​Tradition, Superstition and Instinct

Turkey hunting is as much an art as a science as our author discovered.

By Richard Ledbetter

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As with many athletes and sportsmen, I have certain traditions and superstitions I adhere to. And as with all things in life, I find it important to listen to my instincts.

Immediately following deep snows in South Arkansas during the early months of 2021, some 400 acres of 20-year-old pine plantation was row-thinned by heavy machinery near my home. The rolling gravel hills of the area were well-rutted by logging equipment dragging large loads of harvested trees over the muddy ground. The freeze and thaw also left soft earth with numerous sets of gobbler tracks trekking through the woods.

Experience taught me this former thicket, now newly relieved of underbrush and cut through with long alleys of sightline, would no doubt be the primary place to find turkey for the spring season. Beginning my early morning scouting at the start of March, I discovered a pair of toms in the area gobbling each day at first light. Keeping my presence hidden from the wily prey, I patiently listened to pattern their movements from tree to fly-down to their quest through the wide-open spaces for receptive hens.

Each morning leading up to the season, after listening to the birds, I walked back to my vehicle parked at the gate leading out onto a dead-end gravel road. I always scanned the gravel beneath my feet for what I call water crystals — smooth-rounded, clear quartz crystals hidden amid myriad pebbles of every shape, color and size that make up the gravel of our region.

Following decades of looking for and finding these marvelous stones, my eye is trained to see the rare jewels hidden among the clutter of their surroundings. One day my instinct suddenly told me to stop and look down at a rut cut through the roadway. There, to my excitement, was a gorgeous crystal awaiting discovery.

Originating in the ancient, quartz-rich Ouachita Mountain range to our west, water crystals are unique from the average quartz in that their sharp angles have been worn smooth by millennia of erosion, tumbling through the glaciers, rivers and shallow seas that once covered the local landscape.

Wiping the gem clean of the red clay in which it lay imbedded, I admired its clarity held up to the rising sun. I dropped the transparent pebble into my pants pocket where it joined two similar crystals found the year before. I often refer to these stones as “turkey slayers” because I nearly always harvest a mature gobbler soon after picking one up.

I venture to say any well-seasoned hunter worth his salt has certain lucky charms faithfully toted to the hunting grounds. I carry a buckeye and two or three of the water crystal talismans on every hunt. Other superstitions I stubbornly adhere to include always wearing my lucky button-up camo shirt with the threadbare collar along with my lucky belt, cap and rubber boots covered with tire patches from years of wear.

By the season’s opening morning, I had forged a plan to walk in on the gravel road to a favorable setup spot before gobbling time. The birds had shown a habit of roosting near the same tree most evenings, so I’d already picked a spot and scratched back the leaves and pine straw for a seat beneath. The idea was to be in place when the pair pitched out of their tree to land in a strut zone where they regularly began their day.

As I quietly made my pre-dawn hike, instinct told me to pull up short of the original destination and wait to hear the first gobble of the new dawn. Sure enough, the pair of toms that day weren’t in their customary tree. The gobbles rang out from a pine tree only 70 yards ahead, overhanging the gravel road. If I proceeded to my planned destination, I would have likely alerted the birds to my presence as I passed beneath their perch.

Instead, I quietly slipped 20 yards into the plantation to my right and set out a hen decoy 20 yards to my front in an alleyway with a long, unobstructed view. I settled back against a pine, caught my breath and gathered my calm. The birds gobbled enthusiastically several times before I watched them fly down into the alleyway some 70 yards out front.

As they began strutting in the clearing, I carefully scratched out a few yelps on my slate call, only to have the pair rattle the woods with their vigorous response. Each call was met with multiple gobbles, but they held their ground, strutting in place.

After some 25 minutes of this display, the dominate gobbler finally folded his feathers and strolled out of my sight into the row of pines that stood between us. His partner tom followed close behind.

I gently sat down my call and eased up my shotgun. Hidden from my sight, they struck up gobbling again and again, easing nearer my position. Suddenly the boss bird showed himself cautiously, slipping down the alley to my left. I followed his progress with my gun barrel, noting the trailing bird only a few yards behind. When the leader came within 40 steps and raised his outstretched neck for a look around, I squeezed the trigger.

The loud report marked his demise and he dropped motionless to the earth as his startled companion flew away unharmed in the opposite direction. The successful hunt proved all three paramount pillars of the sport: tradition, superstition and instinct.