Tales of turkey times

The Trailwatcher/G. George Ostrom

Thanksgiving is one of Iris' favorite days. As a little girl, she was "charged" by a herd of turkeys and spent an hour or two in a tree, fearful of being pecked into oblivion. "First Wife" can evoke a feeling of deep terror as she describes the blood-thirsty birds circling her perch long ago.

Though sports writers consider turkeys wily game birds, Iris thinks they are dumber than a box of rocks, and mean. That concept adds satisfaction to her life as she plunks one in a roaster and watches him turn golden brown.

Last year, we were driving the interstate, enjoying the scenery and talking of pleasant things. As we passed through Drummond, she suddenly pointed up a canyon north of town and said, "Up there is where those stupid turkeys tried to kill me." There was remembered fear in her voice. Half-hour later we stopped in Deer Lodge for lunch. I ordered a hamburger. Iris had a turkey sandwich.

Speaking of turkey birds, every year since we've had a season on the wild ones introduced to the Flathead several years ago, I have applied for a permit, not because Iris would be pleased, but because I would like to hunt one. Again this year I did not get drawn but was at a sporting goods store and ran into a fella with a local "poacher" reputation. "Pete" was buying shotgun shells and informed me they were for a turkey. I said, "You lucky devil. I never get a permit." He replied "Sorry, George! I always get one. Fish and Game must figure I'm going to shoot one anyway, so they make sure I get a permit."

In the summer of '43 I worked as a hired hand on a cattle ranch at Camas Prairie, putting up hay, helping Omar Gardner break horses and doing off jobs. A maiden lady there raised chickens and turkeys, and I sure hated to help feed and water those things … detracted from my concept of a "working cowboy."

One day she asked me to herd the turkeys to a field with a lot of grasshoppers and crickets. She told me to keep the birds together, not let coyotes get close and shoo the flock back to the ranch at 4 p.m.

It was hard work and I about ran my 15-year-old legs off. That evening in the bunkhouse I was telling Omar how tough and degrading turkey herding was. He suggested if Myrtle asked me to do it again, I should use a horse. Cowboy Omar believed, "Nobody should walk any place." Sure enough, couple of days later Myrtle thought the turkeys had enjoyed their day in the grasshopper fields so much they should have a second trip. Saddled up a cayuse, "rounded 'em up and moved 'em out."

Things went well while the turkeys were busy chasing hoppers and crickets but when it was time to head home there was considerable confusion and some of the more obstinate birds gathered around my horse to protest. A bunch got behind him and he kicked one about 30 feet and killed it dead. We had roast turkey the next day, which was nice but four days later, when we were sitting on the porch after a supper of beans and home canned beef, Omar opened his yap, "Say Myrtle, I've noticed a lot of crickets in that alfalfa field along the creek. Maybe George should herd the turkeys there tomorrow."

At the bunkhouse I asked Omar why the hell he had to suggest I be assigned again to turkey herdin'? He lowered his voice and said, "I hated to put ya on the spot like that kid, but I been thinkin'. Been watching that gelding, Spook, the one that kicked the turkey, and he hates those dumb mean birds. That alfalfa field is out of sight of the house and if Spook doesn't happen to nail another one, you could clobber a fat tom with a stick and blame it on Spook. Rusty and I are going up to Hot Springs for fence staples and horseshoe nails tomorrow and we could buy some canned yams. See what I mean?"

Maybe Omar got treed by turkey É when he was a little kid.

Happy Thanksgiving.