The "Gobblin Ghost of Cypress Swamp"
By Rob Somerville, Ol' Tom Elite Member

Many a sleepless night found old Mike tossing and turning with images of past turkey seasons playing on his closed eyelids like a movie screen. He'd been after the bird he laughingly coined the "Gobblin Ghost" for four seasons now. He wasn't laughing any more. Mike was actually beginning to believe this mature 'tom' was a phantom, sent from the depths of Hades, to drive him out of his mind. And at this time, it would take a very short drive indeed.

Mike didn't believe that anyone qualified for the title of "expert turkey hunter". These birds, especially the mature toms, were just too unpredictable. Add to that their amazing eyesight and keen sense of hearing, and without the season of mating, they would virtually be unkillable. Most hunters in his home state did classify Mike as the local "turkey guru". After all, he had over 75 sets of spurs to his credit. It was the tremendous pride he took in his woodsmanship skills and calling, coupled with his being unable to outsmart the Ghost, that had him so frustrated. He had left no stone unturned, trying every trick in the book to harvest this gobbler, but all proved of no avail. It seemed the Ghost always hung up, at least 75 yards away, well out of shotgun range. Spitting, strutting, and drumming, it was like a slap in the face to this veteran of over thirty turkey seasons. The Ghost's twelve-inch, double beard, and one and three quarter inch spurs helped generate the sleepless nights Mike had dreaming of it's harvest.

Mike had memorized the Ghost's favorite roosting, feeding, strutting, and dusting areas. He knew its travel routes as well as he knew the back of his own hand. No matter what tactic was employed, the old tom always outsmarted him. Exactly how big of a brain could a turkey have, when its head was no bigger than a golf ball? I guess it was big enough to fool this member of the supposed top of the food chain. Mike's days and nights at work and at home were consumed with the obsession to harvest this majestic king of the swamp.

His friends kidded him about not harvesting a gobbler the past two years, but Mike was determined not to fire his gun until he had that double bearded chin sighted down his barrel.

He had scouted his 600-acre lease from a distance, just to ensure his nemesis was still around. After seeing the Ghost scatter three jakes late one morning when they got too close to some hens, Mike immediately left the area. He didn't want to chance the wily old bird sensing any human presence until it was too late.

On opening morning, Mike awoke two hours before his alarm went off. He sat at his kitchen table, over a cup of coffee, and went over his strategy. He planned on using his mouth to owl hoot, pin-pointing his gobbler on roost prior to sunrise, and then set up between the roost and the field the Ghost preferred as a strut zone. As he got dressed, he checked his camo carefully, even blackening the area around his eyes with greasepaint, which was the only part of his body visible. His cleaned and oiled shotgun had been patterned to perfection, and his calls had been laid out in anticipation for days. He re-chalked his box call, moistened his diaphragm calls, and roughed up the sweet spot on his favorite slate call, "Ole Yeller". He cupped his hands to his mouth, cleared his throat, and let out a quiet owl hoot. This elicited a terse response from his previously sleeping wife, who said, "Unless you can make those calls blow out of any other part of your body, I suggest you let me get my beauty sleep". He chuckled quietly as she added, "Good luck Honey".

He walked the mile and one half to the edge of the bottom woods, careful not to use a four-wheeler and alert his wary adversary. Skirting the edge of the field, he used caution so he would not let the gobbler see his silhouette in the field in the darkness. At twenty minutes before daylight, he let loose with his best barred owl hoot, which pierced the silence of the dusky gray, pre-dawn. The only response came from two other owls in opposite directions, calling back their good mornings.

He didn't understand. The old bird had never resisted his owl hoot in the past. He tried it again, and was disappointed with the same response. Although the temperature was in the mid-forties, Mike could feel a trickle of sweat worrying its way down the small of his back. His plans were simply not working. He had no choice but to improvise. He began to ease in to the woods towards the swamp. He avoided the dried, dead branches that littered the floor of the woods, as well as the wet mud holes which caused your boots to slurp when you pulled them up, sounding like a little kid with a Popsicle. He moved even slower than normal, due to the heavy tendrils of fog, snaking their way through the cypress knees.

Mike found an ancient tree, which was surrounded by buck brush, and sat with his back against it, facing the swamp. He wished he could have located the Ghost's exact location instead of randomly setting up, but daylight would be arriving soon. He had no choice. As he sat there, a low rumble came from the south. It was an old freight train. As it approached a crossing about a mile away, it let out a shrill whistle of warning reverberating through the quiet swamp with it's "Whoooo Whoooo".

A thunderous and familiar gobble immediately followed the train whistle, coming from no more than sixty yards away in a large cypress tree. The hair on the back of the veteran hunter's neck stood on end and his heart seemingly jumped in to his throat cutting off his breath. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly and evenly through his nose, raising his gun and resting it with shaking hands on his knee in the anticipated shooting position.

Five minutes later the sky began to lighten to an ashen gray. The hunter could see the silhouette of the old boss gobbler, peering to and fro, searching for his feathered harem. Suddenly, soft clucks filled the air. There were several hens roosting in a swamp alder about thirty yards behind the hunter. Lady luck and a dense fog had helped place Mike smack dab in between the king and his queens. After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually mere minutes, the dominant hen jumped from her lofty perch and noisily flapped her way down to the swamp woods floor, followed seconds later by three more "ladies in waiting". They began to purr contentedly, as they scratched around in the cypress needles for bugs and seeds.

Without moving any part of his body but his eyes, Mike warily watched the Ghost. The big tom paced back and forth excitedly while constantly eyeing the hens, the perch bowing with his weight, until the his hormones wouldn't let him stand it another minute. He flew down and landed less than twenty yards from the hunter, not knowing that his demise was but a finger pull away. As the Ghost hit the ground, it immediately fluffed its feathers to the size of a large beachball, spreading its majestic fan in all its glory. The gobbler stretched out its neck and ripped out a royal gobble that made Mike imagine he saw and heard it in slow motion. He was announcing to the world that he was king of the swamp, ready for battle or love, and these ladies were his personal property. Only God, The Master Artist, could create such a colorful spectacle through nature. The vibrant colors of the Ghost's head and neck seemed to explode in transition from crimson, to purple, to indigo blue, to virgin white. As he fanned his tail and flexed his muscles while drumming and spitting, the iridescent colors of his feathers were enhanced by the morning dew on his body. Its double beard was dragging the ground as its wings scraped a trail on each side of the gobbler's path.

The bead of the hunter's shotgun settled in as steady as a rock on the neck of the Ghost as it broke strut and sent it's head upward like a periscope to seek the location of his heart's desire. Mike's heart was beating a drum roll in his chest as he thumbed off his safety. As the veteran hunter began to slowly put pressure on the sensitive trigger, his mind became a collage of the past four years of encounters with his worthy opponent. It seemed like time stood still as these memories flooded his mind.

"Bang", he said in his mind. The Ghost double gobbled as if it had heard his thoughts, and broke in to a trot on his prehistoric looking legs, following his mating urge.

Mike waited twenty minutes with a smile on his face, at peace with the world, before easing out of the bottom in the opposite direction of the flock, happier than he could remember. It took some luck, but in his minds eye he had finally beat the Ghost. Why didn't he shoot? Well, I guess he felt he owed the old boss gobbler one more spring for all the enjoyment of the challenge of the many hunts the two had shared.

He got home and saw the look of sympathy on his wife's face as she met him at the door. "No luck honey?" she asked. Mike picked her up off her feet in a big bear hug, twirled her around and replied, "Let's just say, I'm the luckiest man in the world".

The end.