CAMERA HUNTING FOR TURKEYS
During the past ten years, while the season was open on wild turkeys,
I have made a rule to leave the gun at home and hunt the turkey with
the "camera" instead.
On countless occasions I have sat on the bank of a beautiful creek
in Alabama watching and waiting for these noble birds to appear and
pose. Time and patience, that's what it takes; likewise to know the
ways of the bird.
On one occasion I had found their great tracks on the sandbank, and,
noting it as a favorite crossing, made an impromptu blind to mask
the camera lest the birds get the least glimpse of it or myself. It
took me over two months to get an opportunity for the picture which I
secured at last one afternoon as the sun was getting low. I had been
calling at intervals, and just when least expected, there they were,
moving slowly but watchfully toward the creek and across the scope
of the lens. My finger was quick to reach the button as they stepped
to the sandy bank, and turned to note that no enemy lurked behind.
The click of the shutter startled them but little, and they walked
quietly away. I knew I had a good negative, as the late afternoon
sun shone brightly on their gorgeous plumage, and they were barely
fifteen feet from where I sat.
Not one man in a million has ever had the opportunity of viewing one
of these birds in life in the woods at ten to fifteen feet--nor ever
will, and to these I hope the photographs will be a pleasure; for to
see a ten-year-old gobbler so near, when he is not frightened--and
you without gun or other means to injure him--so you may enjoy the
most majestic bird the eye of man ever rested on, is not only a feast
for the eye, but a pleasant memory that will be with you forever.
In November, 1899, in Alabama, I began to hunt with the camera,
and for six months--with the exception of one day only, on which a
terrific storm raged--not a day passed that I was not after turkey
pictures, sometimes not seeing one in two or three weeks, then again
encountering twenty-five to forty in one day. I spoiled several
hundred plates in this time, snapping at every chance that occurred.
There is no possibility of a time exposure on such sensitive birds,
and one twenty-fifth of a second is scarcely quick enough. Often the
click of the shutter, so like the snap of a gun when missing fire,
sent them whirling into the air or scattered them, pellmell, afoot. I
have stalked and crawled to their scratching places and sat concealed
with camera masked on an old log or in a hollow stump, till sundown;
all day, and the next and the next.
I have made three or four exposures in a day, gone home, developed
the negatives, and found nothing on them but shadows--taken in shade;
but at other times there was the just reward when all the plates
came out with every image "perfect." Then, again, it would rain
almost daily for a month or two. Still I went, camera slung over my
shoulder, covered with a rubber sheet, hoping for sunshine.
Once I discovered a bearded hen and tried five weeks to catch her
with the lens, and never saw her but twice during that time. The
next season I found her again in company with three other hens. I
called them within ten or twelve feet. This time it had been sunlight
all day, but just a minute before they came near enough a thin haze
covered the sun. Still, I pressed the button and got a dim negative
of her and of one of her playmates, and have not seen her since.
To successfully photograph wild turkeys the greatest care must be
taken in having a blind perfectly natural in appearance. Once in the
blind, do not move; never mind the wind; wild turkeys cannot smell
you any farther than you can them, but they can outsee anything
except the heron, crane, and hawk, and you must get within fifteen or
twenty feet of them in the bright sunshine, or no picture. Find their
scratching places and hide behind a log, or make a blind of brush and
green leaves, etc. Be sure to hide all the camera save the disk of
the lens, and they will see that nearly every time. I have had them
discover the lens and approach within two feet and peer at it with
curious wonder, whine and purr, until satisfied it would not harm
them, then walk serenely away.
At times when I saw a flock or an individual feeding at a distance,
I would take my call and invite them to advance, "stand up and look
pleasant," and if in the humor they would often comply. I have a
friend living in New Orleans with whom a hundred happy hours have
been spent in the camp, wild woods, and along the stream, chiefly in
quest of these noble fowls. He and I have exchanged letters once a
week for the past quarter of a century. Of course I regale him with
every new photograph taken of turkeys. One day I mailed him several
that set him afire, and on a certain day friend Renaud came to me
with his old 10-gauge which has served him thousands of times.
The next morning when day broke we sat on the crest of a pine ridge
adjacent to the hummock bordering the "Big-bee" river swamps,
over which the turkeys roosted at night. Ere long the gray of the
eastern horizon began to melt in to a rosy hue, and suddenly out
of the deep swamp came the shrill, guttural but mighty pleasing
"_Gil-obble-obble-obble_," of a turkey, echoing along the slopes and
through the vales of the surrounding forests.
After a while we heard him gobble on the ridge, so I took my call
and began to pipe a few words in turkey vernacular, which the old
gentleman seemed to comprehend by the way he gave ready reply. By
this time the turkeys had all flown down, several gobbling in as many
directions. Several were approaching slowly, and we could hear them
below the crest of the hill. Luck favored us, so far as nothing yet
had disturbed them, and they gradually came nearer, until presently
a remark from my companion, "Old Gobbler in sight?" "See him coming,
two of them, yes, three"; and on they came, their great black breasts
glowing in the bright sun, while their long beards swung from side to
side.
Suddenly, when within thirty paces of us, one of them spied Renaud's
new drab corduroy cap, which contrasted vividly with the black and
charred log behind which we were hid, and "_Put_," "_put_;" all were
gone, helter-skelter.
Renaud's heart was broken--mine wrecked.
"Why in the d-dickens didn't you shoot?" I asked, mad as a hornet.
"I wanted to get them in position to get the two largest ones."
"Gee! you ought to have made sure of that fellow with the immense
beard, and chance another on the rise or run;" but just as we were
waxing into a fine quarrel, R. remarked in a whisper, "They are
coming back."
"Yes," I replied, "and several others with them--some old ones and
some yearlings; so make no mistake this time, and be sure of one of
the old ones."
They were very near now, and as I made a low call all stopped and
some gobbled; then on they came in a careless manner, neither
strutting nor exhibiting any special passion.
I quickly got in my camera work, and ducked my head in time to
see the beautiful things walking away from the gun; then two
well-measured reports--and the smoke clearing away showed two grand
old patriarchs flopping over on the pine straw and soon lying still.
I am not sure which was the proudest--I as _particeps criminis_ or he
as executioner.
THE END
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THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. J.