By Joel Warner
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By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
On a recent evening at Archery Adventures, a bow-hunting store in an Aurora strip mall, Bob Cook was setting up his slide projector for a seminar on turkey calling. It was still a couple of weeks before the start of the spring turkey- hunting season, but that didn't matter: Bob is as likely to lose his gobble chops as Yo-Yo Ma would be to let his fingerboard calluses go soft.
Across the room, Bob spied a young man handling a mouth call, a vibrating reed that looks like a small orthodontic retainer. Naturally, Bob himself was chewing on his own call, a Pro Sports Split V3. In fact, anyone who didn't notice that Bob is all about turkeys just wasn't trying. His creased blue jeans were held high by a thick metal turkey belt buckle.
He ambled over, cupping his right hand close to his jaw, as if to amplify his voice. He looked at the other guy, smiling slightly, then suddenly let loose with his classic cutting call, a raucous blast of turkey talk that rises to a loud, fast crescendo before tailing off, like a furious turkey that has abruptly lost interest. Bob's lips vibrated, puckered and twisted. He stopped, shifted his hand a bit and then started all over again.
When he finished, he popped the call out of his mouth and looked at the man. The guy shook his head -- not gonna trade calls with Bob Cook today. In fact, "I'm not even going to try," he confirmed.
Bob grinned. He is one of those people who sound as if they have surgically implanted chaw in their cheeks. "Just takes a few weeks of practice," he says. "Nothin' to it. A turkey makes 28 calls. You only need to know a few of 'em to get one."
Bob understands the man's position because he's been there. Back in 1982, while giving a seminar at the Denver Sports Show, he was standing in front of the room preparing for his talk when in walked Dick Kirby.
If you're a turkey hunter, or even just a casual fan of competitive turkey calling, an introduction to Dick Kirby is insulting. If you're not, though, think of it like this: You've agreed to coach your kid's junior high basketball team and are just starting to give a lesson on how to shoot a jump shot when Larry Bird walks in to watch.
"I mean, Dick Kirby is the best caller you'll ever listen to," Bob says. "So when I saw him come in, I thought, 'Oh, great. He's gonna tell me how stupid I sound.'"
"After the seminar," Bob continues, "he stuck around waiting for everyone else to leave, and I was thinking, 'Yep, here comes the stupid part.' But it turned out he wanted to know if I'd join him for lunch." Dick Kirby was an admirer, and Bob soon found himself representing his company, Quaker Boy Calls. Later, Dick Kirby even taught Bob his secret to a good purr, a soft feeding call. "While you're blowing, you make a sound like you're going to hawk up a loogie, deep in your throat," Bob says.
Wild-turkey hunting, in which an armed, fully camouflaged person attempts to kill one of the stupidest animals in the woods, is more difficult than it sounds. The birds are skittish, and they are built to bolt. Their eyesight is ten times better than ours, their heads turn in a 260-degree radius, and they can run close to 35 miles per hour. If necessary, they can fly for nearly half a mile. A deer or elk hunter can rely on some degree of luck; many stumble onto an animal while wandering about in the woods. Sneaking up on a turkey, however, is out of the question. Thus the need to sound like one. (Colorado's spring turkey-hunting season began last Saturday and runs through May 24.)
Bob Cook is one of the best turkey callers in the state. "I've probably won everything you can win except the Grand Nationals and the Grand Championship [the World Cup and Olympics of turkey calling]," he says. In 1996, he finished third at the Grand Nationals. In an average year he takes home about $10,000 in prize money, and that's not including the money he gets indirectly from the exposure -- instructional videos, TV time and so on.
Like any great sportsman, he visualizes. "In a competition," he says, "you've got to think about what the birds are doing. Like for a fly-down cackle, I see him on the tree, leaning out. Then he flies down and hits the ground, and then starts walking. It helps me get the right rhythm and tones. Rhythm is more important than tones. All turkeys are different -- they have different sounds. But I don't care if you're calling turkeys, coyotes, geese, ducks; there's a rhythm to all of them."
"Then," he continues, "I'll use word association for the call itself. I talk to the reed. I say 'yelp,' or sometimes 'help,' for a yelp, a sort of 'took' for a cluck."
"In a competition," he cautions, "you got to remember that you're calling judges, not turkeys. When I'm hunting, I'll throw stuff in there, dress up the call -- maybe a yelp with a couple putts or a cut thrown in. I'll do everything I can to get that turkey to come to me. But in a contest you got to keep it short, to the point -- very little dress to the call. If you go on and on to the jury, put too much into it, you're gonna get marked down. And one mistake is all it takes."