Our house sits imbeded into the limestone of a small mountain. The backyard is about 15 yards of chokecherry and loose stone on an embankment, the border between private property and BLM a wire fence, beyond which the land climbs abrupt and steep. You can 'walk' up, but you'll have to use your hands at least some of the time. When Carter was five I drug him up the mountain. Won't do that again. Too hard. On the top are the twisted trunks and bent limbs from cold and wind and water of Fir and Ponderosa Pine. Magical, really, beyond the limestone arch of stone that marked the cliff, the top is patched with grass and small plants catching any extra light not found by the taller trees. There were sheep bones in a pile in a dim thicket on the edge, a Cougar kill; and Coyotes will sometimes take the shoulder of the mountain and howl at the little town below. Bart Travis said the Cougars would cross the range further back on the mountain, a mile and half from my home.
Our town has wild Turkeys. Well, they're wild enough to make the terrible trek from one backyard to another where fresh grain has been set for their palates. They've gotten bold enough to walk the road near the end, by my house, but will still clatter and call a great fuss if a vehicle appears.
After feeding at set times each day, the Turkeys march across my lawn and up the mountain behind the house. They roost in the trees there; I suppose from my son's window you could reach some of them with a stone. Now, the male is the only one that gobbles, the rest make a noise not too distant from every other large bird on our planet, a kind of keening, chucking, chirp.
Duplicating it is harder than it would appear at first, being such a silly hen-like sound. We were cooking burgers on the grill and trying to call to the birds. What they think of burnt meat smells rising to their tree top roosts I cannot say. I've kinda wondered how they'd feel about roast turkey.
"Kee kee kee kee ke ke ke k k." Carter tried.
"That sounds like a Turkey Dog." I said.
I tried, not too good, the old throat can't reach the high pitch.
"That was a Turkey Monkey," Carter said. He was right, a real chimpanzee.
And when Keith tried, we agreed we'd heard a Turkey Pup. The birds would fly from the trees to the ground again, listening to our silliness. We kept this up until the burgers were done.
When a storm is coming, or it is going to get real cold, you can bet those birds know and climb behind the house and get into the trees on the protected face of our little mountain valley.
When I think of all the camo I've seen for sale, up to and including a toothbrush, and the special guns, gauges, shot and sights needed to take this most aware of birds, I have to laugh thinking of our town's Toms.
I don't think anyone who lived here would shoot one, but a couple seasons ago some hunters did wait them out, until they left the 'city' limits and bagged a few. I saw the bodies by the dumpster later. These particular hunters, slobs, must have realized a wild turkey is not the fat pot chunk a domestic raise is, and decided it was all too much trouble.
munk
Our town has wild Turkeys. Well, they're wild enough to make the terrible trek from one backyard to another where fresh grain has been set for their palates. They've gotten bold enough to walk the road near the end, by my house, but will still clatter and call a great fuss if a vehicle appears.
After feeding at set times each day, the Turkeys march across my lawn and up the mountain behind the house. They roost in the trees there; I suppose from my son's window you could reach some of them with a stone. Now, the male is the only one that gobbles, the rest make a noise not too distant from every other large bird on our planet, a kind of keening, chucking, chirp.
Duplicating it is harder than it would appear at first, being such a silly hen-like sound. We were cooking burgers on the grill and trying to call to the birds. What they think of burnt meat smells rising to their tree top roosts I cannot say. I've kinda wondered how they'd feel about roast turkey.
"Kee kee kee kee ke ke ke k k." Carter tried.
"That sounds like a Turkey Dog." I said.
I tried, not too good, the old throat can't reach the high pitch.
"That was a Turkey Monkey," Carter said. He was right, a real chimpanzee.
And when Keith tried, we agreed we'd heard a Turkey Pup. The birds would fly from the trees to the ground again, listening to our silliness. We kept this up until the burgers were done.
When a storm is coming, or it is going to get real cold, you can bet those birds know and climb behind the house and get into the trees on the protected face of our little mountain valley.
When I think of all the camo I've seen for sale, up to and including a toothbrush, and the special guns, gauges, shot and sights needed to take this most aware of birds, I have to laugh thinking of our town's Toms.
I don't think anyone who lived here would shoot one, but a couple seasons ago some hunters did wait them out, until they left the 'city' limits and bagged a few. I saw the bodies by the dumpster later. These particular hunters, slobs, must have realized a wild turkey is not the fat pot chunk a domestic raise is, and decided it was all too much trouble.
munk
I think there's still quite a few out her way.
