Photo by Ralph Hensley

"They don't sleep in conifers. Around here, there just aren't enough pines and hemlocks for them to find a place to spend the night," said Peck Martin of McMechen. It was 7:25 a.m., on opening day of the fall turkey season last October, and Martin, who operates Gobblers Choice Game Calls, and I were standing on the cusp of a Marshall County ridge and listening to the sounds of a mountain slowly waking up.

Somewhere down the ridge, a male Carolina wren emits his call to his mate, followed by a cardinal singing. Then a barred owl launches into its "who cooks for you" chorus one last time before settling in for the day. Those sounds are pleasant to the ear, but they are not the sounds we are listening for.

"I just want to hear one sleepy tree yelp from just one bird and we'll be in business," Peck said. "Since the turkeys won't be roosted in pines, I think they'll probably be up in beeches or wild cherry trees. Both those trees produced mast, and the hollow below us has a lot of beeches and cherry trees. I'm willing to bet that a flock is below us in those trees, having spent the late evening yesterday feeding on beechnuts and wild cherries before flying up for the night."

At 7:40, Martin's prediction comes true, for about 75 yards below, a roosted turkey sends forth a soft "yawk, yawk, yawk" -- the tree yelps that birds make when they first greet the coming dawn. Martin smiles and then poses the question that fall turkey hunters have to consider.

"Do you want to try to call them in or bust them off the roost?" he asks.

I reply with the maxim "When in doubt, always bust them," and at my words, Peck replies that he will move to the other end of the hollow and see if any birds fly his way. I give him five minutes to do so, then careen across the top of the ridge and run screaming into the flock -- sending the birds flying and running in several directions.

Satisfied with the scatter, I set up at the break point. Some 45 minutes later, the birds begin to answer my kee-kees, and some 15 minutes more, I spot a bird marching toward me. As the young turkey moves into shooting range, however, it begins angling above me. And when the bird stops just 12 yards away, it is above me and at an impossible angle at which to shoot. I watch as the turkey scans the woods below it and then the jenny moves above the cusp of the ridge. I try calling it back, but the juvenile hen doesn't even respond.

Martin and I remain on the mountainside for several more hours, but don't hear a peep. He then recommends that we look elsewhere and over the next seven hours, we visit several different Marshall County farms. All of them possess flocks, but none of the turkeys will come to our calls. With just two hours or so before sunset, Peck and I decide to return to the same hollow where we began our day.

After we arrive at the scatter point and set up, Peck strokes out yelps on one of his handcrafted chestnut box calls. The sweet sounds seduce a turkey and soon we see her coming up the hollow toward us. But, unexplainably, the hen hangs up at 75 yards and meanders off. What does it take, I muse out loud, to kill a Marshall County turkey?