitting-and-drumming and strutting the entire time, putting on a show for his harem. A couple of times, we got good looks of him strutting just out of gun range. At times, the hens would wander too close for comfort. We'd be sure he would follow but were worried that the hens would bust us. It was nerve-wracking, but Ol' Soft Gobble managed to give us the slip again, when we finally gave up on him budging from his comfort zone, tried to shift positions, and were busted.
Perhaps the most intimate meeting Ol' Soft Gobble and I had was midway through the final season I hunted him. I was on the next ridge over from the ridge where Soft Gobble was usually heard, when I heard the familiar, soft gobble ring out. I ignored it at first, but temptation eventually won out. I headed after Soft Gobble's roost tree yet again.
By mistake, I nearly tripped right over him. It was fully daylight and I just happened to look up and see the old bird sitting on a limb, nearly 50 feet up a large beech tree. The tree was no more than 40 yards from me and on the edge of a hill. Because I was higher up the hill, the bird was just a little higher than eye level from me.
How he failed to see me was beyond me, but he stayed perched calmly on his limb. I was surprised to see that he was alone, and suddenly, I was brimming with confidence. Here I was, in bonafide shooting range of Ol' Soft Gobble, and he had no hens with him to spoil the hunt. What could possibly go wrong? The problem was that despite the excellent weather, Soft Gobble didn't want to come out of the tree. He sat there well after the sun had risen. Confident that I was hidden well behind a bush, I gave a few soft yelps to try and coax him off the roost. In the process, I managed to call up another bird. It wasn't until I heard the sudden spit of a gobbler behind me that I realized the second bird had slipped in on me. Instinct took over and caution went to the wind as I whirled quickly with my gun in an effort to get into shooting position before he broke into view. But he never showed himself.
Whether Ol' Soft Gobble saw my sudden movement through the foliage, or whether he saw me when I first slipped in on him, I do not know. But after another 15 or 20 minutes on the roost, he decided it was time to go. Instead of pitching down, he sailed off the roost, and was still sailing over the treetops when he went out of sight down the hollow. I am convinced to this day that the old-timer knew I was there the entire time and stayed put on the roost to simply mock me.
What became of Ol' Soft Gobble is anyone's guess. Mine is that he died of old age. I suppose he could've finally met up with a hunter smart enough to beat him at his own game, but I prefer to think that he managed to evade predators of two legs or four right up until the end. I've hunted Soft Gobble's ridge a number of times since, never with a lot of luck. But whenever the wind is blowing away from me, or the spring foliage has thickened up, and a longbeard's gobble sounds quieter than usual, I can't help but think of Ol' Soft Gobble. It isn't hard for a bird to give me the slip, and many have, but none have earned my respect like an old bird with a soft-toned gobble . . . like that old "season-wrecker."
