Meleagris gallopavo silvestris

Spring gobbler season runs for another week in Virginia, but my season has already ended. I got what I came for and I'm ready to bring it to a close. On my first turkey hunt I somehow managed to call in a large tom, make the shot at about 20 yards and score my first ever kill.

The Eastern Wild Turkey is said to be the second hardest turkey to call in, after the Oceola or Florida Wild Turkey. I wouldn't know. All I know is ol' Tom came straight to me when I gave him a couple of clucks on my H.S. Strut Small Frame SM Double D mouth call. I think I suck at using the mouth call, but apparently my feeble, raspy attempts were sufficient to make the bird curious enough to come take a look. It probably helped that he came from behind me down a hill. I was sitting with my back to a tree and when I heard him gobbling I sort of rolled onto my left side, bracing my trusty Mossberg on my knapsack. So I was pretty well concealed behind the tree and he had to come downhill toward me zigging and zagging through the forest to get to me. When he was in range he had to step around a fairly large tree and just as his head poked out from behind it, I took the shot.

I was using a XX-Full turkey choke and Winchester's Longbeard shells. Everything went exactly to plan, the shot staying well within the pattern I had verified back in autumn when I was preparing to go out for Fall Turkey. I hit him in the head and neck and not a single pellet touched the body that I could see. One shot and he went down. 

The longest mile

I carried the bird down to the cabin whole and set him up on the shooting table (I hope my uncle doesn't get upset about that - I didn't know of a better place to work!). Thanks to YouTube, I was ready for the next part of the experience. I didn't do anything fancy. It wasn't my intention to roast the whole bird Thanksgiving style, so I just followed what is shown in the video and let the coyotes and the carrion birds have the rest. It also helped that I had completed a knife skills class at the local cooking school. After the first incision it was all just cooking. It took about 20 minutes altogether to bone out the breasts and legs. Much easier than I had anticipated. After all was said and done, the bird was cleaned and packed in the refrigerator, we had had a beer and eaten a sandwich and were back out in the woods by 1:30 pm.

Time for a Yeungling and some butchery

My hunting companion and I ate the tenderloins that night. Those are the little cutlets under the breasts. Absolutely scrumptious with just a bit of salt and pepper on the grill. Then, when I came home the next day, the Managing Partner, inspired by the return of the great white hunter, elected to prepare a celebration meal from the legs, obviously the tougher of the two cuts of meat. She very slowly braised them whole in some vegetable stock and white wine with some tomatoes, onions, garlic and mushrooms. After a couple of hours of slow cooking, she removed the meat from the bone and served it over rice. Couldn't be beat!

Braised, boned, served over rice

The breasts are still in the fridge and I'll probably throw them on the bar-b-que grill this weekend. This was a really great experience after three years of hunting without ever taking a shot. I'm a blooded hunter now, and a turkey hunter at that.

Lovely, dark and deep

At five I put my ear to the window, listened for a moment and heard the telltale sound of rain. Heavy rain. Drenching rain. So back to bed. Aroused from my slumber at about six forty five, I heard my uncle rustling around, making final preparations before heading out the door. "You're missing daylight, boy," he sang, though that was only barely technically true. The daypack was pretty much packed and ready to go so after a quick breakfast it was out the door and up the mountain.  

Wet, heavy snow weighs down every living thing in one of Paddy Mountain's clear cuts

Snow can be a boon to hunters. Movement is quieter, tracks are more visible and it takes more work for prey to forage for food buried beneath the fluffy stuff. Plus, should one actually shoot a deer, the snow makes it much more convenient to drag it back to the cabin. But it can also be disorienting. Fortunately on Paddy mountain there is only one way home - down. I frequently stray from established trails up on the mountain, but once I find my way down to the road I can always find the route back to the cabin.

This particular morning I overshot the trail up to my blind, but after having realized it, I decided to just keep going and explore an area I haven't seen before. So I turned uphill from the forest road that Fairmont Lane becomes (there's some debate about whether it's still Fairmont Lane at that point or Bonnet Hill Lane / Rt. 1857, as indicated on the National Geographic Massanutten and Great North Mountain map).

I crossed an earthen tank trap I'd never noticed before, thinking it was a jeep trail that would lead up what several of the neighbors refer to as Tartesall's Gut. Basically the next stream over from the one I usually go up. Any obvious signs of an established trail up the mountain petered away within a few hundred yards, but your intrepid narrator would not be deterred, even if I was slightly detoured. Despite being somewhat uncertain of my exact location, I was determined to get as high up the mountain as I could. The going was slow but quiet and lovely. I easily got up on the bench that runs across the mountain just beneath the spurs. It was there I started to see several sets of fresh deer tracks in the snow. I did my very best tippy toe stalking, slowly moving my way higher up the slope, following tracks as they zigged and zagged upward into the laurel. The higher I got the more jagged the tracks, with increasingly indistinct prints. I suspect I was pushing a small group upward as I moved, but as always with such scenarios, the tracks let straight into an impenetrable wall of evergreen claws and I eventually dead ended into an evil snarl of laurel. Ah well, it was beautiful and I took the opportunity to have a seat and enjoy a nice meatloaf sandwich in a peaceful little laurel cul de sac. 

Buttloads of snow

Suffice to say, the way home was considerably easier than the trip up. I wended my way down the mountain in a direction generally intended to put me back at the clear cut around which I generally hunt. As it happened I ended up within a few hundred yards of my blind. I then worked my way down the mountain edging my way around a clear cut with a stream bed running through its center, as is my typical pattern. I frequently close out my day with a visit to a rocky outcropping, overlooking the cut, that affords great views of the mountain above and the valley below.

The blanketed spurs of Paddy Mountain, Shenandoah County, Virginia

The next three days were wonderful. I only spotted a single deer, but didn't have a shot. Still, I wouldn't have traded the time in the snowy forest for anything. This year my brother, his sixteen year old son and fourteen year old daughter were able to come up for a couple of days after Thanksgiving. My niece accompanied me for two days which was a great deal of fun. I've never seen anyone who can sleep sitting on buckets, on rocks and in the snow. The girl, a lanky, athletic ginger, would sleep so deeply that her neck gaiter would become saturated with drool. Revolting. But this was a rare opportunity to spend quality time with my family and I cherished it. We should all be so lucky every year. 

After the hunt, a buttload of shearling-lined Chippewas drying in the mud room - Natural, waxed and vintage

Best foot forward

Vibram - the first lugged rubber sole

I have spent large swaths of my life walking in the Shenandoah Mountains. I have done it in sneakers, in cheap work boots I bought at the hardware store and in hand-made Italian hiking boots. And to some degree or another, my feet have always suffered. But never have I known podiatrical misery like that I experienced last year when accompanying my brother on a hunting trip up Paddy Mountain in Shenandoah County, Va.

Walking on Paddy Mountain means either scrambling over rocky scree fields or bushwhacking through dense stands of knotty, iron wooded mountain laurel. Ascents are steep and descents are brutal on battered soles; bruised toes jammed into the fore ends of even your good old hiking boots and ankles mercilessly assaulted by the wobble of teetering stones. After a single day I realized that if I was going to spend more time traipsing around Paddy Mountain, especially in cold weather, which seems likely given a recently rekindled interest in spending time in the woods and having access to a cabin abutting one million acres of National Forest, I was going to need a new pair of boots.

The hunters down on Bonnet Hill Road all seem to wear similar 9" huntin' boots. Once you get 'em started on the topic, each will regale you with details of their preferred footwear. Mostly they seem settled on pretty standard boots by Irish Setter and Rocky. Of course what passes for standard these days is pretty high tech. All seem to have intricately interlocked panels, some mixing various fabrics with leather and other space age synthetic materials. The soles look like they could only have been designed by a computer, displaying swooping organic H. R. Giger patterns that wrap up and around the toes. Each man thinks he has the best pair of boots, but they all insist that the real trick is wearing extremely heavy socks in them.

My uncle, who has spent his life hunting in these mountains and who is partner in a hunting club at the base of Paddy Mountain, gave me a couple pair of thick wool socks he insists are the absolute standard of what hunters should wear. These things were huge! Not just that they were a larger shoe size than I wear, but huge in every respect: thick rag wool that came up nearly to my knee, a gigantic red elastic band at the top. They seemed more like some kind of leg warmer an Inuit ballerina might wear or something you might see a Japanese schoolgirl wearing. (Thought: Inuit Ballerina - great name for a band). It seems to me that if you have to wear a gigantic blanket inside your boots to keep your feet warm and pad them from the abuse of actually walking in them, maybe you have the wrong boots.

Chippewa Arctic 50 boots. The best. By far.

Now my brother, a Master Electrician and life-long outdoors-man swears by Chippewa boots, and in particular has been trying to persuade me that the only pair of boots worth wearing on the mountain are the Arctic 50's. They're lined with genuine lamb shearling, a 1/4 inch wool felt insole and a classic Norwegian welt Vibram sole. Old school. Classic. American made boots that have been made pretty much the same way forever. After my day out with him last November I came right home and placed my order on Amazon, but when they came in they were extremely narrow, a bit short and just as heavy and stiff as you could want them to be. I wanted to like them, but I could tell they were not a good fit, so back they went. I couldn't exchange them because at the time Amazon didn't have the next size up and I didn't want to play the back and forth game until I got the fit right. I really wanted to try on different sizes until I found one that fit right. But I couldn't find a retailer in the area that carried them, so I despaired.

Lamb shearling lining and wool felt insoles - what a lovely combination.
And yes, those are little American Flags on the laces. 

Then last month I got back to the mountain and spent some time exploring in my trusty old Timberland Euro Hikers. I love these boots and have had them since about 1995. But man, a couple of hours on Paddy Mountain once again reinforced my need to get a new pair of foot armor. Now as it happened I ran into my brother up around Chester Gap just a few days later and he mentioned that he had just bought himself a new pair of Arctic 50's down at Alvin Stokes General Store in Front Royal. The next thing I knew, I was down at the General Store trying on not my customary 9 1/2 D but a 10 1/2 E. Yes, the Arctic 50's seem to run a bit small. But once I got my feet in to the 10 1/2 I could tell they were going to work out. I was worried a bit by the boots' height, since I'm not used to walking with a collar that high up my shin, but the shearling lining and the thick felt foot bed provided instant assurance that these were boots I could walk and stand in all day, even in the sub-zero cold, even over the broken surface of Paddy Mountain. And I don't need unnaturally thick socks either to keep my feet warm or to provide cushioning.

I know better than to recommend a boot to somebody. Like a bicycle saddle or a toothbrush, some things are just too personal. But if you're in the market for a stout pair of hunting boots, and you're fond of traditional, high quality American craftsmanship, you might just want to stop down to the Stokes General Store and try on a pair of Chippewas. If you like 'em, you'll save money - Stokes undercuts the nearest competitors I can find by at least $25 - and if you don't, well they sell a lot of other brands you might just like. Plus you can pick up some ammo and some beef jerky while you're there.