Osceola Turkey Hunt Clinched at the Buzzer

It was easy to glance at my watch the way I was sitting, which in the final precious seconds of our Osceola hunt was with my shotgun across my left knee prepared for anything. After three days of chasing a wary, reticent gobbler in unfamiliar territory, time was slipping away for me and my guide, Nate Weber of Florida Outdoor Experience outfitters.

A watched pot eventually boils, right? But a smart turkey may not come in before quitting time. Such was the situation as evening shadows lengthened. Weber and I were dead set on waiting out this crafty denizen of the woods. For two days it had flummoxed us, repeatedly dashing our hopes in the overgrown nursery we hunted in west-central Florida. But I could tell that Weber was in the same mindset as me; precious seconds were ticking away.

Florida Outdoor Experience has multiple properties south of Chiefland, in west-central Florida. Its lodge sits on the beautiful Suwannee River, about 15 miles from the Gulf of Mexico. Spanish moss hangs from the trees. The undeveloped area in this part of Florida’s coastline is replete with a menagerie of wildlife, from snakes and songbirds to deer, turkeys and the legendary Osceola turkey. Found only in Florida, and only in the southern part of the peninsula, the Osceola joins the Eastern, Rio and Merriam to form the Grand Slam.

Our crew was on the scene with Sitka in spring 2023 to try its Equinox insect-repelling clothing and new turkey “tool belt” vest. I watched as mosquitoes landed on my arms and vainly tried  to penetrate my hoodie’s thin, tough sleeves. I don’t worry about ticks but am cognizant of them, having lived in the Southeast all my life. After three-plus days in the woods and roaming around, zero ticks anywhere on me. No fly bites or anything from other biting insects. Mission accomplished with the Equinox hoodie and pants, as well as the well-designed, comfortable turkey tool belt. 

Weber guides for turkeys and other game, along with saltwater fly-fishing for tarpon and other species. Tarpon and turkeys get his motor running. Talking with him about both last spring, I think the tarpon on fly maybe is No. 1A, with turkeys a close second. Can’t argue with that, either. Both are incredible to pursue and do battle with, and that’s what it is with them: a battle. Occasionally, you’ll get an easy bird or fish, but not always. That’s what we encountered with my buzzer-beating bird last spring.

New Property, Who Dis? 

Talking with a friend recently about the hunt, he was happy and a bit jealous, I think, that our tangle with the testy tom took so long.

“Dude, y’all actually got to hunt the bird and try to figure it out,” he said. “It wasn’t just a quick deal and over. That’s kind of cool.”

It was, to be honest. My hunting camp pals all tagged out on the first day, some within the first hour of the hunt. Osceola gobblers don’t make too much racket. The lore, perhaps truth, is they are pursued by everything so badly in the thick Florida palmetto and scrub that staying quiet is perhaps their best defense mechanism. Eyesight and hearing, of course, are right there, too. Combine a silent, eagle-eyed tom with super hearing and a wary disposition, and it’s a challenge.

Weber filled me in the evening before our first morning about the property. It was a sizable,  abandoned nursery someone had invested in for an expected surge in population in the area. The surge never happened. All of the rows and rows of shrubs and trees were left. We parked or walked near towering stands of crepe myrtles and other common yard shrubs. One area was so thick it appeared impenetrable, save for the feral hog trails in and out. Some subsections were fenced. There were open pastures, small hidey holes and walkable roads crisscrossing.

We found turkey tracks and poo in the roads, a few dusting areas near a pond, and other signs. Each morning, even getting there earlier than usual, we heard only one or two birds gobble. Faint, nothing strong, nothing blowing the timbers out like you might think would be in a feral tract unpressured other than by coyotes and bobcats. 

The first two days were tough. We narrowed down areas to hunt thanks to our wits, Google maps and cellular camera images showing … nothing. We saw hogs on some images. But if you’re not seeing birds, perhaps there are no birds in that spot. Or so we thought. Tom the Timid inhabited one of the areas, a smart ol’ bird that wouldn’t say much.

Weber was a bit flummoxed, to be honest. I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled to have a big hunt and be the guy stuck with the new piece of property. But I didn’t mind. It was new ground, new experiences and a lot of “what do you think about?” and “maybe we should try this” situations. I like that. Sometimes you hit a home run. Sometimes you strike out. Hunting isn’t always about hitting home runs.

Last Day Going Fast

Morning came and went with, again, no action other than a lone gobble in an area we’d zeroed in on the day before. Tom the Timid deemed his morning hello to be good enough for the day. If the pecan grove and wet-weather pond was his safe place, we were going to slide in that afternoon for a siesta.

Lunch came and went. I was so ready to get back in the woods that I didn’t want to fish off the dock for bass, which I’d done the evening before. Sunset was about 6:45 or so, maybe a little later, and we returned with at least four, if not five, hours to hunt.

Weber found a couple of trees close together and we began clearing out at the base. I scraped away the dead palmetto fronds as he cut fresh fronds to stick in the soft, sandy soil for thin camo. A hen and gobbler decoy were in the road less than 15 yards away. Across the road was a bit of a gap in the fronds, oaks and pecan trees.

 

 

We sat down, wiggled, got comfortable, all the things. I made sure my gun was loaded and could prop, swing and safely move with it as needed. Weber finally made a few calls and shut up. He’s not a limb-blasting “Listen to me call” showman. Osceolas usually don’t like that raucous stuff anyway. You can scream at Rios and they’ll gobble like drunk monkeys. Osceolas? Nope. This one, perhaps, needed a kick in the tailfeathers, though. Weber eventually ran through his mouth calls, slate calls and gobble shaker over the course of a couple of hours.

Nada. Perhaps, we mused, this bird was just skittish. Or had moved to Tampa. We weren’t certain. Time was ticking away. We’d quietly talked about fishing, the best Mexican food in Gainesville (Burrito Brothers, now closed, RIP), sports, outdoor writing, turkeys and other stuff. We sat quietly. He occasionally called a little bit, maybe every 30 minutes or so. Nada.

“I’ve only killed one bird using this box call,” he said, motioning to his last-gasp, last-ditch Hail Mary call. “It’s so loud, I think, that it either scares them into being quiet or makes them react.”

Box Call Winner

By this time, I was ready for Patton to storm the pecan grove with tanks and get any turkey to do anything. A loud box call, to me, sounded just fine. I said to launch the call and see what happens. Time was ticking away. We were close to that evening golden hour when it’s either going to happen just before roosting time or you’ll go home with the womp womp sad trombone.

Weber cut loose on the box. It worked. Our heads snapped in the same direction to the big response gobble, off to our right, toward the center of the pecan grove. Tom the Timid had just become Tom Terrific, gobbling in his happy place and giving himself away. We weren’t going anywhere, either.

Fast forward another 90-ish minutes and we’re checking our watches, wondering in our minds just what the hell happened to that bird. Wondering how long we would stay, and who would be the first to break the ice about it being time to go. One of us would have to, at some point, and that nervous tension was getting stronger.

Bam! Remember that gap in the road across from the decoys? Tom Terrific walked through it. I hissed, “There he is” and quietly - quickly - got my gun shouldered. Weber hadn’t seen the bird and still couldn’t, just yet. I pointed where it was and Weber quietly mouth-called a few yelps. Then both of us heard Tom Terrific go into strut, supremely ticked off that an interloper had the audacity to not only be in his pecan grove but also be with …

That’s about the time he stuck his head up for the final time. The Stoeger 12-gauge put a load of Kent turkey ammo through the Trulock choke and palmetto fronds in front of the Tom Terrific. He spun a back flip — judges would’ve scored it highly — and flippity-flopped until we got there to finish it. We danced and hollered and laughed. I pointed out where it came, we saw where it walked, how it must’ve seen the decoys and then was coming to whoop some decoy butt. Time still was ticking away, but now it was only to get back for a late supper and photos in the sunset over the Suwannee.

 

 

 

Article by Alan Clemons