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“Boinky Boink” Talking Turkey in Halifax By Bill Privette
If the reader would be so kind as to revisit my first book, Chapter Twelve to be specific, you will rediscover that I am imminently qualified, accredited and otherwise deputized to pontificate, prevaricate and furthermore postulate on the various and sundry deviations, derivations and deputations of the wild turkey, its behavior, habitat and sexual deviations. I am a distinguished alumnus of that revered tower of ivory, the Pascagoula University of Taxidermy and Turkeyology. P.U.T.T. for short. Other significant alums include Doctor Bobby Dale, Ray Berryhill, Bob Gowen, Rudy Simione, Roy Rogers and George “Gabby” Hayes. Forsooth. Since I occupy the lofty status of expert in epidemiological turkeyology, with a strong tendency to eat bugs and poop outdoors, I am in the unique position – sitting in front of my computer and typing on the keyboard – to elucidate the neophyte turkey hunter on the finer points of turkey vocabulary. Following in the footsteps of that beloved poultry pioneer, Lovett Williams, I wish to announce to the turkey world that I have discovered the 32nd turkey vocalization! Lovett wrote in his wonderful masterpiece, Wild Turkey Country, Willow Creek Press, 1991, and I quote, “The wild turkey probably has more than 31 calls.” Page 70. End of quote. In this chapter entitled, “The Turkey’s Voice”, Lovett highlighted about a dozen or so vocalizations, which most turkey hunters have heard at one time or another. He did not mention the “Boinky Boink.” Leaving me with the conclusion that indeed I have discovered a new turkey sound. The “Boinky Boink.” An explanation is in order. And will take some time. So, put the book down, hit the head for a pit stop, then the frig for a cold one. You’re back? OK. The Boinky Boink call. It happened last spring, while hunting in Halifax County with Bob Gowen, Bobby Dale and Ray Berryhill that I discovered this new call. Bob had left the farm to take Bobby and Ray to the airport in Raleigh. It was mid morning and, after saying goodbye to my buddies, I decided to trek down to the low ground along the Roanoke River and visit the cabbage patch, where Bobby had chased, unsuccessfully, a wily old longbeard for two days. I was well familiar with the patch, having hunted it the previous spring and whereupon a rather fat and lengthy black snake had slithered noisily past my boots on its way to the creek behind me whilst I sat against an old oak tree and waited for turkeys to appear. When I arrived at the same tree, I carefully inspected the ground for snakes. Having seen none, I deemed it safe to sit and hunt. I then clipped a few green shoots and branches from brush nearby and stuck them in the ground around me for cover. My perch against the tree was quite comfortable and assured me I could sit there for several hours without pain or irritation. I settled in for the duration and softly called with my Quaker Boy Split Quad. My strategy was to call every 15 to 20 minutes and wait. I did not have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, I noticed a dark form enter the cabbage patch from the opposite end, about 60 yards away. It was a turkey, a hen. I perked up, twisted around slightly, raised my gun barrel in its direction, and yelped softly. The hen cautiously stepped into the patch and proceeded to peck its way slowly towards me. I, on the other hand, thinking live decoy, began to watch the edge of the woods for more turkeys. I hoped that a large mature gobbler would soon appear, following the hen. This has been known to happen to me on more than one occasion in the past. Lo and behold, another dark form materialized at the edge of the patch. It was a young gobbler, head red and erect, eyes searching the open cabbage patch. Next, it proceeded to walk into the patch and follow the hen, pecking the ground as it moved forward. I softly yelped again. And, another turkey appeared at the edge. And another one. And another one. All total, 14 turkeys in single file entered the cabbage patch and proceeded in my direction. But, they were all young gobblers. Not one longbeard amongst them. With one eye, I continued to watch the edge of the patch, still hoping a longbeard would arrive. With the other eye, I watched the flock of turkeys slowly working and feeding its way towards me. It did not take long for them to arrive right smack dab in front of me. No more than 10 yards away. While they continued to peck and feed, oblivious to my presence, one bird would stand erect, eyes peeled for danger. I sat stone solid and watched the birds. It did not take me long to figure, one, that a longbeard was probably not going to show and, two, that I was trapped. As long as 15 turkeys pecked and fed in front of me, I could not move unless I wanted to bust up the flock or shoot a Jake. Neither option appealed to me at the time. I decided to bide my time, watch turkeys and hope that a longbeard might arrive and extricate me from my misery. And misery is what it was. By this time, I had sat motionless for at least 30 minutes. My left leg was asleep, numb from knee to toes. My right hand was cramped around the trigger guard and the source of stabbing jolts of pain. To make matters worse, my bladder reminded me that it was way past time to eliminate the five cups of coffee I had consumed earlier that morning. Forty-five minutes elapsed. The turkeys continued to occupy my corner of the cabbage patch and showed absolutely no inclination to depart. My bladder and extremities had other ideas. But I hunkered down and remained still. I was not sure how much longer I could endure the pain. Finally, the hen decided it was time to depart the patch. And it headed directly to me! It had the whole two-acre field from which to exit. But, no. It was my corner and my tree that filled the bill. I stopped breathing. Closer the hen approached until it passed by my paralyzed feet and legs. Then it stopped, looked right at me and softly called. “Boinky boink.” Then it continued past me and right smack dab behind me and stood for the longest time, scratching in the leaves. I could have reached around and grabbed the darn turkey by the legs! Except for the fact that my arms were now numb and paralyzed, incapable of moving an inch. In fact, the only body parts that were not asleep, numb and stupefied were my eyes. And they were fast approaching the same set of circumstances. Naturally, the young gobblers, all 14 of the sorry suckers, had to follow the hen. And, one by one, they walked right past me. Each stopped at my feet, stared me in the eyes, and softly proclaimed. “Boinky boink.” “And boinky boink to you,” I thought back. “Now, for the love of God, get the hell out of my cabbage patch!” I reckon it took another five or ten minutes for the procession of poultry to depart. They lingered just behind me on the creek bank and scratched in the leaves. But, finally, thank the Lord, finally, they left. And I flopped over on the ground. My body was asleep from head to toes. I waited for the blood to flow back to my arms and legs and for the awful pain that always follows. And, it did. So there you have it straight from the horse’s mouth. The “Boinky Boink” vocalization, all 15 times worth. I have since heard this soft call on one more occasion whilst hunting turkeys with a local firefighter, Tee Tallman, at his family farm. Tee was sitting close to me, a couple of yards away, and he heard the call, too. We were sitting on a food plot, the 2007 NC spring season, early in the morning and waiting for birds to fly in. And, they did. They were all hens, no gobblers, and the first hen, walked by and ignored my soft calling. The second hen, on the other hand, could not resist the sweet pitts and boinks. It walked right up to me and stood, staring at my camouflaged profile. It stood there for several minutes – felt like an eternity – and softly boinky boinked back. Finally, it departed the field in the direction of loud gobbling down by the pond. I am sure Tee will back me up on this veracity of this incident. Especially if he wants me to finish his wing bone call. I have his phone number and you can check with him. Just give me a call. (Boinky Boink is a chapter from new book, Shake A Tailfeather One More Time. Order information is found on the newsletter page.)
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