The Bird That Came in Anyway

Lauren Brown had already killed turkeys in three states that week. Andrew had already spent five hours working a tom across two ditches, a road, and a biker who thought the decoys were real.

It was their first season with LandTrust. It was not a quiet one.

Two and a Half Hours and a Biker

The Axtel property sits along the Gallatin River, just outside Bozeman — the kind of place where the morning light turns the water electric pink and a black bear can materialize out of the creek without much ceremony. That's exactly how their morning started.

They'd driven out the day before, spotted birds, and made a plan. Got there a little later than intended, pulled up — and immediately found a tom with four hens, way down in the field below. Six, maybe seven hundred yards out.

"There's no way this is gonna work out well. He's got four hens."

They decided to give it a shot and set up in the bushes alongside the road, uphill from the river, and started calling. Slowly, improbably, it started working. Two hens broke off with the tom and began walking their direction. He peeled away from the hens entirely. Crossed one ditch. Was about to cross the other.

Then a biker came down the road with two dogs, stopped, and started taking photos of the decoys — convinced they were real birds. Andrew jumped out of the bushes to wave him off.

The tom turned around and walked straight back to the river. Work emails started coming in on Lauren's phone. She was done.

"Just stop. We're done. Stop calling."

Andrew kept calling.

Half an hour later, 308 yards away, that same tom turned around, puffed up, and started strutting back toward them. He crossed the ditch. Crossed the road. Disappeared behind the hill for a moment — and reappeared five yards in front of Andrew.

"He closed from 308 yards to five yards in less than 15 minutes. Like he came in on a string."

Bird down. Lauren punched a tag on the Axtel property.

Lauren's Third Bird in Five Days

That morning on the Gallatin was actually the back half of a whirlwind week. Lauren had driven out to Wyoming with Andrew, killed birds there. Flown to Nebraska. Killed a bird. Flown back to Montana. And the morning after she landed, they were at Axtel.

Third turkey in five days. Three different states.

It wasn't luck — Lauren has been at this a while. Royal slam in her first serious turkey season. Grand slam in her second. In 2026, she went to Hawaii and killed a leucistic bird. DNA results were still pending.

"She's totally in it. She's re-exposed me back into it."

For Andrew, it was a return to something he'd grown up with in California — Rios in every field, turkey hunting with a bow — but hadn't chased seriously in years. Lauren pulled him back in.

Black Ranch: The Bird That Got Away

A few weeks before Axtel, they'd booked two days at the Black Ranch on LandTrust. Nic had recommended it. The owner was helpful before they even arrived — pins, access info, a phone call to walk them through the property. They navigated to the parking spot in pitch black, got set up before first light.

Turkeys in the roost, going absolutely crazy.

They set up about 300 yards out — a little far, they'd realize later. The birds came out of the trees. A hen ran through a narrow window. Then a tom. Andrew tried to confirm the bird, make sure it was the one he wanted. The window closed. The bird vanished.

"I don't love this story," Lauren said.

They went back that afternoon, mapped the birds' movements, and returned the next morning. Spotted eight, nine, maybe ten birds out in a field to the north, 800 yards away, on the timber line. Lauren said there was no way.

Andrew hit the box call anyway.

Instantly, the tom answered. Lauren was watching through the binoculars.

"No way. That's not even possible. How can he even hear you?"

The wind was blowing straight toward the birds. She could see him gobble from 800 yards out. He turned, left the whole flock, and started walking in. Hens, jakes followed — right through the fence, across the field. The tom peeled off somewhere along the way. Never showed.

No harvest. No regrets for Lauren.

"That's one of the reasons I fell back in love with this."

Mountain Home Ranch: A Solo in the Snow

Andrew went out alone once this season, booking a day at Mountain Hum Ranch up by Helena. Cold morning. Eight inches of snow. Birds nowhere to be found on the lower end of the property.

The landowner had sent a pin. Andrew doubted it.

"There's no way there are birds up there. Not in this."

He went anyway. Within five minutes of reaching the pin, a tom and hen were going nuts.

He worked that bird from one in the afternoon through white-out snowstorms — sunny and calm one minute, complete whiteout ten minutes later. At 6:30 PM, the tom was hung up on a neighbor's property at 400 yards. Andrew kept at it. The bird looked up, spotted the decoy set in the snow, and came 400 yards in five minutes.

Bird down. Solo. Five and a half hours of work.

What They Learned

First-time LandTrust hunters, first season. Here's what they came away with.

Book three days. Any turkey hunt on unfamiliar ground deserves at least that. It can happen on day one — but if it doesn't, you now know the property, know the birds, and know how things move. One day doesn't give you that.

Talk to the landowner. Every property they booked, the landowner came through with something they couldn't have gotten from a map — pins, timing, access routes, where birds had been that morning. That's not an outfitter's knowledge. It's better. These are people who live and work on that ground every single day.

Trust the pin. Andrew killed his bird within 30 feet of the exact pin the landowner sent him. He almost didn't go there.

What's Next

Already planning next spring. A world slam attempt. A Mexico slam in the same season. Florida booked. Mexico booked for three hunts. LandTrust for the rest — new states, new properties, working their way east through Easterns.

Lauren has a vendetta with easterns, her family has land in Virginia. Family property, years of hunting. Still hasn't killed one on his own land.

"I just want to start in Georgia and work my way up."

Lauren's mission — knocking off states, chasing subspecies, somewhere in the middle of an obsession that started with a royal slam and shows no sign of slowing down.

Their first LandTrust season is over. Their second is already taking shape.

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