By Riley Christy
I grew up in a red-blooded, God-fearing, midwestern household in rural America. My father was law enforcement, and he instilled in me an ethic of honesty, hard work, and personal accountability. As any prescriber of the Good Book understands, even with the best intentions, it’s impossible for one to live up to these standards to the absolute letter. However, if I had to give you the closest example, it would be my father.
With that prelude, I have a story to share with you involving wild turkeys and state game violations.
When I was in my youth, approximately high school age, my father and I lived for turkey season, still do. We treat it like a Holy holiday. And as one would with a Holy Sacrament, my dad taught me to treat turkey season, and the bird, like it should be cherished and elevated to a supernatural status. All that being said, we followed the hunting regs to the letter of the law.
One opening day, we woke up at 5:30 a.m., got dressed in our permethrin-coated camo gear and knee-high Muck boots, and headed off towards the primo spot where we have hunted turkeys for the last decade. The weather was 50 degrees and perfect. The moon was bright like a spotlight as we moseyed through a CRP field next to a vast expanse of cut corn and rolling drainages.
Now, anyone who’s spent more than a season or two hunting any game species on the planet, knows that no matter how thoughtfully planned you can make a hunt, the intended quarry rarely cooperates. Except for this hunt.
Right at daylight, after we were set up on the corn edge, a tom began gobbling the sweet sounds of springtime. Almost better than we could have planned it, he flew down the treeline at approximately 150 yards and began running our direction. We’re both right-handed shooters and this bird was coming in at a dead run to our left almost as if he had a supernatural sense to the exact angle of our shotgun barrels. Maybe this bird was suicidal?
I waited until he got to 25 yards, and I let loose a thunderous boom from my Benelli Vinci.
And then he ran off.
My dad was furious. He sounded like Clark Griswold after missing out on his Christmas bonus, only to receive a subscription to the Jelly-of-the-Month Club. I, myself, was bewildered at how I could miss an absolute layup of a target after the bird worked us in a textbook fashion that would impress even the likes of Col. Tom Kelly.
The bird ran into the woods and went quiet. Dad and I stayed still, and finally I was able to see movement between the pin oaks. The bird was scared and alert, but also confused at what in the world just deafened his ear drums. At that moment, I could see his head and waddle. Later on, we would discover that he was approximately 80 yards from where we were sitting, but with much consternation I aimed for his eyeball and pulled the trigger. As if he were struck by a Mike Tyson uppercut, he went limp and hit the deck. Dad and I looked at each other in total astonishment.
Dad asked, “How in the hell did you miss that bird at 25 yards and then stone him at 80?” It was at that moment that I looked down and noticed my shell casings. For almost two decades, until the advent of modern TSS loads, we exclusively used Winchester Longbeard XR’s. We still keep them as backup loads now. That being said, the shell casings I saw on the woods floor were Winchesters, but not Longbeard XR’s. The plastic casing looked smooth, not jagged like normal bird shot. It was with much horror that I realized my father had grabbed Winchester Super X SLUGS, NOT Winchester Longbeard XR’s.
We walked the longest 80 yards I’ve ever walked over to examine this foul turn of events. Sure enough, this tom had been hit squarely through the best tasting meat of the breast, and there was an exit wound big enough to fit a baseball. 495 grains of pure hate doesn’t bode well for salvaging meat on a 20 pound animal.
Since my father was the one who grabbed the 10-shell box of ammo on the way out the door, he couldn’t be too terribly mad at me. However, like I stated previously, since he was a man of upstanding fervor and reverence for the rule of law, we did the adult, responsible thing any patriotic sportsman would do. We didn’t tell a soul for nearly 20 years until I decided to reveal the truth on the fastest growing outdoor adventure publication in America.
