NORTH DAKOTA OUTDOORS MAGAZINE

The Unexpected Gobble

Cayla Bendel

I had the pleasure of galivanting through spring turkey season across landscapes both familiar and new-to-me, mornings blanketed in snow and afternoon sits where sweat rolled down my face. I slept in frosty tents, cozy cabins, and in the truck in travel center parking lots with the passenger seat limitedly reclined due to the pile of gear stowed behind it.

Collectively with my husband, we each required a mid-season oil change on our vehicles, and the summer fun budget might be looking a little light thanks to unfavorable gas prices during this little mid-life turkey escapade of ours. I was caught saying several times in spring that we might have overdone it but if asked in a post-trigger high, I’d never admit it.

The following are a few lessons I picked up somewhere along the way, some about turkey hunting, most about life.

Nothing Goes as Planned

It’s honestly counterintuitive that I love turkey hunting so much. I’m a very type A person. Our meals are listed on a whiteboard on the fridge for the week, which forms the weekly grocery list. I can pretty much tell you what I have planned every weekend for the next nine months and likely beyond. I lay out my clothes the night before and pack my lunch. And when any of this is interrupted, it makes me anxious and irritable.

And naturally, I do this with hunting: “We’re hunting at location X this weekend, we are leaving at set designated time, we will hunt for this many days, we will fill our tags and return on Sunday to turkey nuggets.” It says so on the whiteboard. It’s almost laughable to type that out. Of course, that’s not how anything goes, particularly turkey hunting.

Inherently life happens. The Easter snowstorm cancelled our kick-off weekend. And instead, we enjoyed a surprisingly fun couple of days making snowmen, snow bunnies and snow forts with the uncontrollable laughter of my son cruising down a sledding hill etched in my brain for life. It also fortuitously led us to switch our cabin rental to a future weekend where it also snowed and I snuggled on a couch with my blanket and two dogs in my lap instead of shivering in a tent.

But in addition to external factors, turkeys themselves are so notoriously unpredictable. I don’t think I’ve ever wrapped a tag around a turkey leg and thought that’s exactly how I thought that would go.

And that’s what’s so addicting.

So much of the rest of our life is predictable and patternable, it’s what keeps us sane. Turkey season interrupts that in the most beautiful way.

I found myself unthinkably frustrated so many times this season. Replaying and dissecting encounters, trying to figure out what went wrong and what I should do differently next time. And sometimes I think I struggle to accept that nothing went wrong, it just didn’t go as planned.

Turkey hunting is not an equation I can eventually learn how to solve without error. And that bothers me. But the result? A pounding heart, shaky arms and a trembling voice when it comes together in a moment and in a way I could have never scripted.

Mom and son take a break from turkey hunting in the badlands.

Slow Down

I was in the wheelhouse of dozens of gobblers this season. Obviously, far more birds than tags acquired or punched. And sometimes my postgame interview would have been embarrassing.

One morning, we had a gobbler committed, drumming, and when he finally crested a hill, he came out of his strut and walked away. My husband, Scott, was facing the wrong way for a shot and I was likely too exposed, especially as the one without a shotgun in hand.

Once I was tucked in a heavy patch of cedars with multiple gobblers responding for almost an hour when I grew impatient and worked my way along the outskirts to get a better look at what was happening. I bumped into some hens that were heading my way and likely could have pulled a gobbler or two with them if I had just stayed put.

One morning started with a distant gobble farther down the logging road we were on. We hopped in the truck, drove in that direction, parked and got out. As we were standing there listening, I literally jumped when the tom gobbled again in a tree not 40 yards from the truck.

Busted.

We had a close encounter with two males roosted near each other on the first morning of one of our trips. We convinced one within 20 yards of us based on the sound of him drumming but he never came in for a shot. We gave the birds a day and returned the following morning, excited to find them roosted in nearly the same spot. We hustled across an open forest edge at dawn to close the gap and when Scott struck his familiar slate call, you could perceptibly feel the woods go silent.

It’s just so easy to get caught up in the excitement and forget to think through the entire scenario and how to best approach it. And maybe that’s the point. No matter how many times you mess up, the thrill of that unexpected gobble just lends itself to erroneous decisions.

Don’t Forget to Have Fun

As someone who is very goal-oriented, when I get a tag, I intend to fill it because that’s the point, right? Of course, to an extent it is. But when I took the time to reconnect with why I truly enjoy hunting so much and remembered these little trips were vacations, I had more fun.

My favorite part about this spring was taking some true days off — no service, no logging in and just doing whatever I or whoever I was with felt like doing.

One afternoon as wet heavy snow fell, we opted to watch a movie in the cozy rental cabin and rest up for an early, cold morning.

Amanda Crook with wild asparagus harvested in Montana while chasing spring toms.

After one slow morning in the turkey woods, we were winding our way to a new area and I knew we would pass a resort famous for its fresh, Saturday morning donuts. I thought we didn’t have time for that. Scott scolded me when he asked where it was. When I said we had already passed it, he turned around and I tried not to let him see me smile.

When camping out west, I also found myself not wanting to be gone all day chasing turkeys. I wanted to go hang out with my son back at camp. Go on silly little bike rides and point out bugs and flowers and rocks.

On my last day hunting this spring, the writing was on the wall that my friend and I weren’t going to punch our tags. But rather than head back to pack up early, we hiked to one more spot. I didn’t have much faith in it, too open of an understory. But why not hike a few more miles with a good friend, and soak in some western views. At the very top she found a lone spear of wild asparagus we threw in our breakfast hash on the Blackstone grill for our parting meal.

When I gave myself permission to shed expectations and outside judgement, I had more fun. If I just wanted to shoot turkeys, I would put the money and time I’ve spent this spring into guided hunts, knocking on doors or just overall hunting very differently in different places.

But as much as it wears on me, I want to be outside. I want to be cold. I want to explore new places. I want to hike the miles. I want to stop for the donuts. I want to spend time with the people I love. And I want to be challenged. I also want to shoot a turkey or two somewhere along the way.

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