Brad Day
“Severe Gobbler Disorder” is a collection of short stories chronicling one man’s quest for a spring gobbler Grand Slam. Hunters and non-hunters alike will enjoy these true stories, which provide a humorous insight to a turkey hunter’s world as he strives to complete one of hunting’s coveted accomplishments. Join the author on eight amazing hunts pursuing America’s greatest game bird and experience the ups and downs common to turkey hunting. “Severe Gobbler Disorder” transports the reader into the spring turkey woods making them feel like they are actually alongside the author and a part of the hunt. The book, written from a Christian perspective, manifests the author’s deep respect for the wild turkey and for the God who created them.
Brad Day was born and raised in West Virginia and has been an avid outdoorsman for more than 35 years. Contrary to what his friends say, Brad doesn’t have the ability to turn any conversation into a turkey-hunting story; it just seems like he does.
A born-again Christian whose faith is evident in the stories he writes, Day has a unique way of transporting his readers into the hunts he details. Brad currently resides in Virginia with his wife, Lisa, and their three dogs.
Although I wasn’t able to see his white head, I was sure it was the gobbler because I could hear him drumming. What little I could make out visually as he slowly passed through the palmettos confirmed that he was still strutting as he moved. He was almost completely behind me now, so I decided to call to him again. I positioned the Quaker Boy mouth call a little farther back on my palate than I normally would to yelp, cluck, or cut. Then I did my best to make calling-contest-quality purrs. That was it, no other sounds, just the purring of a contented hen. “Periscope-up!” would be the best way to describe the gobbler's reaction to my offering, as he thrust his red, white, and blue head above the thick foliage and turned to look behind him. What happened next is the kind of thing turkey hunters dream of. Almost as quickly as he had stuck his white skullcap above the palmetto palms to peer toward the sound of my calls, he jerked it back down into his strutting position, and turned completely around to head in my direction! I didn't believe my own eyes at first.
“I must be seeing things,“ I thought hesitantly. “No, he is definitely coming!” I finally convinced myself after a few seconds.
The big gobbler was definitely coming at a 45-degree angle back to me and straight at my decoys! For the first time during this whole ordeal, I believe the tom was actually able to see my decoys when he stuck his head up to investigate my purrs. My jake decoy can either make, or break, a turkey hunt because it has been modified with a custom paint job by yours truly to make it look extremely aggressive. This aggressive little decoy has sent numerous sub-dominant longbeards and almost all jakes that I call in to it packing on dead run for safety. However, that is a consequence and risk that I gladly take, because my jake decoy's beauty lies in its effect on dominant boss gobblers – like the one that was now headed in my direction. I have killed numerous dominant birds "mean-walking" to my customized jake decoy, planning to teach it a lesson in pecking-order etiquette. I believe that is what turned the tide with this swamp gobbler. He was strutting in a straight line for the decoys, and he was “all out of bubble gum” (if you know Rowdy Roddy Piper's old line about butt whippin').
My heart rate was somewhere back around the two hundred beats-per-minute vicinity, as I strained to see the tom through my scope and track his progress to the decoys. Dark glimpses of black were barely visible in the gray-green palmettos as the gobbler slid through the thick palmetto tangle. He was in shotgun range now, less than forty yards away, but I had absolutely no shot. I just couldn’t see his head. As he strutted closer and closer, I was having trouble keeping it together. Thirty-five yards, thirty yards, and then twenty-five yards – the gap between us closed. I now had him where I wanted him and still couldn't get a clear shot at him through the palmettos. I took my eyes off the gobbler to survey the area in front of him. About five yards farther from his present location there looked to be a small break in the palms that would expose him. I pushed my gun barrel forward to cover the small opening, just to the left of a large palmetto. I drew ragged breaths as I stared through the scope waiting for the gobbler's head to appear. He was coming from my right to my left and should appear at any second. My finger rested nervously on the trigger, as time seemed to stand still. (Time can stand still on a spring gobbler hunt like no other – seconds seemingly turn into minutes and minutes into hours.) I waited and waited for him to appear in my scope.
