Homestead Turkey

The only reason I bought a Minnesota turkey license this year was “Just in-case” there were turkeys on my land this spring. I have attempted to hunt turkeys at home for a year now and it seems whenever the season is open my turkeys are elsewhere. My habitat is not good for turkeys only during certain times of the year and when turkey season rolls around, that is not one of them good times.

I don’t consider myself a very avid turkey hunter. Sure, I am one bird away from what is called the “Grandslam”; one of each species of turkey in the United States. I have to hunt the Osceola turkey from Florida to complete this goal.

I took the Eastern turkey in Wisconsin. I had bowhunted several times in the famed Buffalo County and had yet to take a whitetail buck from there and the guy I was hunting with felt sorry for me so he invited me over to hunt turkeys. I walked the scenic area of Buffalo County for a couple of days before I was able to attract a lonely bird within range of my 12 gauge. He ended up being a really unique bird with a double beard. I give credit to the hillbilly I hunted with in Buffalo County for my current turkey hunting tactics. He gave advice that seemed simple, but I have learned it’s nearly fool proof. Never underestimate the knowledge of a Wisconsin hillbilly. One thing for sure is they can put you on turkeys.

Nebraska was home to my Merriam’s turkey. The first day of hunting was botched due to my lack of understanding of trees and bushes. I was told by the land owner to sit by the plum brush and I was sure to have turkeys near me. I sat near the plum brush all day and I didn’t see a thing. Come evening he picked me up and casually asked if I had seen anything.

The next day he recommended I sit near the plum brush. I thought, oh man, not again. He described the area and then I soon realized that I wasn’t in the correct place to begin with. I thought that was plum brush, he didn’t know “what the hell” that stuff was I sat by all day. The next morning I did sit near the real plum brush. I still don’t know what plum brush is – but I what I do know is it’s near that really big tree and that is a something I can find – a really big tree. I know what one of “them” are. I shot my Merriam’s turkey before 8 am the following morning, near the plum brush, which is near the really big tree.

This is not the first time I had mistaken identities of terrain of the such. It was just a few years before this plum brush episode when a brother of mine and I were trudging the trails of Kansas hunting for the mighty whitetail. Again, the property owner told us to walk the trail “Until you get to the sendero”. We walked and walked then one of us asked the other “What is a sendero?” Neither of us knew but we came to the conclusion it certainly wasn’t a large Mexican hat. We left with 7 whitetail deer in the back of the truck, but I still don't know what a sendero is.

My brother guided me towards my 3rd species of turkey. The Rio Grande turkey came from Texas. The weather wasn’t cooperating at all which made for a difficult hunt. I managed to pull a swift spot and stalk on this turkey, which is pretty much unheard of when it comes to hunting turkeys. I did it. After I snuck, rolled, crawled, and inched my way within 30 yards of the strutting tom. One of the best hunts because the difficulty level. Now I sound like I am playing a video game or something.

As I mentioned I have one more turkey to bag before I can say I have achieved the Grandslam. However, this spring I added another turkey to my conquered list. The homestead turkey. I purchased my license this spring only to find out there was not a single fresh turkey track on my entire land. I am not a person that likes to ask permission to hunt on others property, but fate was with me when my cousin came over to my Dad’s sauna night that particular Saturday evening. I talked to him about turkeys and he invited me out there. I may not have took him up on the offer, but this was going to mean something alittle deeper to me.

My cousin owns the original Matson homestead which has been in the family for over 100 years. I have hunted the property for deer years ago yet I have never taken an animal from there. As a person grows and matures they tend to start valuing things slightly differently. Hunting the original Matson farm was one of these moments for me where it really sunk into my heart, the history at my very own feet. The ground I was standing on was the very ground my great Grandpa and Grandma settled. Where my Grandma and Grandma farmed, where my Dad was born. Where my uncle farmed and turned it over to the 4th generation.

I pre-scouted the property and got a good idea where and when these turkeys moved. I set up the next morning next to a large round bale of hay. I hid behind the hay and made a few calls with my box call. Turkeys answered. I waited. I waited and thought about this property and all it’s provided for my ancestors. I remembered a story my Grandma told me about the time they ran out of flour and sugar in the middle of the winter. She said Grandpa put his snowshoes on and scoured the woods until he found a den of skunks. He captured the skunks and tanned their hides, literally. He snow shoed into town and traded the skunk hides for sugar and flour, enough to last the winter.

My turkey came in just after 6:30 am. He was a great tom with a double beard. I not only see this turkey as another Eastern turkey. This turkey is a part of my roots, a part of me. I successfully hunted him where my Dad once hunted, his Dad before him, and his Dad before him. It’s a Matson thing.

Camping

Julia and I sat on the couch compiling a list of items we would need for camping. Coffee pot – to boil water with, water – to drink and to wash with, bug spray – to keep those bugs off us, matches – at this point Julia interrupts and questions “Just in case somebody farts?” I guess that was my fault for over exaggerating when someone farts “Ewe, go light a match!” and then I would proceed to chase their rear end with a lit match flaming away.
Our camping trip was intended to be a single night on our own property. I have taken the kids camping a few times before, this time it’s the first in many years that Mom was able to join us. We made it to our land, just ½ mile from our house, about an hour before sunset. We pitched the two tents, Becca and Justin helped start the camp fire. In no time at all we had a raging fire going and the kids were making s’mores. Of course, somehow s’mores were made before brats but I guess that is what we do when we camp.
The evening darkened and the kids picked wildflowers. I remember being told when I was younger never to pick the flowers at Grandpa and Grandma’s house, picking those white flowers were illegal. I thought as I watched my kids pick flowers and wondered if picking those white flowers at my grandparents was really illegal or if that was a plot so their grandkids wouldn’t pick all the beauty from the woods.
I loaded more logs onto the fire as the first few rain drops fell from the sky. The kids settled into their chairs around the camp fire. I was daydreaming and remembering past camping trips. One that came to mind was one with my cousin, David. He and I went winter camping and in the morning we decided to melt some snow for water. We found an ice cream pail, I am not sure why we brought a pail… but we hung this snow filled pail well above the fire but close enough so the heat would melt the snow. A few minutes went by and like most young boys our minds wandered and off we went around the camp gathering firewood and adding it to the fire. Then we went farther away, gathering more wood, then farther gathering even more. We soon met up with my Uncle Jim, who came out to check on our wellbeing after the cold winter night. He asked us “Why is there a melted ice cream bucket hanging above the fire?” Oops. We tried to explain but felt like complete fools. Of course we knew we couldn’t boil water in a plastic bucket. We only wanted to melt it…Oh well, no use trying to explain. We felt silly.
After the rain started pouring this past Friday, we darted into our tents. I gave the kids a crash course on sleeping in tents. “Keep away from the side walls while it’s raining otherwise the rain will soak right thru the tent and into your sleeping bags.” “Get settled into your sleeping bags now, before it gets so dark you won’t be able to see anything.” “Oh, and here. Take these shoes and keep them just inside the tent door because if you don’t they will be soaked from sitting outside all night.” I left their tent and ran into mine as the rain started to pelt my back, just in time to see Kari stripping…the sleeping bags out onto our sleeping pads. You thought I was getting “dirty” didn’t you!?
Kari and I settled in our sleeping bags and then I remembered and yelled back to the kids “Check yourself for ticks!” That was a reminder that was too late, because what prompted me to say that was Becca telling Julia to stay still because she had a tick on her butt. Becca is so attentive that I was not surprised she took immediate attention to wood tick inspections on her siblings. She is such a good big sister.
The rain was relaxing to listen to as it landed on the tent. I heard Becca in the tent next door say “It sounds like an audience clapping.” It did. It sounded like an audience of nature cheering us along to sleep the night away. Kari and I listened to the children giggle and laugh and wrestle around and every so often we would speak up and remind them to settle down.
The rain brought back another memory, camping at Lake 5. I have camped there several times both in the winter and the summer. The particular camping trip to Lake 5 I was remembering was near an opening fishing weekend. It was raining through-out the midday and I am not even sure who I was camping with. But I do remember lying in my tent reading a hunting magazine; the front screen was open so it wasn’t raining hard. I remember the sound of the rain and the smells associated with rainfall. I remember being so completely satisfied with life in all aspects. I will never forget that moment, much like the moment I was currently experiencing.
My consciousness stirred in the middle of the dark rainy night and I soon became aware that I broke my own rule. I was wet and laying up against the sidewall of the tent. I was soaked, but luckily I had my good sleeping bag and even though I was wet, I was warm. I wondered if the kids were ok and if they were wet. I wondered if any of them wet the beds themselves. I wondered if Kari was wet but doubted she was because I think she would have curled up into my bag if she was. Or I hoped she would have in the event that happened. I told my brain to stop thinking and sleep some more. Then I chuckled to myself thinking about the grief the children would have given me had they known I just broke my own rule and slept against the tent wall.
Morning came and it wasn’t what I hoped for. I was hoping to hear the birds of the deep woods singing but instead I heard a tremendous thunderstorm pounding the skies. I heard the kids murmuring. I rolled over and saw Kari was stirring. I told her I was wet. She replied, “I am laying in a puddle of water.” I looked and sure enough, she was. I asked her if she wanted to cook breakfast here or go home and do it.” She quickly retorted “let’s go home.”
I hollered over to the kids. “Kids, get your clothes on. Let’s go home. We made it all night.” Becca replied “We are wet!” I said “So are we! Get your clothes on.” She replied “Our clothes are wet too.” I replied “So are ours, put them on anyways, let’s go home.” Kari and I came rip tearing out of the tent running towards our truck as the kids ran out of their tent. Becca came running all dressed with shoes on, Justin was dressed with no shoes on and Julia came running out in her underwear. We all jumped into the truck. I turned the key and cranked the truck engine (hoping for instant heat but I knew better) and explained we would come back for our gear once the storm blew over. I jokingly said “Let’s head to Walmart.” Julia looked shocked…as she sat in the back seat, her hair twisted and snarled into about a 26” diameter ball and wearing nothing but her wet pink underwear. Something tells me she would have still gone to Walmart.