Old Crooked Toe: Remembering George Mayfield

We celebrated the life of my friend, George Mayfield, this weekend. One of the speakers at his funeral was Steve Bowman, an outdoor writer. He spoke about a turkey George had named "Old Crooked Toe."

This hunt took place in 2014, before the YouTubers and podcasters were chasing him for content. George was largely known through print and television because of Steve Bowman. George was Steve's go-to man on anything hunting. There's no telling how many hunting and outdoor articles were written about George over the years.

George was known for game management and was a superior turkey hunter.

I met George, Steve, and another gentleman for a turkey hunt before daylight one morning in west Alabama. George wanted me to take Steve hunting that morning, and he showed us on a map where he was going and where he wanted us to start.

Steve and I headed to our spot, and sure enough, there was a turkey gobbling in a thinned pine plantation. We got set up, and that turkey was gobbling every breath on the limb. I let him hit the ground before I said a word to him. Then I got to cranking on him.

I'm pretty sure I was running a three-reed V-cut, and I remember the turkey moved parallel to us and got to the spot he wanted to be, what I think was a logging deck. He stood his ground, and every time I called, he answered. We built that conversation to a fever pitch, and then I shut the calling off.

Pure silence.

That old gobbler finally made his move.

He slipped in front of us, coming right to left, but Steve couldn't get a shot. There were too many pine tops in the way, and the pine rows had been hipped up, so you'd see him for a second and then he'd disappear. Finally, he slipped by us.

We started walking around the edge of a big cutover next to the pines. George texted me and asked how we were doing. I told him we were looking for another willing participant.

He asked if I could see a corner where the pines met the pines and the cutover met the cutover. I told him I could.

He said, "Slide over to that northern corner of the pines. There's a turkey gobbling there. I'm on the other side of him and can't do anything with him."

Steve and I eased into position, and on the first yelp, he gobbled. I waited a few minutes and yelped again. He gobbled right on top of us. About that time, I caught sight of him.

He walked to within about 15 yards of Steve, and Steve let it rip.

George texted me and asked, "Did you get him?"

I replied, "Yes sir, we did."

George texted both of us back and said, "Y'all have got a long walk back to camp," with a smart reply. Hahaha.

He was just messing with us.

We gathered up the turkey and headed toward George and the other gentleman. Evidently, it was Old Crooked Toe, a turkey George had been after because of his crooked toe.

I had completely forgotten about that turkey's old crooked toe until Steve mentioned it while speaking at George's funeral this past Saturday.

After the service, I walked up to Steve and hugged him. He reminded me that the turkey story he had just told was about the crooked-toed gobbler we killed that morning.

George was one hell of a turkey hunter. He was as in tune with the turkeys on the properties he hunted as we are with the interior of our own homes.

If George told you there was a turkey somewhere, you'd better listen, because there was one there.

I am thankful for him bringing me into his circle of friends, for the wisdom he shared with me, and for the experiences he afforded me throughout the years.

Looking back now, I realize those hunts were never just about the turkeys.

They were about time spent with a man whose knowledge, generosity, and passion left a mark on everyone fortunate enough to know him.

George's legacy lives on in the stories we tell, the lessons we carry into the woods, and the friendships he helped forge along the way.

The woods feel a little different without him, but his influence will echo through them for generations to come.