Roadside Rest

Roadside Rest The True Story of a Man Who Missed His Calling

Although in these times of all-powerful government one can't be certain, I think my dad, who long ago drifted away from the campfire, rests safely beyond the reach of the law.

So I venture this true tale, documenting a rare indiscretion in his otherwise moral life.

It happened some 30 years ago when a bunch of us caught turkey fever so fierce we nearly grew wattles. For some obscure zoological reason, the neck of woods around our cabin that season swarmed with turkeys. Maybe once again they were as abundant as when Coronado's conquistadores feasted on dark meat and white as they explored Arizona and the Southwest in the 1540s.

For a moment, consider the turkey. It was the symbol chosen by the Pilgrims when giving thanks to the Lord. Ben Franklin was not alone in championing the turkey over the bald eagle as the noble national emblem. Plate One of Audubon's Birds of America illustrated a Meleagris gallopavo tom, and Plate Six showed a hen with nine poults.

Audubon's book theorized that the familiar domestic breed (today totaling a 500-million-bird annual market) descended from Mexican stock that had been taken to Spain and exported to the United States.

Whatever the case, the explosion in our Arizona wild turkey population in the 1960s was a delicious development in a region where the wild turkey was (RIGHT) Our hunters set their sights on the domestic turkey, which has been around for 40 million years.

all but eradicated at the turn of the century. The resurgence of these big bronze beauties was a victory of public game management and private conservation that simply would not accept the loss of a species once plen-tiful in woodlands from north-ern Mexico to New England. In fact surplus Arizona turkeys as-sisted in the reintroduction of native flocks in states where they had disappeared.

So now the Arizona turkeys were back in numbers justifying a hunt controlled by permit. For us (for once), Professor Gumperson's Law of Perverse Fate seemed suspended.

Dad, my big brother, Frank, and I were among the lucky few drawn to hunt our zone along with a neighbor, Wayne, who will not be identified further because the statute of lim-itations has not run out on his transgressions.

It was Wayne who on his own decided to chum a family of particularly large birds. By profession a butcher, he figured if we were going to bring home some gobblers, they shouldn't be tough and taste like grasshoppers and acorns. So for some weeks before turkey season, Wayne scattered sacks of sweet Purina down near the water hole. Probably that was illegal.

Yet coconspirators all, we'd crawl down there every so often and watch the birds scratch at the commercial feed, and we'd whisper to one another that the breasts and thighs of those hens were filling out more lushly than Gina Lolabrigida's. (If you've got to ask who Gina is, don't ask.) Between peeks, we prepared ourselves. We handloaded some low-velocity cast-lead rifle cartridges, sighted in, bought camouflage hats, and whittled turkey calls.

Dad especially considered himself to be a premier turkey caller. For one thing, he talked fluent turkey. As a youth, he had worked on a turkey farm, and his ear was keenly tuned to the strident conversation of America's foremost dinner fowl. From blocks of cedar, we hollowed resonant boxes that, when stroked just so with a chalked stick, would sound exactly like a lovelorn turkey.

had worked on a turkey farm, and his ear was keenly tuned to the strident conversation of America's foremost dinner fowl. From blocks of cedar, we hol-lowed resonant boxes that, when stroked just so with a chalked stick, would sound ex-actly like a lovelorn turkey.

We all practiced, but Dad was obsessed with the prospect of calling up the biggest trophy. As a retiree he had ample idle hours to go onto mountains and experiment with his caller. About three days before turkey season, he enticed a magnificent tom 25 pounds he judged - right to the fender of his pickup truck. Never have I known a more confident hunter.

Well the word must have leaked about Wayne's fattening operation because on opening morning about 40 other guys surrounded our flock and took a few birds and scattered the rest. So we fanned out into the woods, trailing and stalking and calling from stands. Toward day's end we were still skunked, yet Dad was convinced he was commu-nicating with birds. They were simply too spooked to show themselves or come in close.

That made sense, so we contrived one last strategy for outsmart-ing our quarry. Dad, the champ caller, was stationed on a little rise in waist-high brush, and Frank and I went off to another hillock where we could look down through lanes in the chaparral. We wouldn't call... just be in position to harvest whatever birds might be attracted to Dad.

"Turk, turk, turk," we heard Dad call. He'd wait maybe 10 minutes before repeat-ing. My brother and I had to admit, that old man was a maestro.

And, sure enough, after a little while, from afar on a brushy ridge, there came a faint response.

Dad bided his time, then strummed another irresistible series of calls.

"Turk, turk, turk," sounded the reply, somewhat closer.

The Earth seemed to groan on its axis as the suspense mounted. Frank and I strained in concentration as the answering call grew louder and louder. Dad's patience was tested by his memories of the tom he had called up a few days before. Finally it got to him. He leapt to his feet, gun in hand. And in the same instant, about 50 feet away, up jumped Wayne.

"Don't shoot!" yelled Wayne.

"You neither!" begged Dad.

On the way home, we bought a frozen Butterball to the great relief, as I recall, of the lady cooks in our lives. Many an autumn has slipped by since, and never again have I joined a wild turkey hunt. I've had mine.