Tom In The Redwoods
Turkey Hunting in the Santa Cruz Mountains
As my friend and I walk across the apple orchard, I see peacocks and blacktail deer grazing an adjacent hillside in the pale blue morning light. We’ve both been quarantined for weeks, so we don't high five or fist bump. We keep our distance as we walk up the hill toward a redwood grove, where we hope to encounter wild turkeys.
A male turkey is called a tom, and it resembles a cross between an eagle and a burn victim. From the neck down, rich brown and black feathers lead to a tail that fans out three feet in diameter. From the neck up, the bird looks like a pink old sunburnt man with thin saggy skin. To the touch, it feels like the back of your elbow. Most of the year, turkeys roost in redwood trees, and first thing in the morning they will swoop down to feed on insects and vegetation before returning to the safety of their nests. Come spring, the toms expose themselves as they drunkenly look for mates. That’s why hunting toms requires coaxing them in by scratching a wooden stick against a small circular slate — a sound that mimics a female looking for a mate. It’s about one octave away from nails on a chalkboard. If the tom is interested, he will respond with a gobble and approach the sound with lust. A turkey's eyesight is three times better than a human’s, so it's essential for the hunter to wear full camouflage and remain dead still. A snapped twig or thoughtless fidget is all it takes to make a tom disappear.
My friend and I sit on the hill, at the edge of the redwood grove, and begin to call.
While we wait, I think about the two distinct cultures that exist in Santa Cruz. The line between them is drawn where the forest begins. When I was in high school, the kids who lived in the Santa Cruz Mountains were not like us. They did not surf, skateboard, or listen to Sublime. They rode dirt bikes, shot beer bottles with rifles, and listened to Hank Williams. Some of them hunted. The only time I would drive up one of these roads was when some poor kid decided to throw a "little" house-party. These ragers which would often result in brawls between my surfer friends and a group of mountain kids who called themselves the Redwoods. I remember the Redwoods being generous enough to bring brass knuckles to the party, but never any beer.
More than a decade out of high school and back in my hometown, I am grateful to say that I have gained a new community of friends through bowhunting. One lumbery character who terrified me as a teen moved away to Montana for seven years to work as an elk hunting guide before returning home. We're now close friends, and our text thread of heart emojis and wild game recipes verges on a budding dalliance.
People who live on the coast have learned to deal with the buzz of out-of-towners who routinely descend on our hometown, plaguing our beaches and shrieking in unison as they ride the Boardwalk’s Giant Dipper Roller Coaster. Those who live in the mountains, however, have no patience for crowds of any kind. “Keep Out” signs adorn almost every driveway, many of which lead to weed farms, polyamorous communes, junkyards, meth labs, and mansions.
Although Santa Cruz has robust blacktail and turkey populations, the town is not known for its hunting, and the game-harvesting subculture goes mostly unnoticed. Since I got psyched on bow hunting three years ago, though, I've spent many hours exploring these dirt roads, kindling relationships with property owners and fellow hunters. It's strange to be only 20 minutes from the beaches where I spent my childhood and yet still feel so far from home.
Despite the redneck stereotype that follows hunters like a blood trail, I've found that most Santa Cruz hunters take their responsibility as wildlife advocates seriously, and most of them refrain from posting grip-n-grin shots with dead animals. Don't get me wrong, we all like to text gruesome photos to each other, but posting them online is considered divisive and masturbatory—only furthering the perceived differences between hunters and non-hunters.
The guy I'm sitting with on the hill grew up near me, but we only became friends since we started bowhunting. From our vantage point, we can see through a clearing that leads all the way to the ocean. After about two hours of calling, we hear a loud gobble. My friend continues to call, and, a few minutes later, the big tom struts out of the redwoods with its tail fan on full display. My friend pulls out his range-finder and whispers, "eighteen-yards." I can see the tom's head, but the rest of the bird is hidden behind weeds, and I don't have a clear shot. I am completely still, except for my leg, which won't stop shaking. The tom moves into clear view and I can see the sheen on his feathers. He turns towards me. I knock an arrow, draw back, stand up, squeeze my release, and let one go. The tom takes off down the hill into the redwoods, but is having a hard time running. Leaves and acorns crunch loudly beneath our feet as we follow him down the mountain. The tom stops. We stop. I put another arrow in him. This time, he doesn't get up. I put my hand on his back as his breathing slows and then stops.
That afternoon, I brine the breasts in pickle juice, and the next day I put the turkey on my wood pellet smoker for four hours on low heat.
As the smoke softens the meat, I eat a weed gummy and go surf at a spot down the street from my house. Surfing is a selfish sport, and while I don’t consider myself a wave hog, few beginners would call me “Mr. Aloha.” I've been surfing since I was ten years old and the vestige of teenage entitlement still rears its head when I'm at my local spot. As the sun sets and the gummy plasters a stupid grin across my face, I sit on my board and trip out on how much exploring I still have to do in my backyard, and how stoked I am to know better hunters who let me tag along. At that moment, a great wave approaches, coming in at a perfect angle and lining up all the way down the reef. I'm going. As I paddle, I realize that some beginner is sitting inside of me, paddling hard for the wave I want, the redwood mountain range backdropped behind him. I stop paddling, nod, and signal for him to go.
