Gabriel of South Ridge The conclusion

By By Otha Barham / outdoors editor
April 30, 2004
(Last week I wrote here about the first half of a turkey season I spent trying to fool an old Maryland gobbler that I had named Gabby because of his abundant gobbling. The story is condensed from my award winning article that appeared in Turkey Call magazine).
By mid-season the old gobbler had eluded me on every hunt. Then came the day that I would call him in.
I set up on the south edge of the top of South Ridge where it made a sweeping curve in open woods. I could see him at 200 yards as he topped out as usual and began his incessant gobbling. Today he reluctantly came to my calling, staying in the center of the ridge top.
It was my first good look at this elusive bird. The old monarch walked deliberately, measuring his steps as if each one pained arthritic bones. He came to a log and getting over it was difficult for him, his thick beard waving at each effort. "I am looking at a very old monarch," I thought.
On he came, stopping intermittently to ring the woods with his gobble. I had neither seen nor heard hens in these woods. "I wonder if this old boy has been banished by the flock to these remote ridges in favor of younger and stronger toms," I asked myself. I was better understanding this bird.
Steadily he coursed my way, walking like an old man going for a loaf of bread at a familiar store. His path brought him close and just as he came into range he entered light cover; stringy brush which made a sure shot questionable. He passed me at thirty yards, but the brush was getting thicker and I would take no chance at wounding this great bird. He never gave me a clear shot. After he passed, I moved and called again. He would have none of it. Close, but no cigar.
After that day, he would not come to any of my calls. But he would gobble, more than ever. Having seen him up close struggling to walk in his domain, and having myself suffered defeat in our duels time and again, I decided the name Gabby was demeaning. With a measure of respect, I changed his name to Gabriel, an upgrade from Gabby to one who makes his pronouncements on a higher level.
The end of the season was at hand. What could I do with a bird that could not be called? I reached back in my mind over my 20 years of gobbler hunting. I remembered an episode my brother had with a gobbler and a tactic he used. I had also read the works of two writers who had used this tactic, one having discovered it by accident. I would try it. I would attempt to lure the bird without using any traditional calling.
The last day I could hunt was the Monday before the season ended on Tuesday. After the long drive and walk, I climbed South Ridge and was on top before daylight. Gabriel's gobble didn't come. Six o'clock came and I heard two other hunters call to the bird far below my high perch. They too had last ditch designs on the bird with the loose tongue. By nine o'clock Gabriel had not gobbled and the other hunters left. But I knew that bird well and guessed that he had not broken habit and was still at his roost.
Ten o'clock came and there was no sound. I stayed put on the ridge. Maryland's spring turkey hunting ends at noon, and I had a long walk to be out of the woods by then. Time was running out on my last day. Suddenly, at 10:30 Gabriel made his call. The old bird was down in the ravine right under his roost tree as I had hoped. Now I had him all to myself.
I quickly answered his gobble with some shy yelps from my mouth diaphragm. He answered right back . He would play his usual insincere game, but I had different ideas.
I stashed my calls and headed east along the hill on the off side from the gobbler. After a quarter mile I dropped to the stream below and crossed over onto My Ridge, below the far edge of which stood the gobbler, sounding off, mocking the fake hen he had heard up high. I slipped along My Ridge straight for the bird, his gobbles guiding me perfectly.
As I approached, I began to make my footfalls sound like a feeding turkey in the oak leaves. Watching a feeding flock will reveal how they form the bare spots along their routes in deciduous forests. Looking for seeds and insects, they typically make one long sweep of the leaves with a foot and then two short scratches with the other foot to clear the leaves. A pause in the sounds follows as they peck the cleared area. My steps would sound out one long, two shorts, pause; one long, two shorts, pause; like the dots and dashes of Morse code but with frequent glitches.
Final approach
The big tom was well below me at the base of My Ridge beyond its sharp drop off. My hair stood on end when he gobbled every time I imitated the scratching. I pulled out my old Lynch Jet slate and peg. It would purr at a whisper and I made a lazy feeding purr as I approached the tree where I would set up. This brought a gobble which seemed to shake the ground.
With my back to a big oak, I scratched the feeding sequence in the leaves with my hand and sounded one more contented purr. His next gobble was just beyond a fallen tree and he was coming straight in. When he reached the tree, he negotiated it just as he had the log days earlier on South Ridge, refusing to walk around it. Instead he picked his way through the thick top, struggling up onto the log, stepping off onto my side and pushing through the leafy limbs straight for me. In the instant he stepped clear of the deadfall, I dropped him. The distance was 25 yards.
An enormous rush of emotion consumed me. I had killed the monarch; Gabriel of South Ridge. I had to trot much of the way back to the road to beat the noon deadline.
The story of Gabriel does not end here. In the days that followed, I strangely continued to plan how to get the old bird. I was in the habit of plotting his demise and I couldn't break it. Planning his undoing had become an addiction. I couldn't stop. I couldn't accept that he was dead.
On through the year when I thought of those western Maryland woods I pictured Gabriel there, sounding his calls and fooling me again. It was strange when I entered his lair the next spring and found myself listening for him; tiptoeing in the dark past his roost, facing the roost to do my calling, waiting for him to gobble on South Ridge.
I never stopped hunting Gabriel each spring until I moved away from Maryland. And if I were to go back there some spring to hunt those oak covered ridges, I know I would call to him at dawn from a certain spot on South Ridge. And then I would listen for his reply from far below at the foot of his big roost pine where the little stream trickles past. To this turkey hunter, he is still there; and always will be.