Spring is upon us, and with the return of hummingbirds and the onset of flower and fruit tree bloom comes the wild turkey breeding and hunting seasons. The thunderous gobble of a dashing mature tom (male) puffed up and strutting to impress the ladies induces heart-racing, palm-sweating, and immense anticipation for the fanatic turkey hunter.

A wild turkey’s keen vision and hearing makes for a challenging hunt. Turkeys are notoriously difficult to call, and successful hunts often require years of practice to perfect call techniques and positioning for the bird’s approach. Embracing and learning from failure is part of the game, but scouting flocks and identifying their patterns on patchwork landscapes gives the hunter an advantage, particularly when hunting the Rio Grande (Rio) turkeys of the Blue Mountains.

The Blue Mountain foothills provide cover, shade, and nightly roosting trees while allowing safe access to the grain fields and grassy slopes along brushy creek bottoms. Spotting a flock can be easy in the mornings and afternoons. Rio often stick to routine preferred covers within a home range that averages between 370 and 1,360 acres, according to the National Wild Turkey Federation, and learning a flock’s daily movement and whereabouts makes the right time and place two easy ingredients for success.

Just past five in the evening, a passel of toms and hens erupted in discordant gobbles and yelps up the canyon ahead. Like clockwork, the birds were stirring for their evening routine. Timber concealed them, so I kept watch over the open ridgelines. Fire had swept through about five years prior, thinning the timber and leaving open slopes with biscuitroot in full bloom and blackberry thickets leafing out in the draws.

A gray hen decoy stood off to my right. Over my left shoulder, I spied a red head pop up above the ridgeline, hundreds of yards distant. It was a lone tom and gut instinct whispered that I would come to know this bird well before the evening ended.

In the span of about 10 minutes, the tom worked his way down to a logging road that followed the canyon bottom. It was then that I decided to strike up a conversation. A series of questionable, high-pitched yelps drifted from my box call, which I had rigged to work in a pinch after busting a key component. The calls sent the cadre of love-sick gobblers into panic mode but the tom I had spotted first simply kept quiet, flipped a U-turn, and started in my direction. Wow, “Quiet Tom” is actually coming, I thought, nearly out loud.

The logging road suddenly became a turkey lek. Seven toms spewed from the timber onto the road, puffed up into full strut, sidled up to the ladies, and gobbled at every call. Hens began filing by and an old girl piped up with a unique rough voice like playing a güiro. The flock soon started my way, but Quiet Tom was ahead of them all. He had skirted the masses, popped out on the road below them, and spied my decoy.

His black, rope-like beard bounced against his chest as he closed the distance. Preparing for action, I shifted slightly, disengaged the safety on my black Stevens 12-gauge, and steadied the bead around the decoy. The brush pile I sat behind blocked me entirely from the end of the road. The only place a bird could get an eye on me was alongside the decoy, and by then it would be too late.

Quiet Tom reached 40 yards and pecked a few small gravels before committing to the decoy. A well-timed kissing sound caused him to stretch his neck out in curiosity. An eye-blink later, I stood to retrieve my first turkey of the year and gave thanks for the blessing of a stunning young tom.

What appeared to be jet-black body feathers shone marvelous emerald, ruby, and bronze when rolled in the orange glow of the evening sun. His beard was twice the circumference and immaculately full compared to the other toms I had been watching. His spurs were short, only a half-inch or so, but as big around as a dime. His tail fan and rump feathers were flawless, possibly because he was a younger bird who avoided tussles with the older toms.

“I’m going to pretend that bird came to my calling,” I mentioned to my buddy Dean, who had filmed the hunt, knowing that the screeching from the box call would likely have cost me that bird had it been later in the season. Had I not called at all, it’s a safe bet that his evening routine would have brought him to me regardless.

I had watched this flock from the point of a lower ridge for two days and knew where and how they moved. The flock was roosting and sheltering in the canyon conifers and traveling the logging road morning, noon, and night. Thirteen toms were visible from my vantage and the seven that called that canyon home would take turns strutting in pairs in the opening at the end of the logging road. I set my hen decoy at the mouth of the road and slipped in behind the brush pile 30 yards adjacent while the birds loafed in the timber. It was a slam dunk.

Whether you are new to the game of gobblers or you have mastered sweet-talking the wisest old toms, scouting and patterning Rios can be an ace in the hole for bagging spring long-beards in the Blues.