"Watch out for bears. We've had some feeders torn up and have seen plenty of sign." Not exactly the words I wanted to hear as we walked through chest-high palmettos but my guide and friend, Rusty, wasn't joking as he relayed his stern warning. Without being able to remember if I'd kept my life insurance policy premiums up-to-date, the more thoughtful portion of my brain was begging me to consider, "What have I gotten myself into?". I uttered a quick prayer and kept right on walking, maybe a little more vigilant, gripping my flashlight a little bit tighter.A brush slapped me in the face as I simultaneously made yet another misguided step into a pothole whose depth proved to be just over the top of my knee-high snake boots. Meanwhile hordes of mosquitoes were making mince meat of any exposed flesh seemingly ignoring the deet I'd doused myself liberally with. Wild hog sign was everywhere, humidity was one-hundred and fifty percent and the temperature was hovering just over eighty degrees. These were not exactly ideal hunting conditions and this was not exactly the Disneyesque image I had of Florida.
Upon reaching our desired predawn location we began using locator calls, primarily owl hoots. The swamp remains has quiet as a funeral parlor regardless of our calling. Rusty informed me that the gobbling had been fierce for the last week but yesterday's heavy downpours had put a severe damper on the amorous intentions of every turkey in town. Apparently there were no longer turkeys in Florida, their departure directly corresponding with my arrival in the Sunshine State.
Ten o'clock found us walking logging trails in shin-high water, looking for turkey sign and wishing we'd brought along some snacks and bottled water.
As we rounded a bend in the road we spotted a flock of hens feeding several hundred yards away with a boss tom strutting his stuff for all the world to see. As stealthily as possible, we eased back around the bend, placed a couple decoys in the middle of the road, concealed ourselves in the brush and began softly calling the trophy bird. Nothing doing. Although we roused his curiosity quite a bit, there was no way that wise old fella was going to leave his lovely ladies no matter how beautiful the serenade. Desperate times call for desperate measures so we devised a quick plan. Rus would enter the woods, sneak a hundred yards or so past the flock and bust out onto the road bed hopefully spooking the birds back toward me and my camo-clad twelve gauge.
Many anxious minutes passed and I was just about to give up on our little scheme when I heard several excited cuts and saw two hens coming around the curve. Following the first two were two more, then another, then another and another until the road was covered with osceolas. Finally the tom showed himself. A series of high pitched clucks on my diaphragm call stopped him in his tracks and he began strutting and drumming fifteen yards in front of my barrel. He never knew what hit him when a shell-full of number 4's changed him from drummer into dinner.
As I held my first Osceola in my hands, admiring his beautiful, iridescent colors shimmering in the sunlight Rusty walked up and sent up a whooping yell. With a grin covering his whole face he looked at me and asked, "Was it worth it, with the mosquitoes and the mud and the briars and all that?" As I thanked God for my trophy all I could say was, "What mosquitoes?" Isn't it funny how fast a sportsman's perspective can change?
