I wouldn’t say that turkeys are my favorite animals, but now, as winter descends in the form of snow and cold, they at least entertain me. And there’s little other life now—mostly the Steller jays and an occasional rabbit. But the turkeys are always there. Every morning, a flock of at least 30 makes its rounds around the valley bottom. My neighbor, the same one who feeds the hummingbirds all summer, puts out seeds for the turkeys, who arrive in our mountain valley every fall.
But where they come from I’m not sure, presumably higher up in the hills and certainly not by migrating huge distances. They can fly, but usually only up into the trees to roost for the night and find shelter from the coyotes, bobcats and mountain lions. I would love to see them fly, because I can’t imagine them lifting their big bodies upward or being able to hide in the tree branches.
From my neighbor’s house they amble around the neighborhood, pecking food from the ground. I love their walk, something slightly stiff and yet deliberate, almost comical, because they’re not graceful or elegant looking animals; their gait has been referred to as waddle, not a complimentary term. As they waddle along, making tracks in my yard, they make a variety of sounds, some of which sound like a cackle and others like a saxophonist warming up.
It's a far different cry than the coyotes’. One night I heard what sounded like dozens, coming from all over the valley, as if they were encircling us. I thought I heard them behind the house across the way. Their howling is chilling, and I imagined any animal out there—the rabbits and mice especially—quivering and alert. Even the turkeys, hopefully safe in the trees, must have shivered in apprehension and squeezed themselves farther into the tree branches.
The next morning I awoke to 5-6 inches of snow, the kind that smothers all the trees in white. As the sun came up, strong winds blew the snowflakes down from the trees, sometimes lightly and other times so thick that I couldn’t see the house across the way. Either way, the sunlight illuminated each snowflake. On top of the ridge, the wind formed small tornadoes of snow, looking like plumes of smoke (above). It felt like the world was alive, full of movement and light.
Before the snows, the turkeys spent their foraging time pecking seeds from the ground, sometimes in a single file line, like soldiers going off to war. But after the snow, they were enterprising enough to grab seeds off the top of the grass stalks. Turkeys aren’t known for their playfulness (like the mice that chase each other in the cabin), so I laughed out loud when I saw them chasing each other around the base of the ponderosa pine, forming a complete circle. All they had to do was join hands and sing to make a perfect ensemble.
I hadn’t been looking forward to our first substantial snow, mostly because I love seeing the ground—the grasses that have gone to seed, the low-lying kinnikinnick, and the pine needles and cones. But when I went for a walk that afternoon, I remembered how much I love the snow, especially when it’s new and fresh, how it embraces and enfolds the forest. The sun on my face, the sweet moisture from the almost blinding snow, the fresh breezes and the view of snow-covered Mount Meeker were invigorating.
After the snow arrived, I put out food on the front deck for the Steller’s jays and any other bird that came along. So I was surprised, when I glanced out the window, to see at least four turkeys (above) on the front porch, gobbling up the seed. Welcome, I wanted to say, and glad to have you in the neighborhood.
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