Tale of The Turkey
By John Q.
First of all, I apologize to many of you for failing to return emails with prompt attention. I have been a slacker recently and am trying to work myself out of a bit of a funk. Nothing serious...just trying to purge the remaining wisps of winter doldrums from my system while combatting a full fledged case of spring fever. Such afflictions tend to put email on the back burner for me. The past two months have been quite eventful and I certainly have had a lot to write about...but capturing the motivation and inspiration has been difficult. Some highlights include spending a week at Outdoor School with a group of Japanese students who spoke little to no English, canoeing a 20 mile section of the Columbia River in preparation for a trip later this year following in the path of Lewis and Clark, from the Columbia Gorge to Astoria, and getting stuck in the snow at 3:00 in the morning in the middle of nowhere while looking for spotted owls. But I have chosen to relate the story of my most recent visit to my home in Roseburg.
It all began several years ago when my parents first noticed the gangly Tom turkey poking around the yard. “How nice!” they thought, proud of this new addition to the wildlife found in our backyard and the hills beyond. My parents have always encouraged birds to make their home on our property, building big brush piles down at the creek, hanging hummingbird feeders throughout the yard, and maintaining no less than three to four bird feeders with seed and corn. Local scrappy cats were kept at bay by the sting of my dad’s bb gun. And now it seemed that their “bird sanctuary” had attracted a new resident. “Mr. T”, as my mom affectionately named him, spent his days content in his solitude, foraging in the lawn, admiring his reflection in the sliding glass door, and serving as an endless source of entertainment for my parents with his youthful antics. It was a time of peace and prosperity when parents, quail, chickadees, and Mr. T lived in harmony. It could not have been foreseen that my parent’s three acre ranch would have been the site of an epic hunting story even Patrick McManus or Rancid Crabtree would be envious of. But just last weekend, I met up with one of my best friends, Carey Schmidt, in Roseburg for The Great Turkey Hunt.
As winter approached, Mr. T could still be found hanging around the garden and backyard lawn. He was known to roam about the neighborhood and his travels would occasionally take him away for several days at a time. But his presence was fairly consistent and there was never any indication that he would “take flight” in search of a new home. It was noted that such a strapping young turkey might become a little lonesome and the sliding glass door would no longer serve as sufficient company. Perhaps one day the turkey would depart on a pilgrimage of love. But no one had sighted any other turkey in the area, and it was decided that Mr. T would probably remain an eligible bachelor.
Nature works in mysterious ways, however, and one day Mr. T did not pass by the window for his daily preening. Nor the next day, nor the next. Days drug into weeks, which turned into months, and still Mr. T was nowhere to be found. What had happened? Had he been pounced upon by one of the neighborhood cats, seizing the opportunity to prey upon a wayward resident of the bird sanctuary? Had he fallen victim to the cold dark nights of winter? Had he ventured off in search of greener pastures and deeper piles of corn? Had he found a nice female turkey with whom he could share tender love? No one knew. He had simply, suddenly, and inexplicably vanished, and my parents were sad. The local comedian, the life of the party, the bumbler, the gawker, the gobbler….was gone.
The clutches of winter slowly released their hold and spring settled upon the ranch. One day as my mom’s yard was exploding with new life, she looked out the window and who should be there but Mr. T….tall and proud as ever because this time he was not alone. Tagging along behind was a pretty young hen turkey and six cute, fuzzy little chicks. Mr. T had become a family man! “How wonderful!” thought my parents, now the proud guardians of an entire flock of turkeys. The chicks grew quickly, each day seeming to add several inches to their long gangly legs. With a voracious appetite, the turkeys set about the task of eating everything in sight, and soon, my mom’s precious flower and vegetable gardens were in shambles. What goes in must come out and piles of turkey poo covered the lawn, the patio, and the deck. With little consideration for the poor hapless birds peering down from tree limbs, the turkeys gobbled up stores of corn and seed. Now harboring the responsibility to care for and defend his family, Mr T became more aggressive toward his reflection in the window, slamming into the pane so hard my parents feared it might shatter. But the novelty of a flock of turkeys in the backyard remained and my parents accepted this disrespecting behavior as tolerable and to be expected from the likes of a turkey. The endless days of summer faded into fall and the turkeys again, without warning, left for parts unknown to the relief of my parents and all the other birds who had endured the obnoxious lifestyle of the turkeys. Life returned to normal on the ranch, with plenty of seed for all…the rains washing away the remaining turkey poo from the porch.
With the arrival of spring came the turkeys…over a dozen of them! The descended upon the ranch with a vengeance, eating everything in sight, gobbling in front of my parents bedroom at 4:00 in the morning, pooping on everything, careening and lurching around the yard with complete disregard for the other members of the community, chirping and chattering their disapproval from above. It was time to take action against the madness. A strategy of “shooing” was employed along with a barricade of corn rations…..producing minimal results. The turkeys were too numerous and bird-headed for these tactics to really work. And with the arrival of winter, the turkeys remained…having now completely and entirely outstayed their welcome.
I was living in Portland during this time and the antics of the turkeys were a consistent topic of conversation with my parents. I found their attempts at turkey control quite humorous. I relayed the stories of the flock to my friend Carey Schmidt: bird hunter, fly-fisherman, and long time resident of Montana. I saw a gleam in his eye. We would hunt the turkeys. Not the kind of hunting that would require two weeks of full camouflage, hunkering in the brush to await a passing turkey, but the kind of hunting that could be done from our back porch with a glass of lemonade and a turkey call. We would have my parents cater to the turkeys every need and plumpen them with extra portions of corn so as to encourage the turkeys to visit the property. Then when we showed up the weekend after the opening of turkey season, all we would have to do is sip our lemonade while relaxing in comfortable chairs, belt out a turkey call, and enjoy a half hour debate over which turkey was the plumpest and most delectable of all that came flocking. It was a master plan!
A week before we were to head to Roseburg I called my parents and confirmed with them that the turkeys had been frequenting the yard. Indeed, they informed me that there were turkeys everywhere, at least six big Tom’s lazing about the property. They hadn’t been feeding them corn, but they had cut down on the number of “shooing”s per day to avoid scaring them off. It was with such confidence and passivity that we approached the weekend of The Great Turkey Hunt that we waited until the morning of our first day of hunting to purchase our turkey tags, turkey caller, and inflatable turkey decoy. We set the decoy up in the backyard and scratched off a few calls into the morning air. No turkeys. We scratched a few more calls off…this time varying the frequency and duration of the call. No turkeys. We moved the inflatable decoy into a more visually stimulating position and hid behind a bush. Still no turkeys. My parents had seen them the day before, and in fact just about every day that previous week. But this morning there were no turkeys to be seen.
Surely at some point during the day the turkeys would come so Carey and I patiently waited, helping my mom with some yard work, taking a few excursions into the hills and down to the creek, and strumming a few chords on the guitar. We drifted through the beautiful day just as two kids on summer vacation might, without a care in the world, barefoot and dirty, delighting in the simple things. It was not forgotten, however, that we were turkey hunting, so occasionally we would pick up the wooden turkey caller and plead with an irresistible call to any big ol’ tom turkey that there was a female around needing some attention. No turkeys. Afternoon turned to evening and found Carey and I sitting on the back porch with our shotgun, drinking a beer, peering dejectedly at our inflatable turkey decoy. There had not been one single sign of a turkey all day long, despite our efforts. It was time to reflect upon what had gone wrong.
First of all, we suspected that the turkeys had passed through that morning when we were gone to town purchasing our tags. It also could have been that we were not sending the appropriate message to the turkeys with our turkey caller…perhaps we were inadvertently warning them of the danger they faced. Carey pointed out that, in one instance, I was standing right next to our inflatable decoy belting out an extended dance mix version of a turkey call as loud as I could in hopes that a turkey half a mile away might hear it…hardly effective turkey hunting technique. But we concluded that the most fundamental mistake we had made was that we were “turkey hunting”. Had we been “bass fishing”, or “gardening”, or “painting”, we most certainly would have seen a turkey. A good analogy to this is the McDonald’s theory. Rarely is there a time when I even consider torturing myself with food from McDonald’s, but every now and then I feel compelled to eat some Chicken McNuggets. When I do not want to go to McDonald’s, they seem to be everywhere, on every street corner, the big golden arches rising in all directions. But when I want McNuggets, I cannot find a single McDonald’s even in the largest metropolis. The same theory can be applied to ATM machines, parking places, gas stations, and turkeys. The turkeys knew we were hunting them because that’s exactly what we said we were doing.
The next day we got up a little earlier and quickly reconnoitered the area looking for turkeys. No turkeys. Our inflatable turkey was lonelier than ever. But today we were going bass fishing up at a neighbor’s pond. I remember as a young boy fishing up there with my dad and grandpa and every cast would hook a lunker bass or phat ol’ crappie. We were excited to catch some fish. And we knew not to say we were bass fishing but that our trip was to be labeled as “turkey hunting”, to avoid getting skunked at the pond. But those turkeys proved to be smarter than we originally thought, because even though we were going “turkey hunting”, it wasn’t until we were driving to the pond without our tags, guns, or turkey call that we saw them…a couple big males and some hens lurking fifteen feet from the road, not concerned one bit by our disbelieving stares and curses.
The bass were not nearly as smart. Our deception to go “turkey hunting” proved effective and we caught fish after fish. Bass, crappie, trout…they all fell for our ruse hook, line, and sinker. I was a kid again, perched on the bank with my fishing pole, hooting and hollering as big large mouth bass and crappie emerged out of the depths to suck in my rooster tail every other cast. The turkeys gobbled approvingly in the distance. I had caught nearly 30 fish by the afternoon and Carey and my dad had done equally as well. We had kept ten of our biggest catches to take home and eat for dinner. Our stringer of fish would have been the envy of any professional fisherman on those TV shows. But turkeys were still on our mind, especially the irony of seeing and hearing so many while we were fishing. Just as we were leaving, in a display of triumphant glory, a turkey on the hillside launched himself into the air and flapped across the entire pond to the other side. We could do little but shake our heads and laugh.
More turkeys were spotted on the drive back home and upon arrival to my house our hearts leapt with the sighting of a female hen turkey in our neighbors garden. They thought we had left for good! I quietly snuck to the back of the house with our turkey caller and scratched off the most tantalizing and irresistible turkey call yet. The female hen stood bolt upright and looked around with a mix of confusion and terror….or was it interest? I offered another call. The turkey confirmed my previous suspicion and dashed for the creek with long awkward strides. She left little doubt that this turkey call effectively scared away every turkey within a mile radius. Our turkey hunt had been a dismal failure. But the weekend had produced an epic story and I left refreshed and content. Perhaps next year Carey and I will bag a turkey, but if not, that’s Ok too.
I called my parents the other day and it seems that on Monday the turkeys were sighted across the creek in full force, gobbling and strutting around, no doubt quite pleased with themselves for eluding the great white hunters.
Uncage the Soul