GuideTalk
Some heads you don't win, some tails you lose.
T
he older I get, the
more I enjoy hunting
with a guide.
I used to hunt more
or less alone, or at most with my
brothers or my Dad. But as the
years have begun to pile up and
my hair has gone grayer, I have
gradually recognized the everexpanding need for all the help
I can muster.
Don’t get me wrong; I still
love hunting alone or at most
with a few special people and a
few equally special guides who
over the years have also become
dear friends.
One of those guides/friends is
Pat Carpenter.
My longstanding friendship
with Pat began at the Lodge and
Ranch at Chama in northern New
Mexico several years ago when he
guided me to my first elk. Since
then we have continued to ply
the San Juan mountains together
for elk, mule deer and the
magnificent Merriam’s gobblers
that haunt the high country.
Each time out is pure pleasure,
whether we actually pull a trigger
or not, for it is the experience and
not the score that has come to
matter most.
Only once have we failed to
bring home the proverbial bacon,
and that was entirely because I
did not listen to Pat as closely as
By Michael Altizer
divide, past the lower end of Bear
I should have.
Canyon, then down again along
It was up across the divide
Cañones Creek. We were set up
and down along Cañones Creek
in our blind in plenty of time to
last spring when, after a week of
watch the stars fade into a coral
late snow and early rain, Pat had
sunrise and hear the first distant
finally located the turkeys. It was
gobble of the morning.
late afternoon when we spotted
“If we can bring him in, I’ll try
them a hundred yards or so up
to get his head up for you,” Pat
the canyon and tried to make our
move. But with the creek running
promised with a whisper.
too high and
vocal for us
to effectively
call to them,
Pat politely
suggested we
back out and
come in on
the birds well
before daylight
the next
morning.
True to form,
Pat showed up
at the lodge
at 4 a.m. with
a sack full
of breakfast
burritos he had
made before
leaving home.
They were
delicious, and
we ate them
eagerly as we
worked our
Veteran New Mexico guide Pat Carpenter is equally skilled at
way back up
pursuing elk and mule deer as he is at Merriam’s gobblers.
and across the
31
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32
This sounded good to me, for
the open strutting area in front
of our blind extended at least
fifty or sixty yards up-canyon, and
I knew we might well be facing
a longer than normal shot if it
came. Still, I felt quite confident,
for I had a super-ultra-tight choke
tube screwed into the end of
my shotgun, and we knew it was
very capable of reaching out and
touching our hoped-for guest of
honor, no questions asked.
At 6:15 Pat began the
proceedings with a lovely little
three-yelp cluster, and from eighty
yards above and behind us came
an opening bid from what sounded
like an overly ambitious little jake.
But the old boss gobbler far up
the canyon put an immediate end
to any ambitions the young bird
might have been harboring.
“Here he comes!”
Pat’s excited whisper told me
all I needed to know, and as I
looked up I saw the old gobbler
charging full-bore down the
canyon, making straight for the
open ground in front of us. Sixty
yards became forty, then forty
became fifteen as he charged
our position, and for a moment I
thought he was actually going to
run us over. His angry grimace
seemed to intensify as he pivoted
side to side, searching for the
audacious little jake who’d had
the temerity to speak before he’d
been spoken to, and the old bird
finally pulled up precisely seven
yards in front of my twelve gauge.
The entire line of his back from
the end of his beak to the tip of
his ivory-trimmed tail stretched
angrily in perfect horizontal
profile before us. Head low, he
was darting side to side, searching
for the precocious little jake. The
old bird and I were now face to
face and so close I could see the
glint in his deep, probing eyes.
And if I, the hunter, had only
remembered what Pat, the guide,
had promised me just minutes
earlier, then you my friend would
now be reading a far happier story.
For just as the tiny front bead
at the end of the barrel found
his bright pulsing head and my
finger began to tighten on the
trigger, Pat did precisely what
he had earlier promised and
gave a compelling little yelp
that suddenly brought the old
bird’s head straight up just as the
inch-wide shot-string from my
aforementioned super-ultra-tight
choke passed cleanly beneath his
obviously unscathed chin.
Oh, I racked in another
round and swung on him as he
hit the air and gracefully soared
ten feet overtop of us, heading
down the canyon with his
afterburners ablaze. But there
was simply no chance for a
decent follow-up shot, and the
only damage done that morning
was to my already-tenuous
reputation as a sharpshooter.
G
uide, friend and
consummate professional
that he is, Pat actually tried to
apologize for doing exactly what
he had earlier told me he was
going to do, giving that little
last-second yelp and bringing the
bird’s head up so that I might
have a clear standing shot. If only
I had remembered.
At times such as this, a good
guide and true friend is worth
his weight in gold. Pat tried
to comfort me and soothe my
tattered psyche and battered ego
by thumping me on the back and
assuring me that sooner or later,
everyone misses. He tried not to
laugh, I tried not to cry, and as
far as we know, that old gobbler is
still trying to figure out what the
heck that little jake was packing.
If Pat is still willing, we’ll try it
again next spring.
Editor’s Note: For information on
hunting wild turkey, elk and mule
deer at The Lodge and Ranch at
Chama, call 505-756-2133 or visit
www.lodgeatchama.com.