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Sneaking up on a Rio Grande in Kansas
By Kyle Lipke
As the van lights pulled away, Rafe and I became enveloped in inky darkness. Silently, we made it to the pop-up blind where we donned hoodies to cut the chill and tucked in for what we hoped would be a great morning of turkey hunting. We were in south-central Kansas on a youth mentored hunting trip with Kicking Bear Ministries. I had the special task of playing mentor to Rafe, who had been previously connected with Kicking Bear’s youth mentor program. Rafe had been on multiple waterfowl hunts in his home state of Wisconsin where he was able to harvest a multitude of ducks and geese, but he had yet to go on a turkey hunt. It was my goal to not only have a small but positive influence on his life by being his mentor but to also help him achieve his dream of bagging a long-bearded turkey.
Sitting on tiny blind chairs, Rafe and I didn’t say much. Neither of us were fully awake as we had arrived at our setup more than an hour before the first rays of dawn would begin to shine light on the world. We wanted to be sure we were settled and ready to go long before any turkeys started rousing from their roost. If we didn’t get a tom, it wasn’t going to because we were late to the blind.
The night before, we pinned down a tom in his roost tree only a few hundred yards away from our hideout. In fact, he was gobbling his head off. Based on this finding and historical bird movements given to us by the local ranchers, we were confident we were in a good position for a shot opportunity. It was just a matter of time before Rafe would get to put the bead on a gobbler.
While we sat and waited for daylight to come, I thought more about our set up and what would provide the best odds of Rafe getting to fill his tag. While we were in a good spot from where the tom was roosted and there was no doubt plenty of other birds in the area, I considered the implications of leaving the blind altogether. I knew the big old bird had a couple hens with him which made me uneasy. If he flew down to the ground with a courtship of hens, it was going to be tough to call him away from his girls. In my heart I knew Rafe would have the best chance of shooting a tom if we ditched the ground blind.
Hoping Rafe would be willing to give my thought a try, I pitched the idea to him. He was all for it. We gathered our gear and exited the back of the blind. It was still plenty dark to cover our movements as we eased toward the clump of giant cottonwood trees that held the sleeping tom. After traveling an oilfield road a couple hundred yards, we jumped off and moved through the rolling prairie, making it approximately 150 yards from the tree line. We were close. I didn’t want to get too close though, lest we bump the birds from the trees.
I signaled for Rafe to stop. We sat in the dew saturated grass and listened. There was still some time before the turkeys would dive off the tree limbs, however, light was beginning to reveal the landscape. We needed to sit tight and wait.
A gobble snapped us to attention. Then another reverberated through the treetops. The wily tom was right where we wanted him. I reminded Rafe to be patient. For this to come together, we had to time our moves just right.
Rather than alerting the tom to our exact location by calling, I deemed it best to keep quiet and see what the tom would do once he flew to the ground. Suddenly, the hardwoods erupted with a conglomerate of clucks, yelps, and cackles. The hens were about to abandon the trees. As the tom let another gobble ring out, two hens simultaneously fluttered through the air. The crimson head of a third bird revealed the tom had followed suite.
With the birds out of sight, I whispered to Rafe, “Let’s go.” My western hunting instincts kicked in and we bolted for the dry creek bed below us. Making it to the base of the large embankment, we scurried two thirds of the way to the top. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm Rafe was on my heels, then eased forward, scanning for the slightest view of the birds.
As I poked my head over the blades of grass, I discovered the gobbler was in full strut a mere forty yards away. I ducked down, traded spots with Rafe and blurted, “Shoot him!” Rafe rose, leveled his 12 gauge, and fired. With one shot, Rafe killed the gobbler dead as a hammer!
After making sure his gun was unloaded, we ran up and collected the beautiful bird, a mature Rio Grande specimen. To say Rafe was elated to have harvested his first turkey would be a drastic understatement. Don’t let the picture fool you. I had a hard time getting a smile from Rafe during the photo session, but I can assure you there was no shortage of fist pumps, high fives, and verbal expressions of gratitude. Judging by the grin on Rafe’s face as he carried his bird to the truck that morning, I would have bet he was the happiest kid in America. |
