How Many Turkeys Does It Take To Pull The Trigger?
How many toms did you have to see in full strut while turkey hunting before you found the courage to pull the trigger? Well, for me it was five, maybe even ten if I am being honest. It wasn’t because I was scared of turkeys, or anything like that. Nope. I was afraid of the shotgun. It was loud, had a killer kickback, and I was positive the gun was going to go off every time I reset the hammer. So, my solution to that was to not pull the hammer back at all when a turkey came in on Dad and I at full strut. And if I did, I let Dad de-arm the gun for me.
But after witnessing me pass up so many perfect toms, my father, Andy Rasmussen, a big-game outfitter based out of Idaho, had had enough of my gun shyness. So, after that fifth (or maybe tenth) turkey mess up, he’d decided no more passes were going to be given. It was time for me to get over my fear of the shotgun. Otherwise, he was done taking me turkey hunting.
My First Wild Turkey
It was an early spring morning. The birds were chirping, and the sun had peeked over the tops of the trees twenty minutes prior. It was a peaceful morning. Ruined only by my own anxiety over the hunt to come. Would I finally fire the shotgun? Would I miss? What if I somehow managed to shoot myself, or Dad on accident? The possibilities for my future mess-ups were endless.
My right leg bounced up and down. Up and down. My hands fidgeted in my lap. And my mind swirled. Catching Dad’s side-eye, I grabbed a hold of my thigh. Stop that. Everything’s fine. I’m totally going to shoot a turkey today.
The truck came to a stop. This was it. It was time to get this show on the road. No more messing around, otherwise Dad may not take me out turkey hunting again.
“Let’s go, Araya.” Dad grabbed the gun and exited the truck.
My brows furrowed. “What are we doing? Don’t we need the turkey call?” I looked forlornly at the abandoned object, sitting on the dashboard ready to go.
“Nope. We’re going to do some target practicing.” He rummaged in the back of the Toyota, grabbing abandoned pop cans as he went. “We got to get you over this fear of the shotgun. So, I’m going to have you shoot these cans off of the log over there.” His head dropped and pointed southwest, directing my attention to the log in question.
Blood rushed to my ears and my hands started to shake. “What? NO! Right now? I thought we were huntin’?”
Dad’s eyes seared into me. “This is a part of huntin’, Araya. Now, come on, you got some cans to hit.” A rare smile graced his gruff face, highlighting his five o’clock shadow.
Target Practice
My feet dragged as I trailed after him, in no hurry to rush this along. No matter what he said. I still had lots of apprehension about handling the shotgun. It was not my friend. Honestly, I’d hardly call it an acquaintance of mine.
Gravel crunched underfoot as I closed the last few yards to the log. The area was cleared of trees and brush, leaving us in a great spot to see our surroundings. You never know when another hunter may come up on you, and you don’t want to accidentally shoot them after all. Especially since most people that hunted in this area did not wear orange, including Dad and myself.
My target, the log, splayed across the forest floor with zero branches left attached, the years turning them into deadfall to litter the forest floor with. The whole thing was rotted, which would allow the bullets to sink rather than ricochet off the wood.
Dad grabbed my shoulders and drew me back a few big steps from the log. “Okay, we’re going to start back here, and then once you get more comfortable, we will step back even farther. We are going to keep doing this until you get more comfortable with pulling the trigger.” He finished maneuvering me into position and then handed me the gun. “Alright. Aim and fire.” He left out all the in-between, the words too redundant for his liking.
Overcoming The Fear Of The Shotgun
My left eyebrow pitched, almost touching my hairline. “Um, yeah. Sure, I’ll do just that.” My hands shook as I shouldered the gun. The safety came off and the hammer drew back precariously. The barrel tightened in my right hand as my left index finger rested around the trigger. Fresh air and the smell of pine filled me, no better way to calm myself than smelling mountain air. On the exhale I closed my right eye and aimed.
“BOOM!”
The gun recoiled with a jerk. I held my shoulder firm, but my eyes closed and my face pinched. The log, while my intended target, didn’t receive a single pellet of the buckshot. Dang it. The gun fell to my side.
Dad removed his hands from his ears, and declared, “ You flinched. Try again without flinching.” With a nod he placed his hands back over his ears, leaving no room for argument.
My lips thinned, turning into a fine line. Despite the displeasure that filled me and the lack of confidence in my shooting abilities at this point, I pulled the gun back up and ran through all the motions again; pump, safety, hammer, and fire.
“BOOM! Thump.”
I blinked at least ten times if not twenty trying to process the fact I had managed to hit the tree on the second try. Woohoo! I’m getting better at this! Maybe I could be…
“Again!” Dad demanded. There was no room for bragging or for getting cocky in his book. Nope. There was only practice and perfection. Especially when it came to turkey hunting.
Turkey Call
A half a box of bullets and an earache later, Dad decided I was good to go. My new target would be moving and a whole hell of a lot smaller, but I’d managed to attain some precision with my shots. They weren’t always accurate, no I was not that good, but one didn’t need to be completely accurate with a shotgun. The buckshot expanded out enough to make up for a slight variance in accuracy. Rifles, on the other hand, were different. You had to be more accurate with their single projectile to make sure it was well and truly aimed at the heart. But, with the shotgun the turkey’s head only had to be within the buckshot’s spread.
Trees and mountains ambled by as we drove around calling at all of the good spots Dad knew turkeys roamed, hoping for responses. The call, of the wood box variety, was chalked up every so often, as Dad’s calling constantly rubbed the substance off. His pristine scraping with the top portion of the call against the bottom sounded just like a hen. I had attempted to mimic it in between traveling from one point to the next, but my actions only headed horrible screeches from the object rather than the top notch results Dad achieved. So, I abandoned my efforts and left him to do his thing. He was the master after all, and I was the student.
At the fourth attempt to get a tom to respond to us, the sounds of a gobble filled the air. One would almost describe the sound as a gurgle followed by the ruffling of feathers if you were close enough. However, we were still a few hundred yards from it, so all we heard was the gurgling sounds of the tom’s gobble.
The Hike
Dad tossed me a piece of clothing and said, “Grab the gun and put this on.”
The material rubbed between my hands as I inspected it. The rough netting of the neck gator met my fingers. With a look at Dad I could tell he had his own on, he just hadn’t raised it from his neck yet to cover the lower half of his face. Instead, it was tucked into the hood of his black Carhartt sweatshirt, which he had in turn tucked under a light camo jacket. The matching bottoms to the camo top also covered his legs. Turkeys were a lot smarter than you’d think. So, we both were decked out in full camo as a necessity.
My borrowed pants swished loudly across the ground as we followed along a gated road twenty yards back from the truck, the old pair of Dad’s too long for my 5′ 5’’ frame. While it was nice of him to share, sometimes I really wished I had my own gear. That way, they not only fit me, but made me look cool. Not like a child swimming in the abyss of excess material.
We walked like mimes as we closed in on the turkey, well except for the little swish here and there of my pants, but besides that not a word was spoken. We skirted along the side road, only accessible by off-road vehicles, horses, or by old fashioned walking. And every twenty yards or so Dad would stop to call, ensuring the tom’s interest, and to assess the distance between us. On our second stop to call, the turkey broke the hundred yard barrier.
The Set Up
Dad, in full mime mode, signaled to follow behind him closer as we neared a bend in the road. His boots left the gravel, muffled by grass, and then started to sidehill down the mountain to set up. A glance over his shoulder, ensured I followed.
We went a little ways and then Dad shoved me in front of him, signaling for me to sit down and set up to shoot, which I did once I recovered from the shift in my balance, and like a silent assassin he set himself up behind me without making a single noise.
Conscious of my every movement, I attempted to sit down as gently and quietly as possible, but in the end no huge sound announced my position. I pulled up the neck gator, the portion in front of my mouth already wet from my heavy breathing. Nervous and shaking to the bone, I turned to Dad for further instruction. A scalding look and some hand signs later, I got the point. I needed to raise the shotgun and prepare to shoot.
The second I’d rested the gun into my shoulder, the barrel balanced with my knees, Dad called again.
“Cluck, Cluck, …”
“Gobble. Gobble…Puff, puff, puff.” The tom’s feathers and fan puffed loudly, announcing its full strut status as it approached us from the right.
The gun shook alongside my body, knees knocking as I tried to steady myself. My whole body vibrated with adrenaline, the turkey seconds away from peeking through the trees in front of us. Come on.
“PUFF.”
The Takedown
I closed my right eye, the metal sights aligning into my vision. I took a deep breath, fingers going white as I basically shoved the gun into my shoulder bone, and then on my exhale the turkey’s head bobbed around a small spruce. It took a step. Then two. Pausing, it used its beady eyes to look for a hen, or inadvertently us. The waves of Dad’s own anticipation and impatience wafting down my back. Tension filled me as the clock ticked on this opportunity. Would it be another failure? No. I wouldn’t let it.
With a deep breath I pulled the trigger.
“BOOM!”
In a flourish of movements, the turkey flopped over, its feet kicking in the air, and its life force leaking away terse moment by terse moment. Dad ran down, almost biffing it on a log, but caught himself. Devoid of life, the turkey stilled when Dad made it about half way. Its feet stuck in a curled up position a few inches above its chest. Dad paused his movements, turning back to me. Eyes alight, he waved me down.
The bird, the first of many for me, was thick and beautiful, the coloring varied from chest, to wings, to fan. Brown, black, white, blue, and red all pieced together to complete the tom’s coloring. The beard, maybe only three to four inches long, was no record breaker, but it wasn’t something I really cared about. I was just happy I pulled the trigger. Score. Take that shotgun. You’re not that scary after all.
My first wild turkey!
Certified Turkey Hunter
I did it. I was officially a certified turkey hunter and shotgun user, all thanks to my dad. And I couldn’t wait to do it again. And well, again of course. Because once you were hooked on hunting, her long and tight claws never let you go. It wasn’t just a hobby. No, it was a way of life. One I was glad my Dad had introduced to me at a very young age, otherwise I wouldn’t be so chocked full of amazing memories of hunting the backwoods of Idaho with him and his haggard Toyota.
Pictured above is me with this turkey, happy as can be that I’d finally pulled the trigger.
Tell Me About Your Story
Have you ever struggled with pulling the trigger? If so, let me know how you overcame it in the comments!
Well that is all she adventured, live life to the fullest and get out and hunt!!
Araya Rasmussen
June 8th, 2025