Door to Door

“Put in the miles, don’t shy away from the steeps, and the rest will come.” That mantra has always been foundational to my hunting style.

Having grown up in the conifer forests of Oregon, hunting elk was nothing short of doctrine. As far as my family was concerned, Fall’s purpose was wholly tied to chasing bulls. From the time a bugle tube rivaled my own height, I was enthralled with the intricacies of cow calls, chuckles, and the range of bugles from spikes to herd bulls. Calling would become the keystone of both my hunting and professional career.

Unfortunately, pursuing elk is confined to a few months every year. So, some twenty years ago, I set out to chase another vocal strutter, in a familiar place, the slopes of the Beaver state’s tallest mountain.

Beginning my turkey escapades at the base of Mount Hood allowed for a natural translation of my elk hunting practices. Coaxing Easterns across saddles and over ridges wasn’t too different from pulling a bull from his herd mid-September. Despite lacking the thunderous breaking of branches that accompanies a run-in with a rutting bull elk, luring a showboating tom into range excites a very similar response in my head and heart.

My first hunt was alongside my dad, and we went about it the same way we’d gone about chasing elk. We covered 18.5 miles, focusing on the toms we could hear and trying our damndest to draw them into range. After a few missed opportunities and a bit more frustration, my first longbeard was tagged and catching a ride home in the back of our old F-250.

Little has changed in my pursuit of spurs and fans. Whether I’m targeting Merriams in the southern Rockies or tracking long-legged Rios along the river that shares their name, I’m packing light and setting out for a bird willing to be wooed.

This style of hunting stems not only from my backcountry-centric roots, but also the relative lack of birds in the PNW. But the reason I’ve continued to hunt like this, regardless of locale or concentration of birds, is because I love it. There are plenty of folks who set up shop under one tree day after day, that fill tags every year without fail. However, my reason for turkey hunting is hinged on finding a gobbler and challenging them in their own arena with calling. I’d rather accumulate six toe blisters and 1,200 feet of elevation for one bird screaming his head off than hunker down in a box blind for nine hours a day. Hell, I trudged through seven miles of muck wearing chest waders to have a chance at an Osceola.

For me, turkey hunting revolves around putting in the miles to locate a bird eager to chat, and bursting his bubble so brutally that he feels forced to engage. Like a door-to-door salesman, I just need someone to answer the door, because I can make one hell of a sales pitch.