I’d like you to meet a neighbor of mine. Her name is Betty. She sleeps in the trees and eats off the ground. She’s a real turkey; a wild one.

I’ve known Betty for a couple of years now. I first saw her foraging with some other Wild Turkeys near my home in the oak woodlands south of Yosemite National Park. She must have had a disagreement with one of the other hens. Suddenly, she went airborne, her legs extended and talons cocked. After a bit of grounded discussion, they both went their separate ways. 

I wondered if I would ever see this unique individual again. Her smoke-gray feathers - unusual, but not rare - would certainly set her apart from other turkeys in a large flock. The whiteness would also make her more visible to predators. Little did I realize at the time, this sighting would be the start of an ongoing fascination.

Sometime later, I chanced upon Betty in what I thought to be the most unlikely of places: my front yard. I went outside one morning just after sunrise to refill my bird feeders, and there she was, a solitary figure, pecking at the ground. Much to my delight, she became a frequent visitor.

There was a definite routine to her schedule. She would come down from the hills to the east in the morning, and pass through my property. She would return in the late afternoon from a westerly direction. From time to time, the morning and evening directions were reversed. Then I might not see her for awhile. She evidently had a foraging and roosting circuit that varied both for food optimization as well as predator avoidance.

While Betty occasionally showed up with a few other wild hens, most often she came alone. I wondered if her unusual morphology had something to do with her solitude. Did the other wild hens shun her? After all, she’s a real turkey.

Over time, Betty and I became acquainted. She arrived hungry, and eager for some grub. My property was a place where she could count on finding food and water. Gradually, as she came to trust my intentions, she would cautiously approach as I tossed a handful of bird feed in her direction. 

I soon realized she took a particular liking to black oil sunflower seeds. Occasionally, I sat on the ground and listened to her cluck happily while she picked out the best selection of eats. It was then that I began calling her Betty, and I welcomed her by name whenever she appeared: 

“Hello, Betty,” I would utter softly.  

“Cluck, cluck,” she seemed to respond, much to my satisfaction.

After that, I made sure to toss a handful of sunflower seeds on the ground in the early morning before the start of my day. All available evidence demonstrates that one of us had become well trained.

I didn’t see Betty again from late summer that first year until this spring. On May 17, I stepped out onto my patio and caught a glimpse of movement in the waist high grass on the other side of the arroyo that bisects my property. She was descending the slope opposite my house. Incredibly, she had chicks in tow, how many I couldn’t tell. Had I not been outside just at that particular moment, I never would have known she had visited. Talk about timing!

What an unbelievable photo opportunity her arrival presented! It was hard to believe my good fortune. I rushed back inside the house and grabbed my camera in hopes of documenting this extraordinary occasion. One way or another, I just had to capture a photo, or two, or twenty, or more. And why not record some video (I had never tried that before) while I’m at it?

Thoughts raced through my mind: How would a first-time mother hen, with a brood of newly hatched poults to protect, react to the sight of an incredible hulk with a protruding cyclops eye, lurking in the underbrush? Would she let me approach? How close could I get?

“Don’t blow it,” I said to myself over and over as I approached from a direction with tree cover, and where I would be mostly out of view. My initial vantage point allowed observation from a reasonable distance, but it was not close enough for the images I hoped to capture. Newly hatched turkey chicks are pretty small, after all. 

I worried that Betty might turn turkey tail, and scurry back up the hill behind her if she caught sight of me. But I’m a risk taker. This was too good of a chance to miss. I edged closer, less than 60 feet away now, in a direct line of her vector. All the while, I mouthed the words: “Don’t blow it; don’t blow it.” 

I know she saw me now. Did she recognize me? She kept moving forward in my direction. At some point, perhaps when she was maybe 45 feet away, I greeted her with a familiar: “Hello, Betty!”  And closer still she came. I fairly quivered with excitement at my good fortune. How close would she come?

While I managed to remain still, quiet as church mouse, my camera didn’t stand idly by. Click, click; click, click, click.

Betty then changed directions ninety degrees, not in haste, but to ascend the slope to the pad of my house. Was she returning for black oil sunflower seeds? I soon found her in my front yard, and it was then that I was able to count twelve poults in her brood.

Hooray for Betty. She did it. Alone no more. Wow! 

What color feathers would these chicks have? Would some develop the same plumage as mom? The recessive gene that causes the smoke gray morph can be passed on. I couldn’t wait to document these chicks through their maturation.

I subsequently kept an eye out for Betty every morning and afternoon, but that memorable day was the last I saw of her for the next four weeks. When she finally did return, she came with two other hens. Notably, there were five chicks with them. Something about their behavior suggested these chicks were not Betty’s brood, but I couldn’t be sure. By any measure, though, going from twelve poults to five represents a pretty significant attrition if they were hers.

Another week passed without a visit. When Betty next appeared, she was all alone. Oh my!

As I write this post, in commemoration of Thanksgiving, Covid-19 year number two, I’m reminded of the special excitement Betty brought into my life during a year of lockdowns. It has been four months now since I last saw her, or any other turkey, for that matter. This absence is not unusual, as our wild turkeys move to other foraging grounds during fall and winter, only to return once again to the early spring wildflowers on the lower elevation hills and hollows of the oak woodlands I call home.

Out of habit, I continue to throw black oil sunflower seeds on the ground in the early morning each day, in hopes of magically finding Betty there, clucking softly at her good fortune. The California Scrub Jays and Oak Titmice who have staked out territories on my property love the extra nutrition they can easily harvest. Unlike Betty, however, they show me no gratitude.

I’m hopeful Betty will return next spring. No, I’m sure she will. That will be the season for renewed mating rituals, which I have written about in Spring is for the birds and Turkeys on parade.

Maybe next year will be bring new opportunities for us all.

Have a safe and bountiful Thanksgiving, my friends.

p.s. If you are not already on my mailing list and wish to be added for future posts, please send an email to: robertgroos1@gmail.com. Your information will not be shared, and you can unsubscribe at anytime. Thank you.