rifles during turkey season, the rifles have not divorced themselves from the pickup rack. They haven't had to. Inevitably, there is another turkey around the bend. At least there was. Recently, it appears that turkeys have come to associate pickups and camo cowboy hats with terminal gunshot wounds. Consequently, the roadside variety is not as vocal as it once was.
    Last spring, in an unselfish experiment that, if successful, would reap major benefits for turkey hunters at large, I took to the backwoods of New Mexico by mule in an attempt to prove that even when you don't hear turkeys near the road, turkeys are there.
    Muleback hunting proved very successful (with a couple of caveats: Don't strap a dead turkey to the saddle horn of a mule that has never enjoyed that experience; don't do a fly-down tree cackle into the ear of your hunting companion's mount). By getting away from roads, I located gobbling turkeys when the only sound truck hunters heard was Willie Nelson on the radio. Furthermore, I could hear better and see better from the saddle. And by watching my mule's ears, I once picked up a gobbling bird that only he had heard.
    The moment of truth for any turkey hunter occurs when the bird comes in. With mountain birds, that moment is complicated by the ups and downs of the topography and by the patchwork quality of open space and dense timber.
    First off, recognize that mountain birds often come in on a dead run. That hesitant peekaboo approach so favored by Eastern birds is out of style in the West. Gobblers will pitch down from a ridge to a meadow and hit the ground running. So look for a nice clearing before setting up. And when you've found it, don't be surprised if you see the bird approaching from 300 yards away.
    Self-control is critical here. The turkey-hunting axiom, "If he's coming, be quiet," applies—squared. When you can see a bird walking your way, 300 yards out, the temptation is ever-so-great to hit him with your best rendition of a libidinous hen. A cluck and he struts; a yelp and he pirouettes. What fun! But then at 50 yards he slams on the brakes. If he has heard you on the way in, he should see you (the libidinous hen) now, but he doesn't. And if he doesn't see you after all that noise, he isn't coming in. A few miscellaneous hints will be of use. Forget barred owl calls (barred owls are Eastern birds). Instead try a raucous shock call: a coyote howl, a loud crow call, even an elk bugle. If you can get a mule to bray on command, you've got it made.
    Should a brief storm begin, you're in luck. The lull after a spring snow flurry will trip the gobble of every tom in the neighborhood.
    Be careful estimating distances. The Western Big Sky can make 50 yards look like 30. Get him in close, to a marked 25 yards or closer, before pulling the trigger.
    Be particularly sneaky around mountain birds. With the great vistas afforded by the mountains, they put more stock in their eyes than do Easterns, if you can imagine that. Skirt meadows in the shadows. Don't skyline yourself on a ridge.
    Get into shape. Hump a 20-degree slope to a roosted bird at 8000 feet and you risk inhaling your diaphragm call if you're not fit.
    Never give up. I've taken several mountain birds around noon, when hunters of Easterns are digging into their second plate of grits.