Turkeys of Wisconsin’s Northwoods Prove Challenging

   The customary statement when returning each night to Tom Heberlein’s Ashland County deer shack during gun season was, “I saw no deer.”

   At least that was the case during the two-plus decades I hunted deer with the professor. Sometimes, of course, you stepped through Old Tamarack’s door and exclaimed, “I saw a deer!”

   In that rare case, Heberlein turned the news into an event. He listened intently to your story, interrupted with questions, and then made you repeat everything for each returning hunter, prompting you if you skipped details from the original telling.

   And what about those extraordinary occasions when someone actually shot a deer? Well, I don’t really know. We killed deer so rarely, and each triggered such commotion, that no protocol could take root.

   In those short years before cancer claimed Heberlein in January 2024, we sometimes wondered whether we’d do better focusing on wild turkeys. After all, we often saw turkeys along the 3-mile drive between the shack and State Highway 13. We seldom saw deer on that road, especially near his shack. Besides, turkeys are less controversial than deer, even though some barstool biologists think they somehow hurt ruffed grouse numbers.

   The idea of creating an annual turkey camp went nowhere, though. Most of us at Old T have been around longer than Wisconsin’s rebuilt turkey population. We have no turkey-hunting traditions bonding us to the shack and forest each spring. Besides, turkey numbers in Wisconsin’s Northwoods aren’t large enough to guarantee everyone a tag each spring.

Patrick Durkin shot this turkey in the forests of central Ashland County on April 27.

— Patrick Durkin photo

   Still, Heberlein and I tried it in 2022 when he drew a turkey tag for mid-May. I tagged along when he hunted with our friend Brenda Maier near Clam Lake. Heberlein enjoyed a great hunt, too. As Maier and I called to a gobbler she located at midmorning, it gobbled regularly as it half-circled us for an hour, before finally walking into range. Unfortunately, the professor missed the shot, and we neither heard nor saw another gobbler.

   That excitement spurred me to apply for a Zone 6 permit the past two springs. This year I drew a tag for the second hunting period. Before arriving for the April 23 opener, I even saw evidence of turkeys just down the road from the shack. On three consecutive days, a friend texted me photos of turkeys that triggered his cellular-linked trail-cameras. Two photos showed a lone tom on consecutive afternoons, and another photo showed two hens.

   Once I started hunting, of course, I neither saw nor heard even one turkey four straight days. As my hunt reached its final morning Sunday, I wondered if I’d ever see a turkey while hunting the Northern Forest.

   Is it the turkey’s fault or is it just me? Maier and her husband, John, commiserated with me via text messages from Clam Lake. They’ve seen lone hens while driving around, but it’s been a while since they’ve seen a gobbler. Al Conley of Mellen told me much the same thing.

   Another friend near Ashland, however, said he hears plenty of gobbling most mornings, and he even shot a big tom in Bayfield County the first hour on April 23. Two mornings later, his friend missed a gobbler while hunting south of Ashland. Then his friend went out and missed two more the next couple of days.

   Meanwhile, I saw four hens in the area, but they weren’t together and I saw them while driving, not hunting. In fact, Old T and its environs seem to be The Land of Lone Hens. I slowed to watch each of them vanish into the forest, none acting threatened by my vehicle rolling slowly past. I even saw a fifth hen when returning to the shack at dusk on Thursday. Just after grabbing my gear from the back seat, the turkey flew from a red pine behind the old shack.

   Still, I wasn't discouraged. A lifetime of deer hunting the Northwoods is good preparation for hours of futile walking, sitting and calling for gobblers. You know to appreciate other sightings in between deer or turkeys. For instance, one of my Northwoods hobbies is mentally documenting the intelligence of the Corvidae bird clan. This family includes 139 species, but the Corvids that most interest me are ravens, crows, gray jays (whiskey jacks) and, to lesser extent, blue jays.

   I’m never surprised when gray jays fly toward me during a backwoods lunchbreak in northeastern Minnesota or Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Their distinctive swooping and gliding reminds me of a roller-coaster. Then they perch nearby to see what I’m eating. I toss them nuts, breadcrumbs or sunflower seeds, and they drop to the ground to eat.

   I’ve even shot Northwoods deer and minutes later found gray jays waiting for me at the end of the blood trail. Though I hadn’t dawdled in my tracking, the gray jays beat me to the dead deer, hopping between balsam branches, seemingly impatient for me to field dress the carcass and leave them the entrails.

   I had a more fascinating experience April 24 while calling and watching for turkeys near Old T. A raven croaked its approach from the northeast, and landed near my turkey decoy. It then confidently walked within a foot of the fake turkey’s head.

   When the decoy didn’t move, the raven pulled a stick from the ground an inch near the decoy and flicked it. Then it instantly snapped its head around to look at the decoy, as if trying to catch it moving.

   When nothing happened, the raven circled the decoy again. Then it stopped once more, yanked a rotting plant stem from the ground and flicked it away. Again, the raven snapped its head back to see the decoy’s reaction.

   After making a third and then a fourth such ploy, the raven flew off, conceding it had better things to do.

   I hunted till dusk that day but saw no turkeys.

   Neither did I see a turkey the first four hours Sunday morning. And then at 9:40 a.m., seemingly by some miracle, three 1-year-old male turkeys entered the small field 75 yards away and walked toward my decoys.

   When I returned to the shack at noon, I wished Heberlein could’ve been there to hear my story about the jake I shot after 45 hours of walking, mostly sitting, and calling.

   I bet he would’ve interrupted my tale with endless questions.