|
Upland & Waterfowl
|
||||||||
|
|
The Hardest Turkey HuntBy John Taranto John Taranto dealt with snow, freezing temperatures, long hikes and high elevation in search of a trophy Merriam's turkey. After all the hardships see if he was able to tag a bird. Apr 3, 2008 See pictures from the trip here.
Paul's offer got real interesting when he mentioned the idea was to hunt and camp on national forest land where we would hike several thousand feet of elevation and untold miles over the course of the week. A real adventure. Fast forward a couple of months and Paul, NWTF managing editor Jake Fagan, outdoor writer Lynn Burkhead and I are standing at the North Fork trailhead in the San Isabel National Forest, each of us with some 60 pounds of camping and hunting gear strapped to our backs. The plan is to find a good campsite a few miles into the mountains (thereby guaranteeing we won't have any competition for the birds), set up camp and try to roost some turkeys before nightfall. The hiking is slow-going for a variety of reasons, the weight on our backs being one. The treacherous, uneven terrain and the thinning air as we climb roughly 2,000 feet in elevation don't help, either. Fortunately we find a suitable campground about 2 miles into the hike and decide to set-up there among the aromatic ponderosa pine and stark white aspen trunks. There's plenty of groundspace for our four one-man Slumberjack tents on one side of the trail, a fire pit on the other and a cold, steadily flowing stream just 50 yards down the trail where we can get water for cooking and drinking. According to topo maps of the area, several valleys and canyons drop off on either side of the trail for several more miles into the mountains. We head out around four o'clock in pairs-Paul and Lynn, Jake and myself-to scout the area we are to hunt the next 3 days and see if we can roost a bird or two for morning. The scenery is breathtaking as we climb wooded hillsides, traverse mountain streams and glass alpine prairies. But aside from a couple sets of mallards swimming around a beaver slough, the only animal sign that Jake and I see all afternoon are black bear and mountain lion tracks-and some of them are rather fresh. We arrive back at camp before Paul and Lynn and start a fire. Before long, the others wander back into camp with a scouting report that doesn't differ from our own: no turkey tracks, no turkey scat and no turkeys calling. It appears that the birds haven't made it up to 10,000 feet yet this year. Over a dinner of rehydrated beef stroganoff we decide to hike back to the trailhead in the morning, hop in the mighty Kia rental and drive back out to a state wildlife area we passed on the way in that resembled likely turkey habitat. The temperature has dropped into the twenties and snow has begun to fall as I crawl into my sleeping bag. My shotgun and three loose shells lie next to me in the tent. It's becoming apparent to me, a born-and-bred flatlander, that Rocky Mountain turkey hunting is going to be unlike any spring hunt I've done before.
|
|
||||||
|
||||||||
RELATED ARTICLES
