Turkey for Thanksgiving
Entertaining in Their Dancing Ritual
I like turkeys, the beauty of their feathers, puffed up and strutting in the spring, and the flavor of their drumsticks, brown and juicy in November. My mom made a great turkey every Thanksgiving. Moist from the brine and browned in the roaster, their flavor was complimented with bread dressing, deep-red cranberries, and green bean casserole.
Maybe that’s why I like taking pictures of turkey during their spring mating season. Maybe the turkeys bring back subtle memories of my mother in the kitchen, moving with the routine of a master cook. Watching the turkey in the spring, not only are they beautiful in their full strut, but they are entertaining in their dancing ritual prancing around the meadows.
I must have been in sixth grade, living along the bluffs of the Mississippi River in Burlington, Iowa, when I first saw a turkey transitioning from prancing foul to Thanksgiving dinner delight.
I was walking a trail in the forest along the bluffs just below our house. At the base of the woods, a small farmhouse stood with turkeys meandering around the yard. Curiously, I watched when the farmer came from the wood-framed house. As he walked, the man in overalls reached down, grabbing a turkey by the neck. He moved to an oversized stump, lifted a hatchet, placed the turkey on the stump, and wack, off with his head.
Horrified, I’m sure I screamed. I know I turned running back down the trail terrified by the brutality I had just seen. That memory sticks with me today in an ironic way. I don’t want the turkeys to be killed, a conservationist at heart. At the same time, they taste so darn good. I’m a meat eating pacifist. Ironic.
This last spring was a great turkey event in RMNP. From the end of March to early June, they were strutting. Often out in the open and undeterred by people while the toms gobbled along chasing after the hens.
The mating season unfolds over several phases. It starts with large turkey flocks all gathered together. Then progressing, the toms recruit the hens for breeding. This is when it may be the most entertaining, gobblers chasing the hens. And finally, the hens turn to nesting.
During this strutting display, the male turkey puffs out its chest feathers, fans its tail, and its wings hang down. Listening, you can hear the sound of the wings dragging along the ground. Gobbles are repeated in their effort to attract the hens.
Over the years, I’ve taken a lot of turkey pictures. The toms are actually hard to capture as they strut, move, and run after the hens. The variation in their feathers, the bold puffiness of their chest, rounded fan of their decorated tail feathers, and white stripes of their low hanging wings are a beautiful variation. When the sun hits them, the hint of reds and blues of their feathers are highlighted only to be offset by the wrinkled, vulture-like look of their blood red and raw blue heads.
In the spring, I’ll go to the locations in RMNP where the turkeys are prevalent. There, I will sit on the ground, the angle of my camera low to capture the dynamics of the mating ritual. The toms will ignore you, dancing around the hens in the potential for excitement. They will move onto the roads, blocking traffic without a concern. Mating is their only priority.
During this time, I’ll return home with hundreds of turkey pictures to sort through. As I find the ones I truly like, I’ll show my wife, Carolyn. With indifference, she’ll look at the beautiful birds and say, “They’re so ugly.” I’ll counter with, “Look at their beautiful feathers, the way the sun brings out the shades of blue.” Carolyn’s answer always is, “I like them better headless with shades of roasted brown.”
Shrugging, I’ll point at the elk photo on the wall, the moose above the fireplace, but before I can even answer, she’ll say, “No turkeys! No pictures of those ugly birds in my house.” I’ll show her another handsome shot of a strutting and fanning tom, and she’ll repeat, “No turkeys on my walls.”
But come Thanksgiving, like my mom used to make, Carolyn will brine and roast a twenty pounder. Delicious, I’ll claim a leg to devour as she prefers the white meat. My mouth will water at the table of creamed corn, mashed potatoes and brown gravy, croissant rolls highlighted in butter, and one brown turkey.
The table looks so good, I’ll take a picture of the food and our guests ready to partake in the juicy bird. After the annual picture is captured, Carolyn will repeat, “I’ll have no pictures of a turkey hanging on my wall.”
I’ll shrug, smiling as I chomp into my delicious turkey drumstick.
