In1973, TurkeyMan kidnapped the National Zoo's only caged turkey in the name of the American Indian, a classic tactic of asymmetrical warfare that diverted the Feds' attention long enough for an airdrop to resupply the Wounded Knee Siege. To all who seek freedom, including Dakota Pipeline Access resistors, TurkeyMan's story is a beacon to fearless feathered warriors everywhere.

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Deep in the woods of Alaska, I realized the jig was up. Thorne Bay was a logging camp, an island off the mainland, and remote enough that one can hide out as a part-time Indian terrorist, which is what I did. Cannibalized by coniferous rain forest, eroded by Inside Passage, accessible only by boat and float plane--it is the perfect anonymous archipelago.

"Wounded Knee? Hell, yeah!" I told the FBI Agent--"I ran into a stump!"

Parts of your life will always come back to haunt you. Certain atrocities never go away.

Was it you?--a little voice whispered--Did you break into the Smithsonian Zoo?--Like an egg-sucking weasel?--During the Wounded Knee Siege--And filch the most hallowed of American fowls? Kidnap the national turkey in the name of the American Indian? Like a two-bit terrorist!

"Absolutely not!" I said. "Why would I do that? Besides, it wasn't the Smithsonian--It was called the Washington National Zoo, back then."

"So you are familiar?"--I heard the accusatory trip wire--"with the turkey case of 1973? Walter Cronkite has been wondering."

"Sh*t"--I might as well admit it--it sounds bad--like I know stuff--incriminating stuff--that only an Indian should know." Obviously, the FBI had their antennae up.

"Little known facts pop into your mind, huh, TurkeyMan? All these years later? That's quite a coincidence. You're a regular walking encyclopedia. Regarding turkeys, that is."

TurkeyMan? My eye twitched. Sure, it sounds like I am guilty as sin--I probably did it--Look at the evidence. What else would anybody think? Luckily, guilty but insane is a legal defense--or is it?--I don't know, anymore.

But on a dark Sunday night--April 17, 1973, to be exact--when a terrorist kidnapped the National Zoo's only caged turkey--practically pilfered the Pilgrim's Holy Supper--under the nose of our nation's capital--and held it for ransom in the name of the American Indian--I have to admit--Somehow, I know about that. Every detail. Like I channeled it or something. How is that possible?

"He knows something"--I could hear a whisper--"it did happen at night."

"C'mon, man!" I implored. "What kind of idiot would do that, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something an Indian might do; you know, turkey feathers, a symbolic statement? Maybe a gobbler goblin?--the voice said with spittle-spewed sarcasm--When we catch him, there might even be a cage waiting at the zoo. Next to Nixon's pandas."

I knew Ling-Ling and Hsing-Hsing were not officially Nixon's pandas. True, the pair were presented to the zoo after Tricky Dick's visit to China, and delivered on April 16, 1972, almost a year exactly, curiously enough, before the day, or night, rather, that the turkey was"

"You say something, Turkey-Man?"

"I"--pursed my mouth--"don't know much about pandas"or where I heard about the zoo. Maybe he was talking in his sleep?"

"Who?"

"The Indian."

Memory can fade like a foggy cloud bank. But somewhere in the haze, I could see the dark island where I shared a bunk house with an Indian--two beds under a tin roof, barely room to turn around, the incessant smell of wool socks hanging on an oil heater. With his dark hair and complexion, slightly pock-marked from the elements, he looked like an Indian, for sure. Lots of Indians worked in the woods. I think his name was Butch. We set chokers together, dancing over logs, ducking under rigging, trying to dodge the mainline. All those months, I don't think we spoke two words; at least, at first.

"Maybe you are the Indian."

"I'm no Indian!" I shouted. "I got blue eyes!"

"Hey, Blues Bro." My bunk mate turned. "You're talking in your sleep, again."

"Bullshit," I sat up. "You woke me up!"

"Restless leg syndrome, on your lips," Butch groaned. "Federales on your scent again?"

"Maybe its your socks on the heater! I wouldn't exactly call them air fresheners!"

"White men couldn't catch fresh air if they had a basket"--he groaned--"Me, however, I'm Athabaskan. Full-blooded."

Communication wasn't necessarily a cultural divide. Mostly, we were just too exhausted at the end of the day. Nothing to do but drop in bed and sleep. Or hike the trail to watch bears feed in the creek. Sometimes we took a float plane to town to drink in the bars. We fancied bear scat on our boots to be an aphrodisiac for back-woodsy barmaids. Such are the delusions and perks of the Far North. Thorne Bay, however, was mostly about work.

Toward the end of one bug-bitten day, sparks fell from the faller's chainsaw and started a fire on the side we were logging. "Fire in the hole!" the hook tender shouted. We labored until dark, chopping ditches with our ho-dads, to slow the flames, while a helicopter dropped water above. Afterward, we spent a miserable night in the woods, shivering in hickory shirts, keeping a smoke-eyed watch.

There is nothing romantic about fire-fighting--breathing cinders and blinking tears, most the time. Huddled against a stump, I offered a dip from my can of chew. A brotherly buzz to take the edge off.

When he returned the tin of Copenhagen, something fell on the ground--a crumpled note.

"What's that?" I unfolded a newspaper photo--of a zookeeper and turkey.

"That dude is a sad f*cker." Butch observed. "The parrot looks worse."

"It's not a parrot," I said, "I thought Indians were familiar with birds. Like ravens and sh*t. It's a turkey for God's sake!"

I dropped the paper. It flipped over.

"Pretty much nails down your native shenanigans, doesn't it?" Butch said.

"I've never seen that article before in my life!" I lied.

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Authors Bio:

Conceived on west coast, born on east coast, returned to northwest spawning grounds. Never far from water.