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Many of the most memorable outdoor
encounters can be neither planned nor anticipated. It is surprising how often they occur along woodland roads at least expected
times.
Woodland roads on the Buckridge are means of access for things that must be done on a working tree farm. In
places, I keep them free of shade and plant them to grasses and legumes. This hides ground-nesting sparrows, and supplies
lush greenery for foraging deer and insect-rich brood cover for newly hatched grouse and turkeys.
Now add a two-inch
overnight June rain and knee-high grass that can't dry until ten a.m., and the scene is complete. That's where I come in,
driving a smokey diesel-powered tractor, intent on retrieving a trailer-load of firewood from a distant point on the property.
As
I neared a grassy bend, a turkey hen scooted from the road and disappeared along a brushy slope. I counted eleven poults scrambling
in the tracks ahead, the ground finally dry enough for them to hunt insects. They quickly disappeared into the tall grass
where the hen had left the roadway.
I stopped, killed the noisy diesel, and walked to the point of my last sighting.
I could hear peeping sounds as I approached, and then the hen exploded from the brush and flew low across the road, putting
with loud alarm. She landed twenty yards away and ran, trying to distract me, and then disappeared.
I stood silent
for a moment. Then, from the nearby grass came the tiny "kee kee" voices of baby turkeys calling to their mother, keeping
vocal contact with each other. Here and there a tuft of grass moved as a youngster improved its hiding position.
I
bent over the nearest sound, parted the grass, and came eye to eye with a miracle bundled in fluff. It instinctively knew
that remaining still was the best defense. I placed my fingertips lightly on its back. It did not move. I gently picked it
up and cupped it in both hands at eye level. I could feel its pulse. In my hands was one of the wariest of wild creatures,
only one or two days old. The thrill of that moment cannot be described.
I hoped the poult was the offspring of the
dominant tom I had shot nearby just four weeks before. Even so, I realized it had only a fifty percent chance of surviving
until autumn, even under ideal conditions. Life is harsh for baby turkeys. Only the tough and fast learners escape predators
and other pitfalls.
I returned the poult to its hiding place, knowing it was bonded with its mother and was not harmed
by my handling. Then, I stepped back a few yards and stood quietly. Soon, every poult began calling and the hen answered from
her hiding place.
Suddenly, I realized I was an unwanted intruder and had witnessed an event not intended for my eyes.
I mounted the tractor and backed away as inconspicuously as can be done with a snarling diesel engine.
I was reminded
that, while I own this land, it really belongs to the dark-eyed youngster I held for that brief moment.
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