Turkey hunting had seemed to evade the author until a chance to return to his beloved Southwest came. Like a lot of first-timers, beginner’s luck can often fool one into thinking turkey hunting is easy.

It was a sordid affair, the kind best confessed to trusted friends over vintage single malt and a fine cigar. Hers were the subtle, sensual curves guaranteed to tempt—especially after four days in hunting camp. I thought I’d abandoned the relationship four years ago when I moved to the east from the Southwest. Distance and time were no escape though, so it wasn’t long after taking my first Rio Grande turkey in El Dorado, Texas, that I found myself arranging for a rendezvous at El Mejor—a restaurant in nearby San Angelo.

I’d returned to the desert Southwest to hunt turkeys and only hours after I got off the plane 20 hens straggled past our blind. Then a pair of gobblers finally answered.

“Stay still,” said Ben Maki, of Mossy Oak. “Here they come.” My eagerness to look around had been permanently dampened an hour before when a keen-eyed hen saw me blink. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, but my eyes were beginning to sting and my shooting lane was small.

“I don’t see anything,” I whispered. The Browning Gold shotgun was ready, and I found my cheek weld. It wasn’t long until I could hear the drumming—low and earthy, like an invisibly approaching tsunami. Seconds turned into minutes and still no birds.

“Shoot,” Maki implored. His hushed excitement was communicable.

“Shoot what?” I asked, mirroring Maki’s angst. Adjusting my position to spot the birds was out of the question—the deep sleep my feet had fallen into was spreading to my legs. My death grip on the fore-end, which I assumed would steady the shotgun, was suffering. The barrel was in a slow wander, waving like a drum major’s halftime baton with disturbing regularity.

A slight reflection or almost undetectable movement can spook a wary tom, which makes effective camouflage almost mandatory. Browning’s Gold, chambered for
3- or 3 1/2-inch shotshells, in Mossy Oak’s New Break-Up pattern was ideal
for Texas gobblers.

“The first gobbler.” I slowly dropped the shotgun’s fore-end on my knee and took a deep breath. There were no birds within my thin shooting alley. “He’s right there,” Maki insisted.

“I don’t see a thing.”

Minutes felt like hours. Finally, out of the corner of my eye—through the thick cover that concealed our presence—I saw the motion of fanned feathers in a strut, right around the corner and in no hurry. Seconds later the lead gobbler stepped into view. I released the safety, again found enough of a cheek weld to stabilize the wobbly bead, controlled my labored breathing and squeezed. The Winchester Xtended Range Hi-Density Turkey Load was one-shot lethal at 41 yards. My first turkey was down, and it was spectacular. No, it wasn’t the world’s largest turkey, nor did it complete a grand slam. This, like all my other hunting experiences, transcends any sort of record keeping.

Maki was skilled at talking the tom in, gauging its reaction and adjusting to the bird’s read on his calls. Effective calling is much more than a talent. It’s an applied art that often prompts distant, patience-testing responses. You know the birds are out there, somewhere, but you wait motionless. There are times to be aggressive and other circumstances that dictate a more subtle approach, or even total silence. I learned a lot by watching and listening to Maki that afternoon, but the next two days made it obvious just how little I really know.

By the next morning I’d incorrectly assumed turkey hunting was easy. When I dropped my first bird, my plane’s boarding pass was still in my pocket. The next morning I was outsmarted.

It was 2005 when Winchester first introduced its Xtended Range line of shotshells, featuring pellets 10 percent more dense than lead. The improved performance
of the Xtended Range Hi-Density Turkey Loads was obvious to the author
after dropping a pair of Rios in Texas.

It wasn’t a big tom. Unless I’m mistaken it was a small-bodied bird with a long-beard—maybe even a jake—that was wiser than its years. It knew something was wrong, but the Mossy Oak Obsession camouflage made us almost impossible to detect. The bird studied our position for at least 30 minutes, carefully keeping a pair of trees between it and us. Periodically it would crane its head around one bush to sneak a peek, only to dive back under cover. Finally, Maki told me to move so I could get a clear shot. I rolled slowly to my right, and as I squeezed the trigger my body forgot to stop rolling. Luckily it was a clean miss.

The next afternoon though, I connected on my largest bird—this time at 24 yards. Maki is much better at calling in longbeards than I am at shooting them. My tags were filled and it wasn’t long until my mind returned to that love affair which had laid dormant during the past four years. At El Mejor, her attractive southwestern pride was all too familiar as she approached the table—hot and steamy, never too spicy. My plane left in five hours, so our time together would be short. She was everything I’d missed since moving from Arizona. Sure, I’d fallen for sultry facades in the past, but perfection is impossible to forget once it’s been tasted.

That afternoon, under a bluebird Texas sky, I had the honor and privilege of savoring my first Sonora cuisine chile relleno in years. The cheese-stuffed green chile was cooked to perfection, breaded lightly, served on a bed of ground beef and covered with a sauce whose memory lingers. I’ll savor the encounter forever. Undoubtedly, there’s nothing quite like it, unless of course it’s preceded by your first two turkeys or, perhaps, that confession-inducing single malt.