Twenty-One Paces
At first light in North Carolina, a quiet exchange turns into a close-range test of patience, timing and nerve.
5 a.m. came early. I had driven nine hours to visit family at their farm tucked away in the shadows of Kings Mountain, North Carolina, the day before. I crawled out of bed, got dressed, and grabbed my gun—a double-barreled 11-gauge percussion, made by Theodore Solomon of Philadelphia prior to the Civil War.
Working slowly, one barrel at a time—careful not to double charge—I poured my powder, 75 grains of 2F Goex, added an over-powder wad, a half-lubed cushion wad, and 1 3/8 ounces of #6 lead shot, topped with an over-shot card. I secured my pot call and striker in my pocket and made off across the field as dawn began to break.
As I crossed the field, memories of previous hunts filled my mind. “I’ll sit in the hole,” I thought to myself, hoping to relive my last successful turkey hunt there. I picked out a tree, placed my decoy on the edge of the field, and settled in as the world began to wake.
Shortly after shooting light, he hammered away in his roost 50 yards from me. We began our quiet exchange—a couple of yelps here, one there—letting him know I was interested, but not too interested.
After a few minutes of that back-and-forth, I heard the powerful flapping of wings and a heavy thud as he hit the ground. Then all was quiet.
A few minutes passed—long enough to feel like an eternity—and he finally gobbled.
“He’s going the wrong way,” I thought.
A few more yelps, and I cocked my right barrel, hoping he’d come back.
Not long after, I spotted a pale head peering out from the tree line—and froze. Another followed close behind.
There were two Toms.
They cautiously made their way into the open. The first bird seemed uninterested in my decoy, but the rear bird was in full display with every step as he closed the distance—two steps forward, one back, turning left, then right. He drummed with every step, his iridescent feathers catching and shimmering in the morning light.
Fifty yards… forty… thirty-five… thirty…
“I need him closer,” I reminded myself with each step.
I began to raise the gun as slowly as I could.
Twenty-five yards… twenty…
“Here we go,” my mind screamed, adrenaline racing through my body.
As I brought the butt to my shoulder, he caught movement. Finally coming out of strut, he stretched his head high to get a better look.
It was now or never.
I quickly laid my bead on his head and let the right barrel loose.
The gun roared, and the field filled with a haze of blue smoke.
A few moments passed before my view cleared—and the Tom lay anchored to the earth.
I stood still, captivated as the smoke rolled slowly over the hill, clinging to the morning dew. It had been one of the most exciting turkey hunts I had ever experienced.
Slowly, I approached my bird. Sunlight broke over the treetops as I neared. I counted twenty-one paces from my tree to where he lay.
A fair shot for a cylinder-bored gun, I thought.
— W.N. Nixon