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Hunting Western Turkeys In Wyoming!
By Todd Helms
Spring in the Rockies is a time of unpredictable weather at best and being successful on spring hunts often means having to get creative with logistics. For example, when the time came for Dan Turvey Jr., Lindsay Simpson and I to head east for the Wingmen Turkey Hunt the weather across Wyoming conspired to keep us at bay. However, not a team to be easily deterred we dialed up road conditions and shortly had an alternate route mapped out. Granted this new route was to take us 200 miles out of our way but true Wingmen aren’t easily dissuaded.
After more time on the road than planned we arrived after dark knowing that the birds were already a step ahead of us due to our not being able to put them to bed. Prepping gear before hitting the rack ensured that nothing would be left to chance the next morning.
As we rolled through the inky pre-dawn dark of Northeastern Wyoming my mind was flooded with “what if’s”, but as I brought the Can-Am to a stop on a small rise those murky doubts were banished as multiple gobbles echoed across the rolling hills. As the eastern sky grew from leaden to pink my team crept into position a couple hundred yards from what sounded like a half dozen or so enthusiastic Merriam’s gobblers.
Spring in the Rockies is a time of unpredictable weather at best and being successful on spring hunts often means having to get creative with logistics. For example, when the time came for Dan Turvey Jr., Lindsay Simpson and I to head east for the Wingmen Turkey Hunt the weather across Wyoming conspired to keep us at bay. However, not a team to be easily deterred we dialed up road conditions and shortly had an alternate route mapped out. Granted this new route was to take us 200 miles out of our way but true Wingmen aren’t easily dissuaded.
After more time on the road than planned we arrived after dark knowing that the birds were already a step ahead of us due to our not being able to put them to bed. Prepping gear before hitting the rack ensured that nothing would be left to chance the next morning.
As we rolled through the inky pre-dawn dark of Northeastern Wyoming my mind was flooded with “what if’s”, but as I brought the Can-Am to a stop on a small rise those murky doubts were banished as multiple gobbles echoed across the rolling hills. As the eastern sky grew from leaden to pink my team crept into position a couple hundred yards from what sounded like a half dozen or so enthusiastic Merriam’s gobblers.
