Wild Turkey Wonder

I’ve been living in a neighborhood populated with wild turkeys for going on eight years now. The showy males, standing in the middle of the street, real traffic-stoppers. The more modest and demure females, appearing disinterested in the males’ antics, giving them the side-eye while pecking for grubs and seeds yards away. Only recently have I given much consideration to the politics of turkey social norms, to the whys and wherefores of their groupings and the signals they send to one another.

The other day, I ambled along a path that feeds off my street, an entryway into the network of trails that circulate through the common park-like space shared with neighbors in our community. I hadn’t walked more than a quarter mile on said trail until coming upon three strutting male turkeys, waggling red wattles and droopy snoods on full display. I paused, took a photo of the guys, then looked for the hens—there are always hens around when the male strut-a-thon is in full swing. The ladies were pecking at the thin soil off to one side of the trail, presumably foraging for bugs and seeds. They were making a point of ignoring the males—may as well have been saying, “this is not for you,” as the males chirped and ogled. 

For whatever reason, I began thinking about these groupings, particularly the clusters of males. I’ve hardly ever seen a solitary male bird trying to get a date with a hen. This thought weighed upon me (it was a slow day) and I did some internet research upon returning from the walk. Come to find out that kinship is very important to turkeys, and groups of turkey brothers stick together for most of their lives, as do turkey sisters. At a certain point, the brothers fight for dominance, and the winner, the ‘King’, if you will, is the guy who gets to mate with females. The others, well, they become literal wing men. 

Scientists say there is an evolutionary advantage to allowing the most fit male in the bunch to become the baby daddy for new broods of chicks. I can see that, but what about the others? Are they sore losers, or cheerful bachelors? Also, it’s abundantly clear that the females oversee their families, as they’re the ones choosing a partner, not the other way around. They sit on the chick eggs and raise the poult alone, with no help from the other parent. 

Hens frequently choose a male based primarily upon his snood size. The longer the snood, the older the male. The older the male, the greater his fitness, as he’s withstood more of life’s challenges than his younger counterparts. A well-known turkey researcher also discovered that long-snooded males have fewer parasites than males with lesser snoods. 

Which brings me to my point. In this survival-of-the-fittest game called ‘life,’ do we humans value resilience above all other traits when choosing partners or mentors? Never mind the whole breeding thing. I’m talking about finding the people who, time and time again, show they can get up one more time than they fall down. The warriors who stand up for what they believe in and have the scars and stars of the chills and spills they’ve taken along the way. Implicit in this is a strong moral code, an understanding that they must pull for the common good. 

These are perilous times. I’m glad to have lessons from nature upon which to dwell as I navigate the daily gauntlet of facts that are stranger than fiction. I think I shall continue to seek metaphorically long-snooded companions, those folks who’ve proven they can keep afloat in the churning river of information, disinformation, and outright lies. Sometimes, all it takes is a little turkey talk to turn my focus from the darkness to the light. Wild turkeys are impossible to ignore, and I’m glad I’ve allowed them to be my teachers. 

As far as the unchosen, bachelor uncles in the flock…I’ll have to get back to you on that. Perhaps they’re having wild parties in the tree tops late at night. At the very least, they serve as prime examples of accepting one’s place in life. That alone is worth pondering, I suppose. 

~ Julie Snider