Meleagris gallopavo merriami

Meleagris Gallopavo Merriami BY

These United States have at least one national tradition of American origin. When the air takes on a crispness that makes most of us wonder what we did with our summer's wages, and nature splashes the timberlands with warning signals of reds and yellows and orange, and cornfields huddle up in warm brown shocks, the American gastronomic fancy turns to thoughts of turkey, golden browned, in a rich setting of giblet gravy, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie.Then by putting the word "wild" in front of turkey a fillip is added that appeals to our pioneering heritage. A million hunter-hearts beat faster, and thousands of guns are oiled and fondled that otherwise might have been left to rust in closets. The Wild Turkey is native of North America and has been the symbolic piece de resistance of festive boards since earliest Colonial days.

The name turkey is a matter of mistaken identity. The early settlers confused them with a species of African guinea cocks imported into Europe via Turkey, but maybe it is just as well; otherwise they might have wound up with some unpronounceable, hard-to-spell Indian name. The millions of domestic turkeys all over the world sprung from the original wild strains of America.

Like most of the other natural blessings, there are not as many Wild Turkey today as there were when the Pilgrims landed. In fact the two eastern species that used to roam the Atlantic Coast in great flocks became all but extinct many years ago. The Southwest, particularly the southern Rocky Mountain states, is the native habitat of the Meleagris gallopavo merriami species, but let's just call them Wild Turkey to avoid confusion with pre-historic reptiles or French pastry.

A flock of these iridescent bronze birds trimmed in blueblack is a sight to behold whether with the trigger-happy eagerness of a hunter or the drooling anticipation of a gourmet. Grown they will weigh from twelve to twenty-five pounds depending on their sex, age, the season, and how plentiful the forage has been, with old gobblers occasionally weighing thirty pounds or more.

Arizona's millions of acres of timbered mountains is a favorited Wild Turkey haunt. Through conservative game laws and predator controls her Wild Turkey population is estimated in the tens of thousands, perhaps a greater number of self-propagating original strain than any other state can boast. They range in elevations from 4,000 to 10,000 feet, and feed on grasses, seeds, juniper berries, pinon nuts, acorns, grasshoppers and other insects. They are nomads, roosting where night overtakes them and following the seasons to the higher altitudes as the snow melts and down again in the summer. Off hand you would think birds of this size and coloring would be unable to survive these days with thousands of hunters added to the hawks and coyotes and bobcats and fox that are continually stalking them. But chiefest among their many accomplishments, they are magicians specialized in a disappearing act; not only singly if you please, but by the flock. There they are, then there they ain't. They haven't flown (they make considerable noise when they fly) and many times in open parks there is no place for fifteen or twenty big shiny birds to hide. They just disappear. It's uncanny.

One hunting season on top of the Mogollon Rim, a lady in our party who didn't hunt agreed to carry my light turkey rifle and go along for the walk while I carried my high-power deer rifle so I'd be adequately armed in any eventuality. Walking quietly we came to an open grassy clearing of several acres. Ten or twelve turkeys were stripping grass seeds and catching hoppers. I turned, handed her my gun and took the one she had. The exchange was as smooth and fast as if we had practiced. I raised the rifle as I turned back. But there were no turkeys! No flying, no place to hide, just gone. Besides not hunting, the lady didn't drink. She also saw them.

Then he listens. He adds a note of peevish impatience every time he has to repeat. But knowing his way around socially, he more than likely has chosen a tree within easy hailing distance of one selected by a flock of hens. When he hears the speculative "Putt-putt-putt" of an enamoured hen, he spreads his wings and sails to the ground and hurries unerringly in the right direction, gobbling seductive reassurances from time to time.

But the hurrying stops when he comes in sight of the hen he has captivated vocally, nor is there any more gobbling. Slowly and with great impressiveness he drops his wings until they touch the ground, then raises his body feathers and spreads his tail erect into a dazzling fan. He looks about twice his actual size and his head and wattles, now a brilliant scarlet and drawn back deep into the ruffed feathers, seem ready to burst with self-acclaim. Majestically, lifting each foot and setting it down with great care, he walks up and down and gyrates slowly.

Even in death the Wild Turkey holds on to its instinct to hide. A dead one is harder to find than a live one if he gets out of your sight for an instant. When shot they will flop to a log, a bush, a clump of grass, or, just spread out in the open they seem to blend in with the surroundings and are hard to locate.

Early spring is mating season. There's nothing quite like a wild gobbler in love. Being males, of course each has his own technique, calculated to be resistance shattering. They become quarrelsome and the fraternal companionship they have enjoyed ends in impetuous battles. Young ones gobble noisily with a discernable overtone of erotic hysteria, and try to strut while running, eager to have done with such subtle amentities.

But an old gobbler. Seasoned in love making, and aware that susceptibility is rampant Ah!

At the crack of dawn, that still time when night prowlers are sneaking quietly home and the morning breeze has not yet arrived, he raises up on the limb where he has roosted high in a pine tree. He ruffles his feathers and shakes, then settles them into a sleek sheen, straightening a few uncooperative ones with his bill, likewise his beard which hangs from the top of his breast and looks like a tuft of horse tail plucked from a blue-black stallion. When satisfied with his toilet, his long neck shoots forward and the mountains echo his morning salute, five per cent defiance to his enemies, ten per cent warning to other gobblers, and the balance directed at the emotions of lady turkeys.

With artistic showmanship he strikes a pose and stops. The blood drains slowly from his wattles. And right before her very eyes his head and wattles turn from scarlet to beautiful turquoise. Oh dear, what is a poor backwoods hen, practically swooning at this display of splendor and legerdemain, to do? No wonder Meleagris gallopavo merriami has survived annihilation.

Mating season over, the propagation of the species is left entirely to the maternal resources of the hens. The gobblers, who have fought murderously at sight during the season, gather into small congenial bands and desert the hens. They are polygamous. Recuperation and perhaps some bragging are indicated.

Actual nesting usually starts between the middle of May and the first of June. By instinct or otherwise, nesting sites are chosen with remarkable acumen, in the shadows of a windfall or amid a tangle of fallen limbs where the hen is all but invisible at a few feet. They are invariably within easy distance of water and in fairly open spots where she can see in all directions, and if worse comes to worst can easily take to wing. After all this practical consideration the nest is not elaborate, a shallow depression scratched in the pine needles, where she lays from seven to fifteen freckled creamish eggs.

The incubation period is four weeks. When the young turkeys are only a couple of days old their mother takes them and leaves the nest for good, hovering them in likely spots wherever night overtakes her. Young turkeys are very sensitive to cold and dampness; the mortality rate is perilously high when spring is late and rainy.

Perhaps, as is contended by some very smart people, wild things can't talk, but when a mother hen says, "Putt-putt" in a certain way, her brood disappears under leaves and twigs and clumps of grass. When she gives the "all clear" they reappear, pecking around and chasing bugs as though nothing had happened. When they have sprouted wing feathers she takes them to roost in trees which is the safest roosting place. In nearly every brood there is usually one that is timid or just plain contrary that chirps forlornly from the ground or a low branch, causing his mother no end of anxiety.

As time goes on the hens begin banding together again with their broods. It is not common during the late summer and early fall to see flocks of thirty to forty birds. When frightened it's every turkey for himself and they scatter. Those still extant at the end of the hunting season are in much smaller bands and so jittery they are almost suspicious of each other.

But entirely alone is one way a Wild Turkey doesn't want to be. They depend on their eyes to detect danger and their swift legs to take them elsewhere, flying only when hard pressed or going to roost. Like many other birds they have very handy combination telescopic-microscopic eyes; they can see long distances and a split second later find a tiny grass seed. Experience has taught them that even with this sort of equipment, the more eyes the safer. When a flock is feeding, whether large or small, there is never a time when all the heads are down at the same time. They travel in single file, and when they top a rise each turkey stops and looks in every direction, then moves on and the next one takes his place until the whole procession is safetly past the point they couldn't see over.

One lost from a bunch gets panicky and acts plumb silly, putt-putting up and down ridges intent chiefly on finding companionship. A favorite hunting ruse is to scatter a bunch and then call one up with a turkey-caller-a wingbone or a pipe stem will do, and many oldtimers can say things with a blade of grass between their thumbs that will make wise old gobblers throw caution to the wind. But when they discover their mistake, and the least movement does it, they go into their disappearing act so fast it's only a blur, so if you have formulated any designs on their well being, be fast.

Way back when this nation consisted of only thirteen states and the civic spirited citizenry was shopping around for an emblematic bird so they'd have something to stamp on the back of their moneys, Benjamin Franklin, with his usual shrewdness, suggesed the native turkey as the most suitable national emblem. How apropos, as things have developed. All in all they are about the smartest, and on occasion can act the silliest, of anything indigenous to this land.