Only a bright orange flag slightly above the waterline marked the freshly submerged golf cart. We saved the beer though, and were soaking some rays on the 17th hole, celebrating our harrowing brush with death when angry duffers began to gather.
“Go ahead and play through,” Bill innocently offered.
 |
But they were edging closer, a gray and balding lynch mob armed with woods, irons, razor-edged scorecards and spiked shoes. We were paralyzed with fear until the course marshal showed up, a helium-voiced thimble of a man who claimed he didn’t need “no stinking” badge.
“The parking brake failed,” Pancho explained.
“Brewski?” I inquired. My talent for poor timing may have been only in its infancy when I was in college, but even then I knew I had a special gift.
We were banished for life from the small executive course. Our mug shots were going to be placed on golfing’s post office wall equivalent and if we so much as showed up in a store that sold related gear, he insisted, our credit cards would be refused and shredded.
It was nearly 30 years since I thought about the submarined cart incident, and then I was assigned to a turkey hunt in northwestern Oklahoma this spring. The terrain is eerily similar to those invasive courses I played in southern Arizona, and it forced the memories to come flooding back. Buttes, mesquite, muleys, dry arroyos and enough cactus to turn a short walk into a long meander. Where’s my pitching wedge?
 |
“There are turkeys here?” I questioned. Then the lush green, cultivated valleys came into focus—stark contrast from the red-and-yellow desert—defying the climate and too long for a one wood. The birds, as it turns out, were Rios. They spend most of their days in the fields, but roost in the old cottonwoods along the Cimarron River or trees lining the fields.
The hunt would take place on a ranch known for producing trophy whitetails, good-sized muleys and great turkeys. I was using Knight’s new KP1 fitted with a 12-gauge shotgun barrel. The single-shot system is one of the most versatile available today. Simply change barrels and it’s a muzzleloader, centerfire rifle, rimfire rifle or shotgun. Installation and removal are easy, and with a single rifle you have every season covered except archery.
I had a rental car, no water hazards were in sight and I was armed with one of the industry’s most innovative products. There was no way I wasn’t going to birdie out, or so I thought.
The first morning we set up in a blind along a trail with plenty of strut marks. The birds had been leaving the roost, we were told, and using the dirt roadway to make their way into a lush, green field about 100 yards distant. It was a gimmee.
Never did hear a gobble. That night at camp two hunters were posing with their toms lethargically, staging prolonged photographic productions. Needless to say, it was rough.
By the end of day two I’d yet to score and was beginning to wonder if I wasn’t fighting some sort of unlucky handicap.
On day three my guide and I were changing locations, turning north toward Kansas where we’d drop over the Oklahoma border to set up our ambush before dawn. The toms’ll never know what hit them, I theorized as I sped toward the state line.
Maybe it was the sign saying we were less than an hour from Dodge City, but we had time to kill, lots of new territory to explore and I was the driver. We visited the post office in the first small town we encountered on the Kansas side and, after checking the walls for my photograph, I inquired as to the whereabouts of the nearest police station. Thirty miles later we were there and it wasn’t just a sheriff’s station, it was the county jail.
 |
I like to collect odd self-portraits during my travels and it was time rural Kansas’ law authorities slapped me in iron (oddly a prediction from that Arizona course marshall). The deputy wasn’t much help, indicating she didn’t have time for such tomfoolery. The two inmates out on a cigarette break were different though.
“Heck, our cell’s empty right now,” the striped pair offered. “They just let us out to have a smoke, so go on in and we’ll take your picture.” Both were headed for the big house, and not for speeding.
My mind was yelling, “Fore.” They could slam the door and leave me behind bars. I respectfully declined, however I did get one photo of my guide with the pair before we left. The threesome proved to be a rather lively topic of conversation that evening at camp.
|
Guy Sagi (left) and Jim Strelec in front of the prime turkey habitat they hunted in late April. Some might think I should be teed off since the high point of my hunt was an unfruitful last-day stalk on a jake, but what I came away with was much more. My guide, Jim Stelec, who’s one of Knight and Hale’s most accomplished callers, taught me a lot about bringing in birds—including murders of crows. “Do it with emotion,” he explained. When working a slate call maintain the same angle on your wrist, like a pilot keeps the same rate of descent in an airplane so the passengers remain comfortable during a landing—in most cases you want to do the same with a tom.
The KP1 is also an interesting, versatile rifle. Depress a button, relieve some of the hammer’s pressure and the entire trigger group drops out easily for cleaning or maintenance. The gun comes apart, even in the field, readily and changing barrels is a snap. For obvious reasons I didn’t get to wring the gun out completely and confirm some things I ran across, but stay tuned for a full report now that we have one on hand to test.
