“Hello, world. Where’s Mom?” . . . .

We had a very prolific year with our guinea flock.  And the hens did it all on their own, with no assistance from us.  This group were lucky to be hatched inside one of the nesting boxes in the old chicken house.  Two other batches were hatched “in the wild” hidden down in the creek bottom.  We discovered a swarm of babies barely a day old running through the grass.  Two Guinea moms had done the tag-team duty of sharing a nest and were they successful!  We counted 16 tiny little fluff balls darting around and our attempts to catch them and bring them in to “safety” to be raised in the rabbit cage proved elusive.  We did finally manage to gather up 14 of the keets from three separate batches and share them with a nearby ranch family who wanted to raise them.

“one, two, three–where is everyone else?” . . . .

From the moment they hatch, guinea babies are on the move and can dart through the grass like greased lightning.  The hens go about their daily routine, traveling through the fields, the barnyard, up into the hills and beyond. The little ones are expected to keep up. They are so tiny they are largely invisible, moving along in a brown tide barely stirring the blades of grass.  We watched from a distance, certain they would be gobbled up by predators. We noted how they were accepted into the entire flock and how they all traveled in a tight-knit group.  When we introduced keets we raised separately from the flock the previous summer, the adults pecked at them and did not immediately accept them.

These baby guineas thrived in spite of our failed attempts to bring them in to safety.  As they grew to become indistinguishable from the adults, it became apparent we had a problem. Too many guineas!  With winter coming, we planned to move them into a smaller abode which would accommodate about a dozen total.  We inquired whether the family who had previously taken the babies would like to have some adult birds.  When they agreed, we were suddenly faced with two questions:  1) How would we catch them?  and 2) What would we do with them once we caught them?

glorious guineas . . . .

I remembered helping my grandmother catch chickens that she planned to butcher.  It was simply a matter of going with flashlights into the chicken house, selecting the birds she wanted, grabbing their legs and putting them in a gunny sack.  I helped her with the butchering a couple of times, and quickly decided this was not my cup of tea.  I had to hold their legs, lay them over a chopping block and she cut off their heads. I watched in horror as they spun around in a crazy dance, spurting blood, without their heads.  But I digress. Catching the guineas would be easy–we would simply go into the chicken house– after dusk– with flashlights– grab some off the roost– put them in a wire cage we borrowed from neighbor Tom– and call the people who agreed to take them off our hands.

Guineas are another matter.  They do not allow you to come into their house, after dark, with flashlights, and grab them off their roosts!  They fly.  Everywhere.  Bouncing off the ceiling, the walls, the windows, off us!  Running into corners, under the roosts, under the nesting boxes, everywhere out of reach, faster than we could move. Stirring up dust so thick you could not distinguish the birds flying at you, near you, away from you, behind you or over you.  A tornado of dust whipped up by whirling dervishes, so dense you could not breathe!  Gasping and choking, we were able to capture eight birds and place them in a jail of sorts to be taken away.

As we waited for the new owners to arrive, we went to wash up.  The whole episode left me sad, and tears streaked the dirt on my face.  I felt we had broken a trust with these wild creatures we invited to make a home with us.  I remembered how excited we were the day we picked up a box of baby guineas at the post office, and the trials and tribulations we went through to raise them successfully.  We were too successful!  The whole episode was traumatic for us, knowing as we did that we had put the guinea fowl through a terribly frightening experience. Our only comfort was the knowledge that our guineas were going to a good home. It is our hope we gave away all our roosters!

bird buffet . . . .

The weather forecasters weren’t joking when they warned of a “polar vortex” arriving in the northern Rocky Mountains.  After 48 hours of howling winds and blowing snow, we were left with some 3-ft. drifts and plenty of misery all around.  We observed Veterans Day digging out and dressing in every item of apparel we could layer on to take care of animals and daily chores.  The high temperature for the day was 5 degrees above, but that felt like a heat wave compared to the low last night of -27 degrees.

working for a meal . . . .

This young buck mule deer was outside the window yesterday working on a pile of leaves and twigs I raked up and have not had a chance to burn.  Foraging for enough food to keep warm is a challenge, and although I know we are not allowed to feed them, it makes you wish you could toss out a bale of hay to help them out.

the color of cold . . . .

We had some wet snow Sept. 10 and regular frost since then, but it has been a lovely extended autumn until we got slapped alongside the head with this storm.  The carrots didn’t get dug and I am hopeful I can still save them.  They are blanketed with a foot of snow but the temperatures are predicted to be even colder tonight.  The rest of the garden is probably finished.  Goodbye to my tasty spinach, kale, chard and lettuce crop.  Finished canning as many tomatoes as I could stand and donated the overripe remains to the chickens and the pigs next door.

a startled starling . . . .

We were taking a late afternoon break with the news when we heard a strange rustling sound.  We thought it might be snow sliding off the roof, but a quick look outside revealed no disturbance in the snow drifts surrounding the house.  A quick trip to the basement turned up nothing unusual. A little later Bleu and Rosie approached the glass doors on the fireplace with great interest and Bleu jumped up on the hearth to get a closer look.  A very angry, frightened starling was glaring at us as if to say “what the heck happened?”  Was he seeking a little warmth atop the chimney and accidentally fell down into the fireplace?

“next you’ll want my autograph!” . . . .

The evening fire was laid and a few bad jokes flew around about what the poor bird would do if we lit it.  Baaaaad jokes.  To the rescue with a large plastic bag, I reasoned I could catch the bird if I opened the doors very carefully.  The starling crouched behind the logs until the coast was clear and swooped out so fast I had no chance.  He bounced off the ceiling, into the bay window, and made a crazy pattern of flying amok in all directions trying to find an exit.  On to the kitchen, he bounced into the kitchen window so hard he fell into the sink and I had him!

you know it’s going to be a bad day when . . . .

I took my plastic bag outside, confident that I had a bird inside, and opened it to release him.  Stunned, he just sat with his beak slightly opened and panting as if he had run a marathon.  I stepped back inside to grab a coat, and decided I should have left him in a more protected spot to keep him from freezing before he was able to collect his wits. When I returned, he was gone.  He will have some tall tales to tell about his misadventures, but he likely won’t try to keep warm in a chimney anytime soon.

stew on the menu . . . .

Winter root vegetables, cabbage, kale, leeks and Polish sausages made for a hearty stew which warmed us after fighting snow and ice all day.  Now all we need is to light the fireplace (now that the starling has departed), pour a glass of red, and enjoy what the winter will bring.

Chicken House Restoration For The Birds!.

Chicken House Restoration For The Birds!.