When I was in college in Texas, I spent weekends in November, December and January helping my dad at a hunting lease in the Hill Country of Texas. My dad ran a beer distributor and one of the perqs for his customers was an annual hunting trip. Over time, I became a guide, arriving early on Friday to help the cook prepare the camp and getting things set up for the hunters, who would typically arrive around 8 pm in a company van, sauced and hungry. They were an amiable lot, by and large, so there was great energy and I have many fond memories.
The typical routine for hunting was to get up around 4 to help the cook began meal preparation. We would typically have 8 to 10 hunters and our goal was to get them situated in their hunting blinds at least 30 minutes before day break, usually around 6 am. After breakfast, we would have a quick safety briefing, put everyone in open jeeps and then split up to drop them off at the various blinds. Usually my dad and I would be the drivers and once finished dropping all of the hunters off, we would return to camp to chat with the cook and take a snooze, depending on how festive the previous night's festivities had been. We would typically pick the hunters back up around 9:30 am. The group would hang out around the camp until 2 or so and then we would start the process again.
One morning, I was driving back to the camp after picking up the last of my four hunters. The lease was 9000 acres or about 15 miles across, so the drive, on unpaved dirt trails, was a long one. One of our safety rules was that all guns had to be unloaded and stored while in the vehicles. That being said, there was a gun rack mounted to the front dashboard that allowed the driver or guide to safely carry a rifle and I was. As we came over the crest of a hill, I noticed a flock of turkeys about 250 yards ahead of us at the bottom of the hill. Turkeys in this part of Texas were a rarity so we were all excited to see them. I immediately stopped and we watched as the flock moved slowly across the road and began to disappear in the underbrush.
I commented offhand to the group that the only place to shoot a turkey was in the head because otherwise the bullet would destroy too much of the meat. This comment immediately prompted a challenge from the smart-aleck of our group to "show me how its done." Although we were in the midst of the hunting season and turkeys were legal game, I had decided before his comment to let the birds go unmolested because the shot was too far and, given turkeys' skittishness, we would never get within better range. Of course the comment got my 20-something competitive spirits going and I pulled the rifle out of the rack and proceeded to load it. The gun was a 22-250 calibre, which has tremendous range, and so the shot was well within the capabilities of the gun, but a stretch for even the best marksman.
I stepped out of the jeep and my tormentor suggested that rather than use any part of the vehicle to steady the shot, I should shoot freehand. I am no Daniel Boone, but I had grown up around the shooting sports and was very comfortable with all firearms. Practically, though, I had a problem. My mission was to hit the head of a moving turkey, which at best is the size of a 3 inch circle, from 250 yards away, freehand. As part of a guide's job is to ensure that the clients have a great time, I had pretty much resolved myself to the endless ribbing that would come when I missed, but I was going to go down with a valiant effort.
In reality, the dialog and the thought processes happened in seconds because the birds were disappearing into the brush. I raised the rifle, took a deep breath and started to select my target, which was the second or third to last bird in the group. My unlucky target stopped for a split second in the middle of the path, I quieted my mind and body and waited for the shot to squeeze off. Crack! barked the 22-250. To my complete surprise, and the surprise of everyone in the jeep, the turkey jumped straight into the air about three feet and fell in a clump to the ground. My tormentor went silent and the rest of the crowd went wild. I chuckled, unloaded the rifle and put it back in the rack, started the jeep and began the drive to pick up my prize.
250 yards is a long way to shoot, but not a very long way to drive. As the terrain was not perfectly sloped, we could see the crumpled turkey for parts of the drive and as we drew nearer, could no longer see anything. When we finally arrived at the spot of the crumpled bird, there was nothing. No bird, no blood, no feathers, no nothing. Everyone got out and started looking around. There was no turkey. I went back to the spot where I thought the bird and had fallen and looked more closely. Sure enough, in the dirt, was a small piece, about 3/8 of an inch, of what appeared to be turkey waddle. I smiled again and loaded up my troops.
My dad always told me that close is only good in horseshoes, hand grenades and dancing. I think he is right.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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