Thanksgiving. That special day each year when we gather and remind each other of all the wonderful things we have to be thankful for, and……. we eat. For most Americans the meal centers on that wonderful fowl, turkey. Some choose the traditional technique of roasting (stuffed or not stuffed), others may braise it, grill it, deep fry it, broil it or barbeque it. Whatever method is preferred, one thing is almost always guaranteed-leftovers.  Even after the grand feast is over, the delectable surplus of turkey lingers on! Yep, the appetizing opportunities of turkey leftovers are endless. Turkey sandwiches, both hot and cold, turkey pot pie, turkey soup, turkey casserole, and another dozen ways to finish off the delicious bird.

When it comes to eating Thanksgiving turkey, I confess, I’m also a picker and a hoarder and tend to lose some of my common sense. On more than one occasion when no one is looking, I’ve burned my fingers peeling a small piece of crispy skin from the bird while still in the oven. I’m pretty sure this is why I no longer have any distinguishable fingerprints on my thumb and pointer finger. When the family is done with our wonderful meal and the great cleanup begins, I secretly grab a chunk of leftover breast meat, or a large, plump leg that everyone bypassed at the table and stuff it into a plastic container to enjoy, by myself, a day or so later. HINT: Use a container that you can’t see in to (aluminum foil also works well). My experience in top-secret stockpiling of turkey has taught me that most people exploring the refrigerator for leftovers will avoid what they can’t identify right away! I’ve even been accused of disguising leftover turkey as something else so no one else will touch it. I cannot comment on these accusations.

I love this bird! I love seeing a flock of Wild turkeys scratching the forest floor in search of beech nuts and acorns on a crisp October afternoon. I love hearing the loud, rich gobble of an old tom echo from a hillside, as he announces his territory on an early May morning, and I enjoy watching a seasoned hen lead her chicks into meadow in late July, combing every goldenrod for grasshoppers and crickets. Oh, and did I mention I love to eat turkey? White meat, dark meat, legs and thighs. It’s all good. When it comes to dining on turkey, I’m easy to please!

Wild turkeys are much different than their domestic relatives. One main distinction is that, well, they’re wild! Not being captive and not having food provided by humans every day, makes Wild turkeys extremely wary, adaptable and pretty darn smart. A Wild turkey’s home range covers several miles, and a variety of habitats. Each night they’ll roost high in a big oak or pine tree and can escape danger in the blink of an eye. While hunting these birds, I’ve seen them run at speeds that would impress an Olympic sprinter, then take-off like a jet leaving an aircraft carrier, and glide a ½ mile across a valley out of sight, in just a few seconds. In addition, a flock of 30 birds can move through the underbrush as quiet as a mouse and their dark, mottled color is perfect camouflage while traveling through the forests and fields they inhabit. Not too shabby for the bird that Ben Franklin wanted to make our national symbol !

 Proof of a Wild turkey’s craftiness was demonstrated to me one May morning during a spring gobbler hunting trip with Pa. It was 1978 and I had just turned 14 years old. Our destination was Fork Mountain in Wayne County, where Pa was born and raised. We woke up before dawn, ate a hearty breakfast and headed out to a favorite hillside where we knew turkeys might be roosting the night before. There was no trace of sunlight as we walked into the cold, dark woods and sat down next to a few large maples. The only sound came from a single Barred owl calling from a grove of Hemlocks just below us. The stillness of the forest and excitement of just being out there was almost more than I could take! After sitting silently for about 30 minutes, Chickadees and Titmice began singing around us as the eastern sky began showing a soft, orange hue. The last thing I remember at the time was thinking that I just wanted to close my eyes and rest for a minute, before it got light. After what seemed like just a few minutes, we were both suddenly awakened by the sound of leaves rustling and an explosion of “gobbling calls” only 20 feet away! I couldn’t believe it. Pa and I had both dozed off for a short siesta and a huge gobbler had calmly walked in behind us. I quickly turned to grab my gun, which had slid down into the leaves in front of me while I was napping, then banged my elbow on a tree I was half resting against. The big male turkey looked almost as surprised as I did, when it saw this “unfamiliar blob” tumbling around at the base of the large tree. Like a loud helicopter taking off from a pad, it flapped its large wings and burst through the canopy of the trees before I could manage to sit back up. It was halfway to NY by the time I thoroughly comprehended what had happened. I turned and looked at Pa, who was still rubbing his eyes a bit, when I asked, “Did we fall asleep?”With a smirk on his face, Pa replied, “You did, but I was just resting my eyes.”

 It’s generally believed that the “first Thanksgiving” occurred around 1621 in Plymouth, what is now Massachusetts. The Pilgrims and Puritans that emigrated from England brought over their tradition of “being thankful” for a bountiful harvest by celebrating with a large feast.  But that “bountiful harvest” was primarily due to help they received from the Native Americans that lived in the area. They taught their new neighbors how to grow corn and squash, as well as how to effectively fish the local waterways and hunt the vast woodlands, which included Wild turkeys. They accomplished this without the use of camouflaged clothing, high tech calls, blinds, decoys and other gadgets to simply make a Wild turkey surrender. Oh, and they used primitive weapons-no auto-loading shotguns or rifles with expensive scopes.

I wonder if an occasional Native American, or Pilgrim, burned their hand trying to covertly steal an early piece of meat as it cooked over the open fire. Do you think the “first Thanksgiving” had leftovers? If so, I bet a few of them hoarded a few extra pieces away in an unmarked pouch somewhere. Ahhh-the  tantalizing temptation of turkey, for almost 400 years! Let’s All Give Thanks!

It was a chilly, spring morning when we arrived in the tiny hamlet nestled in the west-central Adirondacks. The morning air was cold, but exceedingly fresh. It was the kind of morning that you knew the calendar read spring, but seeing your breath and feeling the biting cold at your fingers, suggested that winter was still trying to hang on just a bit longer. I was visiting the area with my dad (Pa), to do some birding, photography and, hopefully, discover a few Smallmouth bass hiding in one of the many lakes that dot the region.

As we pulled into a small store to grab a quick cup of coffee, and a snack, I glanced at my watch. It was 6:20 am and the sun was just rising over the steep, forested mountain to the east. I grabbed a couple bucks from my pocket, laid them on the counter, and said “Good morning” to the cheery-looking man standing behind the cash register who was bundled up in an old, worn Woolrich jacket. “Morning,” he replied, looking over his reading glasses. “Would you happen to know how we can get to Hidden Lake?” I asked politely. “Yep, just take the first left you come to. It’s up there about 5 miles as the crow flies,” he said, as he counted out my change.

Clutching our coffee cups we loaded into ‘big blue” and zoomed down the two-lane, country road. I repeated to myself, “about 5 miles as the crow flies.”  Really? Have you ever watched a crow fly? They zig-zag, slowly dip and dive, stop to harass any unsuspecting hawk or owl, then change course just to scrape up the last remaining parts of a road-killed rabbit or squirrel. In my opinion, if I were to go “as the crow flies,” we may be driving for 20 miles or more! As I rambled on to Pa about the directions we received, and how I compulsively needed to Google the origin of the phrase on my cell phone, he pointed to three crows flapping over the low-growing spruce trees just in front of us. “There’s your GPS, now just follow them,” he announced, sipping his coffee while holding back his laughter.

After directing the truck over 10 miles of a bouncy, gravel road, we were yet to find Hidden Lake. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why do you think they named it what they did? We did manage to spot some early warblers, a Ruffed grouse, and a shy Swainson’s thrush, but still no crows and no lake. We turned the vehicle around, and headed back to our cottage. Hidden Lake would remain hidden!

I had to Google this, or even tap Wikipedia if I must. I then discovered our historical ignorance. The origin of this saying was from early British sailors who would keep a few crows in cages, on board their ships. Because crows supposedly avoided water, they would fly straight toward land when released from their crates, thus directing the sailors to the nearest land. In addition, since they kept the black birds in cages, it’s also where the term “crow’s nest” came from as well. That was our problem! We were going about this backwards. If history was correct and crows did not like water, the birds we saw earlier in the morning were leading us away from Hidden Lake, not toward it!

We returned to the cottage as the sun began to settle in the western sky. Although it wasn’t the body of water we were seeking earlier in the day, our rented cabin was only a short walk from another small lake, that also supplied a comfortable canoe that was tied up to an old wooden dock. As we began to paddle across the over-sized pond, two beautiful Common loons surfaced about 100 yards away and began calling their eerie, calls. Pa and I gently laid down the paddles and sat quietly for a few minutes, neither of us saying a word, but just listening as the calls echoed from shoreline to shoreline. The silence was broken when Pa grabbed his paddle and suggested we target a few trees that had fallen into the water on the far side to cast our lures. “How far do you think it is over to that side?” Pa asked innocently. I paused, then replied, “About a ½ mile as the crow flies!” We both laughed and continued on our mini-adventure.

It’s mid-November, and we had our first dusting of snow last night, here in SE Pennsylvania. It didn’t amount to anything, although it did blanket the grassy areas and covered the last leaves of autumn that still hang on some of the trees. Too soon? If you ask most people, my guess is the answer would, unquestionably, be “Of Course!”

We all remember the scene from my favorite holiday movie, A Christmas Story. You know the one I’m referring to. The famous roadside clip when Ralphie loses the lug nuts as he helps his old man change a tire, then drops “…the big one, the queen mother of all dirty words!”  No, it wasn’t S-N-O-W, but where I live in today’s world, it certainly could be! Snow. That beautiful, soft frozen form of precipitation that most people either love, or hate. With the white, fluffy stuff there doesn’t seem to be any “middle ground.” You either enjoy seeing it as part of the changing of the seasons, or you loathe the mere mention of the word, and cringe every time a weather forecast includes it.

In my early years, it seemed like we always had some snow by the middle of November, always had a white Christmas, and continually had snow on the ground until March, sometimes even into April. As kids growing up in northern Pennsylvania we looked forward to snow. No, we actually craved it! I know it was a different time and we didn’t have much of the technology (that keeps us inside) and other safety concerns that we do today, but snow was fun and snow was magical. We took the good with the little bit of “bad.” Snowfalls brought excitement and smiles, snowball battles, snow forts and snow angels, and of course the famous “snow days.” As I remember, no one really got angry or depressed about snow. It was just snow! When conditions are right, it just falls when and where it wants to. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t target accumulating more on my driveway, or route to work, than it does other people’s areas. No, unlike my dad, we did not have to walk 2-3 miles every day in two feet of snow, uphill (both ways) for four months a year. Maybe our bus drivers with their heavy duty chains were better drivers, who knows, but more likely school districts were not as fearful about all the legal concerns they have today.

Things have changed in the past couple decades, though. Science has proven that climate change is real. This alteration to our environment has brought us milder winters that’s included warmer temps and less snowfall. Yes, it’s true, the real winter did appear once again early in 2014, with frequent snowfalls and the thermometer not rising much above freezing for the months of January-March. But, this was out of the “normal pattern” of warmer winters we’ve grown accustomed to in the past 10 years.

Contrary of how we feel about snow, it’s a very important part of Earth’s climate, and, as we’ve heard too often, is vulnerable to global warming. Many cultures, and wildlife, rely on snow and ice as part of their way of life, and their sustainability. In addition, millions of humans (knowingly or unknowingly) depend on the water that runs off from snow and glaciers. This snowmelt fills rivers and reservoirs that support drinking water supplies, industries such as agriculture, hydroelectric power and recreation, and provides the components for a healthy ecosystem.

Snow happens. I like that. I live in an area that is blessed with the season of winter, including snow, and I hope it continues. I’m going to continue to say the dreaded four letter word. I’ll openly speak it to my friends, family and co-workers, and whisper a little cheer when I hear it in the forecast, and I dare you to try and make me eat a bar of Lifebuoy soap for saying it! Cheers Ralphie!

The excited buck rushed out of the dense thicket like an out-of-control train roaring down the tracks. His head was down and didn’t even take notice to a few us standing only 50 feet away. My buddy quietly tapped me on the arm and whispered, “Grunt at him once.” “What?” I asked him with a look of puzzlement on my face. He smirked, and said it again. “You know, make a buck grunt sound at him and he’ll stop so you can get your photo.” I’ve spent enough time in the outdoors that I knew what a buck grunt sounded like. But still, I was a bit reluctant to start making pig-like noises with my mouth and nose, especially with two other people standing next to us with their cameras as well. What would my friend ask me next? Run over and start rubbing my head on the bark of a small sapling?

Then we all saw the reason for this feisty deer’s attitude. A doe came running out of a high grass meadow just in front him, tongue hanging out, and looking exhausted. He had been chasing her around, non-stop, for almost 20 minutes. It was time! The rut was on, nature was calling, and the eager, male white tail had only one thing on his mind-to mate with as many does in this small woodlot as he could. To the casual observer, it may have looked a bit odd as we stood there like statues, holding our cameras, and watching these deer getting ready to engage in, well, what deer engage in at this time of year. We felt like we were watching nature at its finest, but my Office Manager said it looked like a small group of “unusual” people gawking at X-rated deer flicks. I had no intention (or desire) of capturing a photo of a buck and a doe doing the “wild thing!” I was only there to try and get a few photographs of a nice buck, honest!

It seems like early to mid-November in SE Pennsylvania is the peak of the rut for White-tail deer. The “rut,” as it’s generally known, is the mating season for deer. Hunters recognize this period as the time that males become increasingly active in marking their territory with scrapes (on the ground) and rubs (rubbing the trunks of small trees), driving off smaller buck, and, of course, finding many girlfriends to mate. During this period, the urge to mate is so strong that bucks will become oblivious to almost everything around them, including cars, hunters, and other critters. Last year, I watched a young 6-point passionately chase a doe around a Berks County pasture, weaving between Holstein cows that were grazing nearby, and paying no attention to the two energetic deer.

The pursuit of does by bucks reminds me of my junior high dances. Many young, overactive boys, roaming around the faintly-lit, sawdust-covered gym floor, (waiting for a slow song to be played) and hoping one of the “does” would give them a look or a smile. But in most cases, the girls would simply ignore the boys’ approaches, turn and walk away with their small “herd,” leaving the junior high “bucks” to retreat to the bleachers to sound out their immature grunt calls and occasionally scrap with each other over who was more dominant!

Ahhh! You can’t beat the rut!