The Thugs of Indian Rock

We are camping in a small state park in the Sierra foothills, roomy sites carved from a dense growth of oak, manzanita and pine. We have the van out for the first time in over a good year and a half, and are the farthest we've been from home in recent memory: 180 miles! It took almost six hours to get here, okay, subtract a bit for wandering around Jackson, and for having a picnic at the fruit stand. It's a test. Do we still like this turtle way of life? Is the van up to it? Are we?

As soon as we unloaded, we had a nice walk around the meadow and found two flocks of wild turkeys, the boys intent on displaying their magnificent feathers at every opportunity, almost like a reflex. The question is, why do two turkeys always gobble together? Always. In sync, the way the cats used to swivel their heads when they sat at the screen door, communicating in some way we couldn't sense. Two tough guys roaming the meadow, randomly announcing themselves; they actually say Gobble Gobble, but with a liquid lilt and a forward thrust of their long necks. Gobble Gobble. I burst out laughing, which hopefully wasn't rude.