Some days, ya wanna stay in bed. Ya know what I mean? But a guy’s gotta eat, right? And us turkeys ain’t any different. We gotta scratch for a living, just like you. It’s bad enough we don’t get no respect, already. Turkey. It’s like a sick joke. Some schmuck screws up and somebody else says, “Jeez, what a turkey!” And then everybody starts laughin’.

Well, I got news for you, buddy. Us wild turkeys ain’t no turkeys, if you unnerstan’ what I’m saying. We’re smart. We’re sharp. And we’re quick on our feet. It’s either that or dead. I gotta thank Tamia here for givin’ me a chance to set the record straight. Us turkeys have gotten a bum rap for too long.

Tom’s the name, by the way. And don’t confuse me with that sorry dude in your freezer. I’m a lean machine, not some hormone-injected factory reject who’s never seen the sun or stretched his wings. Of course, it’s not the freezer dude’s fault that he ended up where he did. He didn’t grow up wantin’ to come to dinner at your place, did he? No way! It’s like ya made him an offer he couldn’t refuse… Read more…

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I’ve been taking every chance I get to spend time out-of-doors. While enjoying a last paddle on a nearby pond, I found unmistakable evidence that a beaver had been at work: a neatly-trimmed, gleaming white billet, hewn from the trunk of a small aspen. The longer I looked at the toothmarks that covered its surface, however, the more questions I had. The marks seemed much too regular for random gnawing, and I was almost certain that there was more here than met the eye. In the end, I took my find to an expert who’d worked on decoding Linear B. Here’s what he discovered.…

Dear Tamia [the message began],

There’s no doubt about it, is there? Winter’s on its way. The days are shorter. The water’s colder. The leaves have fallen from the maples, aspens, and birches. Even the tamaracks have lost their needles. Soon you’ll be putting your canoe away.

Sorry. I forgot my manners. My name’s Morgan. I imagine you’ll be getting your snowshoes out of the closet any day now. Me? I’m keeping busy. In fact, I’m as busy as a beaver… Read more…

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Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.

  —  Robert Frost, “After Apple Picking”

This is a banner year for wild apples, and that’s good news for the birds and animals who depend on nature’s bounty to make it through the approaching winter. The apples are a gift that keeps on giving, too. The fruit which isn’t eaten in fall and winter freezes right on the tree. Then, come springtime, returning songbirds find the table already spread and waiting for them, offering a much-needed chance to recover from their arduous journey north before the demands of the breeding season begin in earnest.

Given wild apples’ importance to wildlife, I don’t often eat them myself. (I’m a guest in the wild creatures’ home, after all, and no host wants a glutton for a guest.) Still, I do allow myself one or two treats now and then. And what treats they are! Wild apples don’t look much like the perfect specimens stacked up in bins at the HyperMart, but looks aren’t everything. One bite will show you what we’ve lost in making the transition to industrial agriculture. Of course, you need to discard your preconceptions. Wild apples are often small and irregular, with tough skins and frequent bruises. (That sounds like a lot of cyclists I know, come to that, including the one I see in the mirror.) They haven’t been waxed and polished, either. And you’ll probably find a worm in your apple at some point. Think of it as a protein supplement, if that helps. But what flavor! Sweet, subtle, and complex. Once upon a time, all apples tasted like this…

But we’ve moved on. And speaking of moving on, a good apple year is very good news for country-lane cyclists, who can often pick up a bite to eat right off the ground along the roadside. The intoxicating perfume of ripe apples also makes a welcome change from the signature stink of suburbia, that all-too-familiar witches’ brew compounded from car exhaust and dryer-sheet effluvium. The only hard part for the cycling gourmet is stopping at one apple. But I do. I’ve missed more than my share of meals, and I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be hungry when there’s nothing in the house to eat. So in my menu plan, wild apples remain a rare and valued treat, not a dietary staple. And when I finish off the one apple I allow myself, I always remember to toss the core into the tall grass, well off the road, where the seeds will make a feast for some foraging mouse or squirrel.

And who knows? One seed may escape the hungry mouths long enough to take root and grow a new tree, which in due course will drop still more apples to delight cyclists yet unborn. Now that’s a legacy worth leaving, don’t you think?

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