A flock of wild turkeys has wandered in and out of my yard for years. I have a raised deck so my birdfeeders stand ten feet off the ground and the turkeys graze under them. They are timid birds, and typically when I step out onto the deck, they run squawking into the trees as if they're being chased by wolves.
A wild turkey hen and I have been in a conflict since the end of January. It's now late March and I'm still trying to come up with ideas of how to keep her from eating all the sunflower seeds. She, however, feels it's her right to eat as many as she can.
On the Sunday afternoon before a nor'easter stormed into Maine, I filled the feeders. This time, a few members of the flock were in the backyard and they merely drifted a bit farther out. One hen, however, seemed intent on what I was doing, looking up from one side of her head and then cocking to the other. I figured I must be imagining things.
Then a couple of days after the snowstorm, a hen stood on the deck railing eyeing the feeder I'd filled, apparently assessing the distances and angles she'd need to reach over. She decided against trying and flew back to the ground. Watching the birds and animals visiting my yard is happenstance—I'll look out the windows a dozen times before I see any creature, and it may be another hundred times before I see something interesting enough to pause.
It took her three afternoons to figure out how to reach the feeder with her long neck, but once she did, she wouldn't budge until I pulled on my boots and walked out onto the deck. Then she flew away, squawking and yelping.
I have two black steel squirrel baffles that can be snapped open and shut. I moved one closer to the railing to make it harder for her to reach the feeder. That worked for a day and then she figured out how to push it aside. Then I moved it up the hanger. She doesn't like having to balance herself by fanning out her tail, but she'll continue eating the seeds. I've since added a wire cage, the kind used for tomatoes and other plants with drooping stems to hold them upright, and that deters her a tad.
That was when she noticed there were other feeders, and she remembered she could fly. Two more birdfeeders are mounted atop an iron post that's then connected to a moveable arm and another short post. She realized that if she jumped-flew to the arm, she had full comfortable access to even more sunflower seeds. I moved a second squirrel baffle to cover most of the arm. The next time she returned, she saw immediately that there was no room left for her feet. But she could fly and she landed on top of the larger feeder, and with a bit of balancing herself, she could curve her neck down to eat.
I don't want to hurt her or any other of the creatures that visit my yard. I set a bracket over the roof and attached it with bungie cords. That scared her at first, but then when I next saw her, she'd figured out how to rest on her belly and reach down. Next, I attached a plastic wash bin onto the roof with two bungie cords. That worked for about a week, until in taking flight, she knocked it halfway off the roof. Whenever I shoo her off or she fails, she'll return to try again and again until she succeeds. She happened to come back when half the roof was still uncovered, and scooted down on her tummy to eat.
I've now attached the wash bin with four bungie cords, which holds it tightly in position. The added few inches are enough that she can't reach to eat, and although she's not afraid of heights—wild turkeys roost high in the pine trees every night—she seems to be afraid of slipping and losing her balance and it's just a bit too far to stretch her head down. I assume she'll figure out a foothold before too long, so I'll continue pondering what else to try.
She won't give up, but then, neither will I.
BIO: Brigitte Whiting lives in Maine and often uses settings and experiences from her backyard in her writing. She has completed the Nonfiction MFA and 3-Year Fiction MFAs at WVU, and has been published in Village Square and Literary Yard.
*The photo is of the wild turkey hen standing on the center feeder. She can just barely be seen—her wings are a lighter color.
To Thwart a Wild Turkey Hen
