In West Orange, N.J., the morning commute is complicated by a fearless wild turkey who regularly runs into traffic.
A wild turkey stood on a grassy knoll in suburban New Jersey, a tranquilizer dart protruding like a blue and orange battle scar from its chest. Suddenly the bird spotted a jogger and charged, racing headlong into traffic. Motorists swerved and stopped. Finally, a driver came to the rescue, jumping out of his car and racing onto the knoll, baiting the turkey to give chase. The bird was soon back on his perch, and the Friday morning commute resumed.
This was just another rush hour in West Orange, N.J., where the apparently fearless turkey has claimed a hillside along Pleasant Valley Way, tormenting drivers and pedestrians ceaselessly on one of the community’s busiest thoroughfares. Efforts to capture and move it (including the attempt with a tranquilizer dart) have so far failed.
The bird’s presence has vexed public officials, who consider it a menace. Mayor Susan McCartney worries that the turkey could cause a car accident, and has urged residents to keep their distance while wildlife experts try to catch it. “I see it as a public safety issue,” she said.
Dangerous, perhaps, but the bird has nonetheless amassed a loyal following of fans who have named it Turkules (pronounced like Hercules) and turned it into West Orange’s cranky mascot.
“It’s like seeing a celebrity,” said Ben Maimin, 35, a West Orange resident whose 15-month-old daughter is a devoted fan. “It’s like our version of Taylor Swift coming to town.”
It is unclear how long Turkules has lived on the hillside, but only in the past month or two has the bird gained widespread notoriety.
West Orange, a township of nearly 50,000 people 25 miles from Manhattan, is not unaccustomed to wildlife encounters. Deer regularly gallivant into neighborhoods, jumping fences and lounging on front lawns. Foxes dart across busy roads. Turkeys make occasional appearances, too. About 15 years ago, a wild turkey accosted Ms. McCartney’s husband on the couple’s quiet residential street. But usually the birds pass through quickly, rarely taking up permanent residence on heavily-trafficked roads.
For the most part, turkeys move a mile or two a day, foraging in an area that ranges from 370 to 1,360 acres, and in the fall and winter, they tend to travel in flocks, according to the National Wild Turkey Federation. Turkules is an outlier. “I don’t know the real reason why the bird is not moving on,” said Michael A. Fonzino, director of the township’s health department. “Either it has a nest or somebody is feeding it. We haven’t confirmed any of that.”
While local officials would like the bird to leave, handling wildlife is not their jurisdiction.
Instead, the USDA wildlife services program has made at least two attempts to capture the bird, including the failed tranquilizer incident. “It is unusual and it’s frustrating” for a capture to take so long, said Aaron Guikema, the program’s director. Next up: launching a net over the bird. If that works, it will be relocated to a less populous setting and be “no worse for wear,” he said.
In the meantime, calls of “free bird” and “Turkules 2024” pepper local Facebook groups. “The mayor should be issuing a proclamation to pardon the turkey,” Seth Weisleder, 52, said. Other residents, fearing the bird could be injured or killed, advocate moving it.
Residents have come to see the turkey as a much-needed respite from a relentless news cycle, a bit of levity during a trying time. “The one thing that I’m comfortable posting on social media these days is my love and support of Turkules,” Mr. Maimin said.
Love can come at a cost. Pree Kaur, 40, was so enamored with Turkules that she decided to pay it a visit last week, a terrible decision in retrospect. As she approached the bird, about a foot or two shorter than her five-foot frame, it stared her down and charged. “The turkey is chasing me,” she said. “He has the dart sticking out of it. It was like a movie.”
A passing car saw the altercation and picked up Ms. Kaur, whisking her to safety from the avian strength of Turkules.
But not everyone calls the turkey that. In some West Orange households it’s known as Cluck Norris, Gobbles McFeathers and Wingston, to name just a few.
Amanda Wener’s 4-year-old son named it Todd and is “madly obsessed” with it, she said. At a local day school, the bird goes by Tom. “Everyone at school is talking about him,” said Mr. Weisleder, whose daughter comes home with regular bird updates.
Eduardo Viquez Mora, who works at the skilled nursing facility on the grounds where the turkey roams, said he first spotted the bird last April and named it Enrique. “Yesterday, when I left for work he was literally in the middle of the road,” said Mr. Viquez Mora, 33, an occupational therapy assistant. “It’s a miracle that no one has run him over.”
Perhaps inevitably, Turkules has a Facebook presence, created by Roland Aviles, 44, who claims to have coined the bird’s most popular name. His view of the Turkules situation is uncomplicated: “He’s the hero this town needs.”
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