Back Cast
In its heyday, say, 20 years ago, this wooden structure stood taller.
Maybe it was never really plumb with the world, but after years of shouldering against stiff northwest winds that seemingly sprinted downhill from Canada, the small building has surrendered with a slight but convincing lean to the south.
Cattle rubbing up against it in recent years to scratch whatever itches haven’t done it any favors, either.
It was originally constructed with sweat and lumber to house an electric motor to pump well water to the surface. Today, with the window removed and two buckets turned upside-down as seats, the structure serves as a fixed blind that, if wild turkeys pay attention to this sort of thing, hasn’t moved in their lifetimes and is as much a part of the landscape as the thick, wooded draws and wide-open pasture.
It’s simply a coincidence, considering the landowner who built the thing years ago wasn’t a turkey hunter, that the pump house rests within shotgun range of one of the handful of spots on the property where toms strut and gobble in spring to attract hens.
On the last Sunday in April, we slipped into the pump house long before sunrise, adjusted the two buckets for the best view out what was once an east-facing window and … questioned quietly why we bothered getting out of bed.
When we left home in the dark, the wind was already blowing hard enough to sweep a ball cap off your head. Too hard, we figured, to fool a wild bird that’s already on edge to begin with.
Nonetheless, like most hunters and others who spend time outdoors, it’s often difficult to pick our spots. We go when we can, no matter the weather, or how late we got to bed the night before, because that’s just the way life is nowadays.
I’ve long told my kids that no matter the day, the conditions, it’s worth rolling out of bed before the sun because you just never know what’s in store. I’ve sung this chorus enough that I often believe it myself.
To prove this point, a guy I work with was turkey hunting with his son earlier this spring when a porcupine lumbered out of a tree next to them, relieved itself and started eating a fallen branch. Minutes later, a badger ripped by their makeshift blind at full-speed, heading to who knows where.
His story also included something about a noisy bobcat fight over a hill and out-of-sight. I don’t remember if his son shot a tom that morning, or if he even mentioned it. Doesn’t matter, really.
To say that we were treated to that kind of wild theater sitting on overturned buckets as the wind rattled our south-leaning blind, would be a lie. Yet, to say that we wouldn’t do it all over again wouldn’t be true, either.