Strange But True Turkey Hunting Tales

I clucked. The turkey gobbled. I yelped. The bird roared back a string of triple-gobbles. That old Virginia bird was a big talker but a slow walker. After hearing him gobble 60 times from the same spot, I got up and moved.

I dropped off the ridge and then circled and slipped in on the opposite side of a sunny flat where I thought the bird was strutting. I clucked, and he roared. I yelped, and he double-gobbled. I decided to shut up and wait him out.

An hour later, he came, but something looked off. This gobbler didn’t work in like most do, periscope up and popping in and out of half-strut as he looked for a hen. No, this old boy walked in with his crimson neck low and extended, working the ground and gobbling all the while.

I yelped softly. The turkey roared but didn’t lift his head. I yelped harder. He gobbled again, but he still pecked the ground. Feeling strange, I aimed low where I figured the turkey’s head was buried in the leaves and pulled the shotgun’s trigger. Duff and dirt exploded, and the dead tom flopped on the flat.

Even while stuffing his crop with cicadas, the tom took just enough time to double- and triple-gobble at the author’s calls. Image by Liz Albro Photography.

Back at camp, I cleaned the bird and found that his translucent crop was stuffed with inch-long cicadas. That sack was about to burst. I stopped counting at 60 slimy, green, big-eyed insects. Hmm, come to think of it, it was one of those 13-year bug cycles. I figured the turkey pecked a bug, gobbled at my calls, pecked a bug, gobbled … . How he had double- and triple-gobbled while swallowing all those big insects is still a mystery.

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OLD LONG GOBBLE

Legendary Missouri hunter Ray Eye has a knack for bumping into strange turkeys. “One time, a friend and I were walking and calling in the Ozarks, hoping to strike a bird,” he said. “We heard a gobble down in a hollow, or at least we thought it was a gobble. It started out right — obbbblllleee — but then just kept on going for 20 seconds — obbbblllleeeobbbblllleee obbbblllleee. I listened to it three times. It wasn’t a double- or triple-gobble, just one long, continuous stream. I didn’t know what the heck it was. Maybe a jake learning to gobble? Or some guy messing with us on a rubber gobble shaker.”

Curiosity piqued, Eye and his buddy sneaked close, set up and yelped. A huge gobbler with a paint-brush dragging the ground strutted in. Suddenly the bird extended his neck and wobbled a 15-second obbbbllllbbbbllllbbbblllleeeeee. “My friend came unglued, shot and missed clean as a whistle,” Eye said with a laugh.

The combination of a big paintbrush beard and an unusually long gobble made this bird famous around Ray Eye’s turkey camp. Image by Tes Jolly.

Eye returned to the area a week later with another hunter. At daybreak, a chorus of obbbbllllbbbbllllbbbblllleeeeees floated from a tree on the ridge. “What in the world was that?” the guy asked.

“Oh, that’s just old Long Gobble, let’s go get him,” Eye replied.

Ray called and the turkey worked in. At 40 yards, the bird stuck out his neck and wobbled a booming 15-second gobble. Eye got tickled, sat back in the leaves and tried to muffle his laughter. Somehow, this buddy kept his composure and killed the turkey.

“I walked up and checked Long Gobble’s head,” Eye said. “It was huge, big and white as a softball, but it looked just like any old turkey head. I guess I should have dissected the head and neck to see where in the heck those long gobbles came from. They sure were the weirdest turkey sounds I’ve ever heard.”

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THE PHOTO BOMBERS

One time in Texas, world-class caller Walter Parrott shot a gobbler during the filming of a Realtree “All Stars of Spring” video. The cameraman took the big Rio over to a stock tank and washed the blood off its head and neck. He lay the bird on the ground and spread its wings so it would look nice and pretty for pictures later.

The hunters returned to their set-up trees from which Parrott had called in the turkey. “I want to get a few more shots of you calling,” the videographer said. His camera whirred as Parrott floated a series of seductive clucks and yelps. Two more gobblers roared from the live oaks. The hunters watched as the pair of longbeards ducked under a fence and strutted toward Parrott’s dead bird.

It’s not that unusual for a gobbler to jump atop a fallen bird and fight it with his spurs. But these turkeys were a little different. “They hopped up on the gobbler and began treading it,” Parrott said with a laugh. “I kept on calling and the birds kept on treading. Pretty soon, they got bored and left. My turkey was beat up and not so pretty for pictures anymore.”

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OLD PENCIL BEARD

Most hunters assume that the baddest gobbler in the spring woods is a bull of a bird; a 20-something pounder with a thick beard and spurs like stiletto blades. It’s true, most 3- and 4-year-old Eastern toms have nice hooks, but many of them are 16-pound lightweights with frazzled beards. Take Pencil Beard, for example. “That was the toughest turkey I’ve ever hunted,” said longtime Alabama hunter Ron Jolly. “He was a sight. Skinny, with a big bare spot on his chest, and 12 scraggly hairs poking out that looked to be about 11 inches long.”

Jolly hunted the turkey every morning one spring. “Most days, he traveled with 25 hens,” he said. “No wonder that bird was so lean and mean, and so worn and disheveled looking.”

On the last morning of the season, Jolly slipped close to Pencil Beard. The bird was roosted with his hens hard against a huge briar patch. “I’ve got you now,” Jolly said under his breath. “No way you’ll fly out into those briars. You’ll have to pitch down on this open ridge with me.”

The turkey gobbled 100 times in the tree, hammering at all of Jolly’s soft calls. “When day broke, he flew out into the middle of the briar patch, gobbled once and left with his girls,” Jolly said with a laugh. “That was the last I ever heard or saw of old Pencil Beard. I’m sure he died of old age — and happy.”

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THE COW THAT HATED TURKEYS

I’d heard the old saw that cattle and turkeys don’t mix, but I never thought much about it. I’d called in quite a few gobblers strutting in green fields and meadows, with beef and dairy stock feeding nearby. Then I had a weird hunt in Texas a couple of years ago.

One afternoon, I set up in a rancher’s pasture and stroked sweet clucks and yelps on a slate call. A long-bearded Rio gobbled and strutted out into the field, shimmering like a copper medicine ball in the sunshine. He strutted within 40 yards, and just as I was fixing to pull the trigger, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

Sometimes, a sharp-eyed longbeard ruins a hunt, but sometimes, it’s a cow that just hates turkeys. Image by William Edge.

A cow clumped past my setup, mooed like crazy and chased the gobbler out of the pasture and back into a grove of live oak trees. After the initial shock of what I had witnessed wore off, I yanked down my facemask and whispered a string of unprintables. I figured the hunt was blown, and that I’d have to go find another bird. But before I left, just for the heck of it, I cutt on box call. The gobbler roared. I looked up, and here he came again.

The cow spotted him too. I watched helplessly as the big lug of beef mooed and chased off my turkey for a second time. I sat fuming for 30 minutes, waiting for the cow to graze off to the opposite end of the pasture. When it did, I cutt on a box call. Believe it or not, the gobbler bellowed and strutted in a third time. I shot him quickly, before the bovine could run over and mess things up.

For kicks on the hike out, I veered over to where the cow was munching grass at the far end of the field. Now I know what they say about cattle hating turkeys is true. I swear that animal looked at the longbeard draped over my shoulder and gave me a wicked smile.

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BURGERS FOR INTEL

Years ago, turkey hunting legend Harold Knight and some buddies hunted a big public area in Kentucky. At noon each day, the guys would meet back up at a picnic area to grill burgers and dogs, and swap stories about their morning hunts. One day, they cooked too many hamburgers. Harold stuffed the leftovers in a sack, jumped in his truck and zoomed off for the afternoon hunt.

A couple of miles away, he passed a campground and noticed three scraggly looking guys sitting outside a tattered old tent. He pulled over, stuck the grease-spotted sack out the window and asked, “Ya’ll hungry? Got some good warm burgers here.”

A well-timed gift of some freshly grilled burgers can turn into a some valuable intel on a gobbler location. Image by Sari ONeal.

“Lord, thank you, mister,” one guy said. “All we’ve had for two days are pork and beans and cold bologna sandwiches. We planned on eating fried turkey, but we can’t get none.” As the guys wolfed down the burgers, it didn’t take long for them to loosen up and start talking. One fellow with a piece of bun sticking out his mouth said, “You know, I just got on a hot turkey two hours ago, but I guess I scared him off. He was just down the south road, at the base of the next ridge,” he said as he gulped another bite.

“Eat up and enjoy, boys,” Knight said as he got in his truck and drove off. He’d hunted those hills since he was a boy, and he knew right where that turkey was. He stopped at the foot of the ridge, sneaked into the woods and yelped. The tom roared and chugged in, 10-inch beard swinging.

As he drove back by the hunters’ camp, Knight looked over and saw three sets of feet sticking out the tent’s door. “Those guys had polished off all those burgers and taken a nap,” he said, “and I was driving to the check station with a big gobbler riding shotgun. I’d call that a fair trade.”

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