It’s still too early to even see in front of you. The only light available is coming from the bright crescent moon overhead. As I walk into my little piece of heaven, the cool North wind blows through the pine trees, making them whisper their secrets away. I can see my breath, though only barely, in the silhouette of my dim headlamp. This is Florida and undoubtedly by the end of the hunt I will be sweating and batting away mosquitoes.
The state poses an interesting set of challenges that would deter your typical weekend hunter. Alligators, venomous snakes (six different species), spiders as big as your face and mosquitoes that masquerade as hummingbirds are enough to keep most people out of the woods, but I still love it. As a guide, I thrive in the woods, or on the water and the challenges that I have to overcome make it that much sweeter when my clients leave happy.
Today we are stalking the elusive Wild Turkey, the Osceola model. My client followed as I led deep into the swamp in search of an Easter dinner. The water started out ankle deep and began cooling my sore feet. After a couple of steps, it was nearly above my boots and without much resistance it began rushing in to flood my lower legs. Cold now, with the breeze on my back and the water soaking my socks, I began to move with a more hurried pace, steadily sloshing through the creek. As my legs moved, they kicked up decayed plant matter aerosolizing a fetid stench that filled my nostrils. Even with the water now adding substantial weight to my clothing, I felt very much alive. “Press on,” I thought. “This is what you live for.” My mind was set on what I would do if Osceola came within range of my client’s shotgun. How I would set up if his chiefs accompany him, or worse, his squaws. They see all. What calls would I start out with and how would I use them. All of these things crossed my mind as I pressed on.
My light shone through the darkness, just as a hot knife cuts through butter. The forest on either side of me offered vibrant colors. Vines and ivy once muted in the dry season was now lush and green, clinging to the two passerby’s clothes.
We got out of the water and climbed into the palmettos on a trail that I had blazed mere days before. As we went, we were accompanied only by the sound of the fronds scratching our wet camouflage, the dark mud sucking our boots downward and the Earth making us earn every step taken. This was the sound of the Spring stalk. A swamp stalk in one of Florida’s disappearing wetlands.
After a time, the trail grew shallow and with pine trees now surrounding me, it became dry. I was soaked from the waist down and I gave a look back to my client who sported a smile from ear to ear. The squalid mud gave way to white sugar sand with Bahia grass jumbled in amongst the sand spurs and stinging nettles. The dawn was still far off and with my light beaming off of the damp ground a new environment appeared. Hundreds of small eyes glared back at me from amongst the grasses. There were Spiders, predators just as I was, out for a long night of hunting the small crickets, roaches and cicadas that produced the ever-present orchestra of sound that surrounded us. It was spring’s early morning language.
Up ahead I spotted a downed limb. It was cracked away from the tree’s body by the great North wind, no doubt. It was a large Water Oak that was several feet in circumference. With browning leaves and moss blocking my way, I detoured around the tree. Off the trail I stepped slowly and deliberately around the jumble of firewood to the other side.
In an open pine flat, we sat listening to the cool breeze blow above us. The pine trees spoke as we listened to their soothing voice and we waited to hear the special sound. I dozed off at the base of a large pine, waking an hour later to the sound of songbirds calling from the palmettos behind us. Within a few minutes, objects began to materialize. We see other pine trees with the marsh out in front and the palmetto fronds to my sides. Then I heard it. It was the unmistakable sound of our quarry. We heard the war chant of swamp birds. Osceola fired off several gobbles in succession. My client looked back at me from the base of a thick pine tree, still holding that massive smile. I gave the thumbs up, and pulled down my camouflage face netting.
I sent out a series of soft clucks and one good yelp from my box call to the Old Chief just across the marsh. All was quiet. Osceolas are wise. They are ephemeral ghosts that take shape in the humid mists of the swamp, vanishing at the blink of an eye. Making you question if they were ever there. I whispered to my comrade, “He’ll come from the right on the same trail we came in on that circumvents the marsh. Be ready because you may only get one shot.”
I received a nod of approval and the shotgun was aimed and steadied toward the trail. The light began to shine in through the trees from behind us and while the pines across the marsh were obscured in a dense fog, I knew the birds were there. They gave themselves away once more and then nothing for nearly twenty minutes. I was about to get up to re-position us, when from behind the palmetto head on our right, a thunderous gobble echoed out penetrating the mist and piercing us through our hearts.
He knew that there was a lone female here. Osceola had heard her just minutes before and he wanted her badly. I purred softly to him with my diaphragm and he called three more times. I could see the red head bobbing around the fronds and soon enough, he was in sight of the shotgun. Through a thick cloud of mosquitos, a hammer dropped and a legend fell.
My client told me it was a surreal experience. “I’m thankful to have been a part of it.”
Though Capt. Johnny makes his living from the deck of his skiff, he does occasionally take a lucky client into the Turkey woods in both Spring and Fall. Call 813-713-0237 for inquires and be sure to follow his adventures on Instagram@lonepineoutdoors. Email: lonepineoutdoors@gmail.com. Web: www.lpineoutdoors.com.
