Looking and listening outdoors

When I get really excited about something, my wife and kids make a point that my Wisconsin accent comes out,

You betcha.

Since they’re natives they don’t have accents, at least not around here. This spring I enjoyed so many beautiful accents afield — and got betrayed by my own.

A common yellowthroat sang to me in the predawn gray. His call is distinct enough that I can pick it out by ear. He was generous and let me linger near his low perch on a hillside so I could watch him, too.

While I waited, a series of gobbles in the distance provided a direction for my morning’s motivation. Skirting the pasture, the cattle took exception to the green bipedled form skulking by, their calls were of agitation, though bluffing.

I was on my side of the fence so there was no real danger. They bawled unneighborly insults, I accepted their performance and kept moving.

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I was searching for friendly accents of eager tom turkeys — hoping to strike up a seductive conversation before the shotgun spoke.

My first go at the fourth and final season for spring turkey was full of familiar sounds, no real accents to speak of. I was tucked into a brushy fencerow looking northeast over a prairie. There was a glorious early evening sun.

The slow slide of our star to the horizon bathed the just greening land with a golden light that makes the mundane magnificent.

A resident pileated woodpecker worked the oaks to my right. Presumably born and raised here, his drumming was predictable and comforting. A tufted titmouse worked an area to my left, he was a local, too.

The accent I didn’t hope for was conversation about garden plans. The couple hiking up the path had no idea they were walking past an ambush. I waved my hat and called out with a, “Hello, I’m over here.” Their startle was minor, and we exchanged well wishes.

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Aside from hearing a bush speak, my accent passed for familiar, so there was no alarm.

Common sounds punctuated the outing. Some cars and trucks passed in the distance, most without issue, but one had the accent of a tough guy who was proud his muffler was defective. Tractors pulled planters and regular gunshots indicated target practice, just regular talk in the country.

I spoke some hen turkey to no reply. It was so nice out, I could understand why a tom might just want to enjoy the end of the day instead starting up a conversation with a strange lady.

When Audubon collected wild turkeys near Dubuque in 1843, they still were common in the wooded valleys of Iowa. In 1853, the final turkey in Clayton County became supper. By 1910 the last turkey in Iowa was shot in Lucas County and so the language of the Iowa strain went extinct.

The Iowa Conservation Commission in the 1920s got broodstock from Pennsylvania. The nearly 15-years restocking effort failed. Pennsylvania Dutch is a distinct accent, perhaps they just never fit in or they just couldn’t get used to central time?

The commission relocated 29 turkeys from Texas to northeast Iowa in 1960. The Rio Grande strain is distinguished by tan-colored tips to their tail feathers, and of course a drawl. Nine years later they added mountain strain turkeys from western North Dakota.

But it was the 1965 transplants from southern Missouri that thrived. The commission doubled and tripled down on Ozark stock and the rest is history.

In the gray light of Saturday morning, I knew this was my last outing of the season. I found a good enough spot at the edge of a meadow. At the far end was a stand of big white pine, likely roosting spots and the source of the gobbles.

I waited for the wildlife to ignore my presence and shooting hours to commence. Gray catbirds spoke volumes. I must have disappeared enough because they alighted on the branches near my head.

A streak of hot lighting passed and soon an oriole added his song. Perhaps they wintered together in Central America? Or maybe Florida because I didn’t detect any hint of Spanish.

I announced myself when the time was right. A couple comely clucks and purrs first, then after a little break, a lusty cackle. My old slate call came from Hunter Specialties, formerly an independent brand from Cedar Rapids. I figured I talked like a local.

Yet, calling to turkeys and calling in turkeys are very different things. I was calling to turkeys and adding all the passion I could — trying to sound desperate without saying it.

The time since the last gobble was too long for my liking. My posterior seconded the sentiment. I arose and stalked to a new meadow to repeat the process.

The season wasn’t over yet but my time was. I had no pride to swallow on my walk out. I padded out carefully nonetheless because you never know.

The big field came into view, now it was over. Yet at that moment of letting down my guard, I heard the alarm of geese foraging in a sunflower field and three redheaded turkeys trucking out to the other side. They were coursing around and through obstacles like Earl Campbell.

And then it hit me, they must have been descendants of those Lone Star state birds. My excited calling probably sounded like Sheriff Marge Gunderson from the movie Fargo to them, “For Pete’s Sakes.”

I was satisfied with that excuse and continued home.

Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.