Feb 8, 2008 By Michael Palm 5 min read

Any adventurer who spends a great deal of time in the wilderness will inevitably encounter dangerous wildlife – a curious bear, a hungry cougar, a moose hogging the trail. I’ve read stories and have seen TV shows describing these sometimes-scary episodes. Some end without incident, while others end tragically. Either way, the intense experience plays out in the back of the mind of the naturalist every time he travels in the woods thereafter. And my close encounter many years ago was no different… The day dawned pinks and purples with the threat of an approaching storm on the west horizon. Despite the warning, the spring air was a calm and a warm 65 degrees. Birds chirped and bees buzzed by knee deep in their busy schedule. Anticipating a day of rain and little free time, I rolled out of bed extremely early, into my hiking boots and out the back door.

My parent’s house is the last house on the street and is situated at the top of a hill amongst a growth of trees, giving it an aura of isolation. And adding to the wilderness décor, an abandoned strip mine, having since grown in, surrounds the property on three sides. The area is perfect for weaving two- and three-mile hikes within its boundaries, a practice I had come to do daily and a practice I felt secure doing. Maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe I was too confident, a little rambunctious – mistakes many who travel in the wilderness make, whether on Everest or in the backyard.

I was feeling great. My head was clear. I was jubilant – happy to be alive. When only a few hundred yards into my hike, I topped a rise and surprised a flock of 30-or-so turkey, the only wildlife I’d seen on a regular basis in the wooded oasis. I’m not exactly sure why, but possibly blurred by my elation, I sprinted toward the large birds, flapping my arms and screaming and squawking like an idiot. All of the birds either fled or flew into the brush. All except one.

Now, I’ve never heard of any one killed by a wild turkey, or even attacked by one, but by the way this thing stood its ground, I was sure I was going to be the first. The bird stopped 15 feet from me and puffed out its feathers, becoming the size of compact car and much more menacing; and, by the look in its black beady eyes, I could tell this turkey wanted a piece of me.

“Whoa, Mr. Turkey. I was just playing.” As I spoke, I backed up slowly. The bird took three or four steps closer and pushed out its chest like a Bronx bully looking for some heads to roll. Yet, despite the fact that I was near panic and that, at the very least, would probably loose an eye, my overactive imagination shortened Mr. Turkey to Mr. T, and the large black man’s voice invaded my thoughts. “I pity the fool who messes with my birds.”

Without provocation, Mr. T moved toward me again and was now within five feet. Instinctively, I stepped back, causing the bird to ruffle its wings, which, of course, terrified me further. I could picture my family finding my lifeless body in the brush, bloodied and covered with feathers. What would my epitaph read?

As the turkey stared, beak opened and head cocked, no doubt deciding face or groin, ideas shot impotently through my brain like bullets from a blank gun – turn and run, pretend to attack, don’t move, play dead, begin sobbing. I stayed, legs firmly planted, and met the insane poultry’s eyes, trying to determine its frame of mind – to no avail. The poker-faced bird revealed nothing.

“You’re bluffing bird.” The phrase fell unsurely from my lips as we remained locked in our stalemate. Thunder rumbled louder in the distance and the odor of moisture blew in on the strengthening breeze. The turkey seemed unfazed by the coming storm, obviously experienced at adverse-weather warfare. I, on the other hand, had to ignore the approaching threat and continue to decide which plan of defense I should take -turn and run like a wild man or fall to the ground, ball myself up into a fetal position and scream insanely, hoping Mr. T takes pity on me and leaves – neither seemed satisfactory.

As thunder rolled again, a loud gargled gobble sounded from the woods beside us. The patient bird paid no mind; its eyes still fixed intently on me. The gobble came again. This time the turkey cocked its head toward the call. “I think that’s your cue turkey.” At the sound my voice, the bird swung its attention back to me. Instinctively, I covered my crotch. After another long hard look, the bird folded its feathers and darted into the brush. I let out a long, hard sigh as the rustling of the flock faded and mixed into the sounds of eminent storm. After taking a minute to collect my thoughts, I turned and chuckled, “I knew he was bluffing.”