The Story of El Diablo

by Walt Gabbard

May first, and after two months of filming and very little hunting, I was back in my home state of Kentucky sitting in one of my favorite hunting spots. The day prior, I had filmed hunting partner, Josh Grossenbacher, harvesting a tremendous gobbler. His tag filled, Grossenbacher took control of the digital camera.

The scene - a fenceline between two grass fields. The birds were roosted on a hill across a creek some 100 yards to our left. To say those gobblers were on fire is an understatement!

Fellow hunters, Shane Hendershot, my dad, Bill, and Jimmy Wren had chased these same birds throughout the opening week, but too many hens made the hunting difficult to say the least. The efforts did, however, earn these particular gobblers their nicknames - El Diablo, and Turkzilla.

My timing was a bit better as most of the hens were on their nest, and El Diablo and Turkzilla were all alone. Just prior to fly down, Grossenbacher hit the two with a series of soft calls, and was instantly interrupted by a ground-shaking gobbles. Immediately, the duo left their night roosts, set their wings, and touched down not 100 yards off our boot tips.

Turkzilla, as it turned out, immediately walked away, gobbling with every step; however, El Diablo couldn't quite resist Grossenbacher soft yelps and purrs. Slowly, moreos than any gobbler I've ever encountered, the old tom walked toward us - five strutting steps forward, and four back. An eternity passed, and finally the longbeard lost interest and began working his way down the creek bank, as silent as a graveyard. He went behind a slight roll, and I knew that if he stayed that course, he'd reappear within range. Fifteen minutes later, and his head appeared through the grass. Grossenbacher gave me the signal and yelped quietly in an attempt to get the old gobbler to raise his head. When he did, I dropped the hammer. Twenty pounds of 'ole Kentucky longbeard, complete with a 10-inch beard and inch-long spurs, awaited me there in the grass.

With my tag now filled, six birds on film, and Grossenbacher sitting on his first successful hunt as a cameraman, I couldn't have been happier. There was only one problem. We had to leave the next day, and my dad still had both of his tags - and he had never killed a turkey. As we walked back to the truck, El Diablo hung over my shoulder, I heard a distant gobble. Stopping to listen, Turkzilla thundered out from the same field we just came from. I knew right where we'd be the next morning - but that's a different story for a different day.