The Gobbler Of Panther Creek

There hadn‘t been a turkey season in Georgia since the 1940s but spring of 1975 was gonna be the first, and I was gonna be the first boy anywhere in the county to go hunting them. There was nothing about turkey hunting in any sporting goods store anywhere we went. There wasn’t any information about how to go about hunting a turkey either. But one month, in the back of Outdoor Life magazine, which Pop took every month in the mail, he found two advertisements, one for a record that would teach you how to turkey hunt and how to call, and one for a Lynch’s Jet Slate turkey call. Pop ordered one slate and then, based off a picture of a box call in that same magazine, my Uncle Harry, who could build anything, built me a cedar box call.

You talk about an awful racket. We made so much noise in the house practicing with that record and those calls that Grandma made us go outside. Finally, the day came to go hunting.

We had read somewhere that building a blind would help hide a fella and give him a better chance to kill a turkey. So, we built two, about 150 yards apart. We built them high up on a ridge above Panther Creek, and even from there we could hear the water rushing over the rocks in the creek bed below us.

On opening morning, we got into our blinds well before daylight. I sat there listening to the woods wake up, hearing a cardinal as the first bird to sing, and watching the sky turn pink, then orange over the horizon.

I didn’t know what to expect and wasn’t sure what to do, but I was there, and it seemed like I might as well call. So, I picked up my box call and, just like I’d done sitting next to the record player and listening to old Mr. Ben Lee, I scratched out three yelps, just three, because Pop had really cautioned me about calling too much. Fifteen minutes later I picked it up again and scratched out three more yelps.

That was it. That was really all I did. I don’t know if I heard leaves rustle or a twig snap or what, but something made me look down the ridge toward Panther Creek. It was still pretty dark down toward the hollow with the forest canopy really thick, but down about 30 yards, I saw him. There was a turkey walking slowly directly parallel to me. He had never made a sound and to be honest with you, I was so stunned, I just sat there for a few seconds. I’d never in my life seen a wild turkey and this one had just appeared there. He moved like a phantom or a ghost or something, silent and smooth, like he was floating.

I don’t have any idea what I was thinking or why I did it, but I stood up. It was the dumbest thing I could have done, what with him 30 yards away, but it almost felt like I needed to stand out of respect, like somebody important had just walked up, or like when a judge comes in a courtroom.

I stood there with my mouth open and the turkey did a funny thing, he stopped too. I think maybe he was as stunned to see me as I was to see him. I didn’t do anything quick. I was in slow motion as I raised my single-shot 20 gauge and aimed. He stood there like a statue. Maybe it was because it was his first turkey season too and he didn’t know any better, but it was a good five seconds before I squeezed the trigger. Then the turkey disappeared. In another second or two, way down the ridge toward Panther Creek I heard crashing sounds in the brush. I stood there like my feet were in concrete, then Pop walked up.

“Boy, what did you shoot at?” I couldn’t talk. I just looked at him stupidly. Had I just seen a turkey … a wild turkey? Pop followed my eyes, “Did you shoot at one?” I finally formed words.

“I shot a turkey Pop!”

By now Pop had walked over almost to where the turkey had stood. “I don’t see nothing, nor no feathers neither, did you hit him?”

“I know I hit him,” I said, but I don’t know why I felt like I knew that because I really didn’t.

Finally, my brain started to work. “I heard something down toward the creek,” I said, stepping quickly off down the ridge, then I started to jog down toward Panther Creek.

“Hang on,” Pop said, trying to catch up. It took us a long time, in the thick hardwoods, but Pop suddenly called out.

“Chris, come over here, I found your turkey.” The walk from where I had been looking to where Pop was standing over the turkey seemed like it took a week, but I was moving as fast as I could on the side of the steep ridge.

The first thing I saw as I approached was a red head, then, I saw a beard, then spurs and I went down on one knee. I hadn’t known what one would look like up close. I hadn’t known how I would feel.

I guess the best way I can describe it is, I was in awe. I was excited for sure, and relieved and still in shock, but I was mostly in awe of this beautiful bird that now, with the morning sun’s rays starting to peek through the canopy, revealed iridescent colors in the thick feathers on his back.

I sat back on my rump and laid the now empty single-shot 20 gauge down beside me. I felt my Pop’s hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. It would be much later, accepting pats on the back from all the old men down at John Jr.’s store, before it hit me that I was the first person anywhere in four counties who had killed a wild turkey.

For now, we just stayed there like that, admiring this magnificent creature, the roar of Panther Creek only a few yards away. And in that moment, I knew. No matter how long I would hunt, no matter how many gobblers I harvested, I would always look back with fondness and awe at the Gobbler of Panther Creek.