Strutters and Stitches

Strutters and Stitches

By Rob Thompson

Sometimes, the best decisions begin with a drink and solitude. I was left to my own devices one evening during my wife’s basketball season, which is a rarity as she is usually gone four or five nights a week, traveling the campuses east of the Mississippi refereeing women’s college basketball. Those nights leave me providing taxi service, meal prep, and looking over homework for our seventh grade daughter and third grade son. I’m not much of a basketball fan. I played until my freshman year of high school, when I decided it got in the way of me heading to the tree stand on a nightly basis, which would be a decision I have never regretted.

I thought basketball was dead to me until I married my multi-talented wife who decided after her playing and coaching days were over, she would give reffing a try. The problem with my wife is she is good at damn near everything, especially all things basketball related and refereeing is no exception. Once again, the hardwood has come full circle to hinder my time in the woods.

A career as a teacher, with four allotted personal days a year also puts a damper on the time I have available to go on the hunts I desire. I would gladly trade two of my months of summer vacation for the entire month of November. If only buck fever qualified as an excusable absence to use the ridiculous amount of sick days I have accrued and will never benefit from.

Back to that night I was left alone while the kiddos got some much needed mom time during basketball season and dad got a night off. I was sitting at my bar after pouring myself an adult beverage, catching up on articles and looking through emails. One email in my cache instantly caught my attention. It was for an FE Outrider Spring Rio hunt to Oregon. Wheels began to spin while the libations began to do their work. I read the itinerary, knowing I had one personal day left. I started looking at flights. “I can make this work,” I thought to myself.

Shooting the Grand Slam of American turkeys has always been on my bucket list. I sat there pondering my next move, halfway to that goal, having killed many Easterns and a Wyoming Merriams. I texted my buddy who has the freedom to hunt all over the place, pretty much whenever he wants and asked him if he wanted to go. I remembered him proudly proclaiming any time we talked about going on an adventure, “Book it and I’ll be in.”

I emailed Jeff at FE Outrider and made the inquiry. After all the particulars were answered, I sent the itinerary to my buddy. As I’ve sadly learned, talk is cheap, money talks, and bullshit walks. He wasn’t in. I emailed Jeff back, “Fuck it, book it.” I was on my own.

In the time between booking and wheels up, school days seemed to get longer and as soon as state testing was over, kids began to shut down. The second of May needed to get here, pronto.

After two seamless flights, and a two and a half hour drive from Eugene, I arrived at Eden Ridge Outfitters in Myrtle Point, OR. I was greeted in the driveway by outfitter John McCollum and guide Jesiah Haslam working on equipment. After introductions at the kitchen table and buying my license and tags, they were eager to get me in the woods. I was happy to oblige.

Jesiah and I hit the road. He had been scouting earlier that day and had seen some Toms on some of their bountiful hunting properties out in the fields courting the ladies. Luck was in my favor and they were still there. Game on.

Turkeys can be picky about what they will walk through to get to a hunter’s sweet melodies and I found out quickly, Rio’s are prisses. We set up on a longbeard and Jake several times, but there was either a creek or fence between us that kept us from sealing the deal. Finally, Jesiah saw our opportunity and we made our move, belly crawling to the corner of a pasture fence post. He gave them a couple yelps which turned their heads and brought them looking for this new seductress in the neighborhood.

I was flat on my stomach, unable to see beards over the growing hayfield, asking him which one was the Tom. They were closing distance fast. “The one on the right.” His head hit the scope and I hit the trigger. The scope punched back, hard. The bird was flopping ten yards in front of me, but I had a river of blood pouring out of my head. Jesiah turned to give me the celebratory fist bump and saw my self-inflicted souvenir. “Oh shit!” I was fumbling in a state of shock and joy, somewhere between trying to admire my first Rio and controlling the blood exiting my forehead. Jesiah cut a chunk of his shirt sleeve off and I did my best to put pressure on it as we packed up.

Luckily, John’s wife is a nurse. There is a lot of truth to first impressions. I had pulled her and her friend Crystal, the camp cook, away from their evening horse ride. I could tell that she was not impressed with the suspect, possibly liberal teacher from Ohio who was bleeding at her kitchen table. Thankfully, by the end of the trip, I was able to reverse her opinion of what I believed her first opinion of me to be. She took one look at the gash on my forehead and knew I needed stitches.

John packed me up and off to Coquille Valley Hospital we went. After six stitches, a tetanus shot, and some playful marketing pictures and videos at my expense, John and I were headed back to the house so I could get some much needed sleep and get ready for my first full day of hunting.

The sleep was short, but I was excited to get after it. The morning fog was thick as we headed to another farm Jesiah knew held plenty of birds. We unloaded his Four Runner, and headed up a hill to a field overrun with thistle. The gobblers were hammering on the roost as we hustled to set up the blind in a spot he hoped they were likely to wade through to get to the decoys.

I can’t say for sure if I've ever heard the amount of gobbling we were enchanted with that morning. The birds flew down and we could see heads bobbing back and forth eighty yards or so on the other side of the prickly maze in front of us. There were three longbeards and four jakes trying to spot a safe way to their plastic friends. Even after a bobcat scared them off, minutes later, they came back to try and find their way to us, all for naught. It was time to make a move.

Jesiah knows this land well. In fact, I think he knows the entire state of Oregon, given his thousands of pins marked on OnX. In my profession, I’m used to doing the teaching in my classroom. This is his classroom and I was his student. I know when to shut up and pay attention in class if I want to be successful. I watched the professor at work and waited for his instruction. We dropped down the hill we had come up and eased our way through a pine thicket. His eyes picked up movement and we froze. Three jakes were thirty yards, downhill, in front of us. They were trying to figure out what we were as we tried to fit a paintbrush of a beard on one. A gobble erupted in a field not far beyond them. The professor knew exactly where we needed to go.

We backed out a short distance onto a tunnel of a cow path through the hemlocks which would give us cover to the edge of the field. Jesiah led the way with me in tow. We made it about ten yards from the edge of the field when he hit the deck. I followed suit. “He’s right here. Get ready to shoot.” I got on a knee behind his right shoulder so I would be sure not to open up the doctor’s needlework from not even twelve hours prior. Jesiah gave the bird a yelp and two steps and a gobble later, I greeted his entrance into my shooting lane with a face full of TSS.

I knew when I booked this hunt, I was going to have to make the most of the little bit of time I had available. I had boots on the ground in Oregon for less than 24 hours and had already smoked two beautiful birds. I never dreamed a third bird would even be an option, but the next day, Jesiah made it happen again on a farm he had obtained permission for the year before and had not yet hunted. After spotting birds in the farming couple’s field, we drove down their driveway and he used his youthful charm to see if their offer still stood. The wife was the only one home, but told us to have at it. An hour later, I was tagged out with my prettiest bird of the trip.

John McCollum is a mountain of a man who values relationships and takes care of his people. He is a model of hard work and integrity and demands the same from others. The best are drawn to him. Jesiah is a testament to that. During our two nights on the town for dinner and my first night in camp, I saw the respect people have for John and his caring heart. At dinner my last night, ironically, the couple whose farm I shot my last bird on walked in for their meal. Unbeknownst to them, dinner and a round was on the big guy across the restaurant who was chatting up everyone in between making business calls and eating.

Eden Ridge Outfitters is just one of many outfitters of guided adventures the Field Ethos Outrider service offers. This one made me a believer in them. If you ever question going on that next adventure or booking with them, let me put your mind at ease. If you don’t go, you will regret it. I know my buddy is now. Just remember the four letter acronym FIBI and live by it. Your wallet may be lighter, but your life will be more fulfilling. “Fuck It, Book It.”