The Great Turkey Run

Run turkey, run.

I have a secret. For a short time, a long time ago, I was a vegetarian. So what you may say, but for those who know me well, I am sure this will come as a shock to them. 

As a chef for nearly two decades, I had a history of staunch carnivore constitution. I am the presiding President of The London Guild of Beefsteaks, a not-so-secret supper club dedicated to the honour of grilled meats and I’ve often been partial to rants on the seemingly ludicrous purpose of a self-imposed exile of flesh that a dietary choice of vegetarianism, or crazier still, veganism, brings. 

I expect my confession to raise a barrage of questions, backlash and mockery from friends, not because there is anything wrong with choosing a meat-free diet, just that this confession renders me a complete hypocrite. 

This was a long time ago, back in the 1990s, in my tree-hugging hippy phase, where I lost a decade deep in snowy pillows of Rocky Mountain white smoke, chasing the ultimate powder run, the ultimate bong hit and the ultimate goatee.

This stint as a vegetarian lasted for about two years. While the fact itself is not tale-worthy, the story of what spurred this meat-free phase of my life is a story that needs to be told.

It is the story of one of the most surreal, traumatic and downright hilarious jobs that I’ve held, and a job I seldom list on my resume.

Anthony Power, Turkey Catcher.

Let’s go back to British Columbia, Canada. The end of September 1996. I was travelling with two fellow Aussie mates, Andy and Marty*. We had recently finished our summer contracts planting pine trees in central British Columbia and had just wound up an extended road trip through the magnificent Okanagan Valley in the south of the province, having had all the fun three twenty-something Aussie mates could have in a foreign land. 

Our vessel on the open road was my 1972 GMC van. Hand-painted red with black trim and sporting spray-painted flames on the front quarter panels and a ‘Team Relaxo’ tribal logo across the side panel; the beast named after our mountain share-house that was widely known as ‘Rancho Relaxo’.

With a mattress in the back, an Esky beer cooler and a secret stash box welded into the interior side panels, it was a perfect van for bouncing up and down highways chasing storms and the aforementioned ultimate powder run. It was, however, also a cop magnet and we were pulled over dozens of times by police. Hence the also aforementioned stash box.

She was as basic a van as you could find, one of the hundreds of thousands of workhorses in circulation across North America. If you were in any town in North America and needed a van, you never had trouble finding an old beater such as this in the local classifieds. This was our home.

Team Relaxo Motorhome.

On this summer road trip, however, we had a little too much fun and spent all of our hard-earned, pre-snow season survival cash on beers and partying. Arriving in Vancouver broke, we planned to couch-crash with friends and spend little to no money until the first snow fell on the slopes of the Rockies, calling us back to the mountains.

Our friend's house was in the Downtown Eastside area of Vancouver, one of the city’s most dangerous areas at the time. Drug use, crime and homelessness were rife, but that was fine with us as it meant no one bothered the three dishevelled surfer-looking dudes hanging out all day in MacLean Park smoking joints, drinking beers and strumming guitars. We fitted in seamlessly. During this Vancouver lay-low, we survived each day on the little money we had left and lived day-to-day, stretching every food dollar in our tight budget to go as far as it could to ensure we had a few notes for weed and ‘beer’, which wasn’t technically beer but a ghetto substitute for beer called Big Bear malt liquor. Priorities were well set.

One afternoon, Andy returned from the liquor store with the three bottles of Big Bear and a flyer advertising cash in hand work. ‘I got us a job’ he said proudly handing us the flyer—the job; Turkey Catcher. We had many questions, and Andy suspiciously seemed to have all the answers, having called the number on the flyer and spoken to ‘someone in the office’.

As Andy told it, it all seemed straightforward. We were going to work at the farms where they reared turkeys. Our job was to round up the birds onto trucks to be shipped back to the abattoir for slaughter ahead of the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. 

With Thanksgiving fast approaching, turkey farms across the country had millions of birds, plump and ready for slaughter to meet demand. Canadians love their turkey and each year, 19 million turkeys are killed and eaten across the country, with three million of these slaughtered just for Thanksgiving alone.

I wasn’t convinced this was a real job and this was some kind of sham, but Andy assured me it was legit and would be easy money, the much-needed cash boost to carry us through to the snow season. Marty went silent for hours and seemed stunned, speechless, shaking his head.

A few days later, Andy rang the number on the flyer again and confirmed our employment. We were told to meet at the pick-up location at 7 pm sharp, where we would be met by the crew van, driven out to the turkey farms further out of town, work until 6 am, and then be dropped back at the factory. And repeat every day for a week. Job done. Cash money. 

We were desperate for coin and in no position to not consider it a good idea and two nights later, we drove the van out of town, west towards Abbotsford, a small satellite city on the outskirts of Vancouver. Turning off the motorway, we drove for about 10km along a dead-straight unsealed road, through a pine plantation corridor, looming trees blackening out the night sky as we rolled deep into darkness.

Bursting through the plantation we were met with wide open farmland as far as the eye could see on either side. In the distance, we could see the factory. We figured it had to be the poultry processing plant. We parked up alongside the fence and took in the vista. A vast compound lay before us the size of a small airfield, fenced off in either direction as far as we could see with ten-foot-high cyclone fencing, crowned with coils of razor wire. 

Deep within its perimeter, orange floodlights illuminated a massive factory, stories high with windowless corrugated aluminium walls, lined with external fire-escape staircases zig-zagging down its sides, eerily quiet, looming alone within its confines. 

We started the van up again, rolled slowly up to the security gate and were let into the compound at the main entrance by the security guard, drove the few hundred metres across the open field, parked next to a couple of pickups, and sat quietly, not sure of what to do next, all quietly nervous. We cracked a beer each and waited. An hour passed, as did a couple more beers. Finally, lights appeared in the rearview mirror and approached across the compound. 

The crew bus pulled up next to our van; a rusted, filthy 16-seater shuttle bus covered in mud, salt from the road and dirt. Stepping out of our van we were met by the driver. A more stereotyped red-neck I couldn’t imagine. He wore a woollen, checkered lumberjack shirt, stained and worn, a greasy ‘Cunucks’ baseball cap and a swirled a gob full of chewing tobacco. He fixed his gaze, spat brown muck in our general direction and motioned for us to get in the van.

Climbing aboard we scanned the other passengers and found ourselves a seat. More rednecks, more greasy caps, more chew. A stench like a nightclub floor on a Monday. I immediately regretted my choice of t-shirt - A canary-yellow Surf Lifesaving shirt worn by the iconic volunteer beach patrol all along the Aussie coast. 

One of the passengers looked me over; ‘Hey, California boy’, he mocked and as few others chuckled to themselves. Fear started to creep in. The bus started up and we peeled out of the compound, back into the dark of the night with no idea what direction we were heading or what we had got ourselves into.

An hour and a half along the highway and barely a word was spoken. A few of the other men whispered in hushed tones to each other, no doubt about the fresh meat that had joined the crew. Soon, the bus peeled off the highway and onto a dirt side road and slowed to a crawl as we drifted deep into the dark again, off the grid and into the backwater farmlands of British Columbia.

Arriving at the farm, the rednecks collectively sprang to life. We disembarked the bus and as our eyes adjusted, we were in the farm forecourt. Scanning the lay of the land, six farm sheds evenly spaced in a long line stretched out from the landing zone. 2 semi-trailer trucks idled off to the side and two forklifts, spotlights beaming and orange safety lights flashing, buzzed back and forth from the sheds to the trucks, delivering large cages to the front gates of the sheds. 

The sheds are long and low, no more than 10 ft high at the centre, at least 70 metres wide, slopping down on each side to a couple of feet in height, and running at least 50 metres in length. The gates of each shed are open and looking in, I see the birds for the first time. A sea of birds. Thousands and thousands of birds. 

I walked closer and looked deep into the nearest shed and realise I can’t see down to the back of the shed. There are no lights inside, just the ambient lights of the trucks and forklifts that illuminate the entrance and a few metres in. From the gate, drifting back into the pitch black darkness is a blanket of white turkeys, huddled together, heads moving erratically, gobbling and nervous. 

I am pushed out of the way by a couple of the crew setting to work. A forklift drops a three-level wire cage at the entrance and the men start picking up turkeys by the legs and running them back to the cage. At the cage, one guy is on bended knee, taking the birds, and shoving them in forcefully into the cage. Followed by another, then another and again and again until the cage is full with what must be about fifty birds. 

They aren’t placed in the cage, no, they are stuffed into the cage. Unable to move against each other, some upside down, others on their side. With around half a dozen men handing three birds at a time to the packer, it takes about 10 minutes to fill the cage. A whistle to the forklift driver and the cage is promptly picked up and expedited to the waiting semi trailer truck. As this happens, the other forklift almost seamlessly drops another cage at the entrance of the shed. This time a bird is crushed underneath. No one cares. Everyone is moving at a frantic pace. 

And so this continues. The speed at which this happens is astounding. The men charge into the sea of birds, scooping up a bird by one of its legs, then, in a brisk swooping motion, the other leg is swept up and the bird is yanked upside down and held that way. This bird is held in the left hand and the catcher repeats this process. This second bird is collected, and it too is held in the left hand while a third bird is nabbed and all three are escorted, upside down, back to the cage and shoved inside. Over and over, again and again, at breakneck speed. Literally. 

The three of us stand at the entrance of the shed gobsmacked and stunned. One of the crew takes time out of the mayhem to take us aside and explain what we need to do. He shows us the way to pick the birds up by the legs, and that there is ‘nothing more to it than that’. Screaming over the noise from the machines and the other crew yelling and barking orders at each other, he informs us we have six sheds to get through tonight, with about 3000 birds in each, and another farm to visit after this one. He then yells at us ‘so get fuckin’ moving’.

The three of us look at each other with shock, part ways and follow our fellow crew into the entrance of the shed. Birds peck at our legs as we push past them with our feet, shuffling through the mud. The birds are packed into the shed so tightly that they can’t move, thus making it easier to catch them as they have nowhere to flee. I quickly learned that at night and in the darkness, they also can’t see, so they don’t try to move because of fear. Some things begin to make sense, but many things do not.

I reach down and attempt to pick up a bird, it goes berserk and ferociously pecks my hand and lower body. Others around join in and although I am by now slightly terrified, I am impressed by their pack mentality to survive. I try again and again, but I lack the courage to follow through with the leg-sweep and I fail again and again, letting the bird free. The stench of bird shit and fowl fear is overwhelming and as I look down, realise my shoes are missing. For a moment I think the turkeys just stole my shoes. Then realised the stupidity of that thought, and I for signing up for this.

I retrace my steps and I find my shoes in the mud a few feet away. As I reach for them I swear I saw a turkey look me in the eye and squeeze out a white and green watery poop into my shoe before shuffling away. Nonetheless, I slide my sock-less foot back into the squelch and shiver.  

By now I have no doubt my choice of footwear is not fit for purpose; a pair of slip-on checkered Vans skate shoes, now filled with mud, bird shit and bird piss. They are no match for the organic soup that makes up the shed floor and over the next few hours, more often than not, when I take a step, my shoes stick in the bog and I find myself standing barefoot amongst thousands of furious, very snappy birds. 

Finally, I grit my teeth and try to assert my dominance over the feathered demon-birds. Battle lines are drawn. It’s now a ‘me or them’ situation and I ain't going down to a bunch of Sunday lunches. I scoop up a bird, letting out a Samurai-like call of ‘Hai! and stand proudly with it hanging upside down in my hand. 

The first thing I notice is how heavy it is. At least 15kgs heavy and I struggle to hold it up with one hand. The second thing I notice is that although hanging upside down, the beast is now extremely pissed off and is in no mood to cooperate. Wings flailing wildly and biting at me like a rabid dog, it proceeds to attack my lower leg with gusto. 

Other birds continue to bite at me and I squeal like a little child as I try to control the desperate writhing, flapping turkey in my hand whilst fending off the attacking hoards at my feet. I bend down to collect another and this time, they’re ready for me. In a synchronised campaign, they attack my face and head and one gets a firm grip on my ear. I shake it off my head with my free arm as others sink their tiny beak teeth into my forearm. The bird in my hand has at least calmed down, possibly resigned to its fate.

A new approach, I eventually end up simply lightly slapping their heads out of the way as I plunge my hand under the crowd to find a leg under the feathers and scoop up another bird. I chuckle to myself that I am here, slapping turkeys and think of the comic gold that presents.

Standing tall, I now have two inverted turkeys in my possession and while I thought the first bird had calmed down, I was so very wrong and together, they go to town on me. Flapping, biting, kicking, I shake them by their legs which seems to stop them from biting a little as I run them back to cage-man. He snatches one from my hand and shoves it deep into the back of the cage. Then the other one shoved with equal force into the back of the cage like a man stuffing a cannonball into a cannon. I stand there bewildered and he tells men to ‘Go Go Go’ and points back into the shed. 

Once more unto the breach I go and I repeat the process a few more times, each time a battle of survival as the entire shed of birds now seem fully aware that something sinister is going down in the shed and that this is not going to end well for them. By now I am dripping with sweat, covered in shit, missing one shoe and have bleeding forearms and earlobe from the hate-bites and I am not sure that it is going to end well for me either. 

Looking around through the darkness, I occasionally catch a glimpse of Andy & Marty and can see they too are struggling with the task at hand. I chuckle a little as I see Marty trip over a particularly large specimen and fall to the ground, where he is promptly set upon by a ferocious flock of birds in a flurry of feathers, wattle and clawed feet. No doubt he too is rueing his choice of attire right now, having stupidly chosen to wear shorts. 

This mayhem continues like this for about two hours. By now dozens of cages have been filled to the hilt with birds, a few have died under dropped cages or wheels of the forklift and others are injured. The brutality is overwhelming and sickening.

Once the forklift has filled the semi-trailer with cages, it rolls off the farm and another takes its place. We gather the last birds from the first shed and the hope of a moment of reprieve, for both the birds and ourselves, but this is quickly dashed as the men, cages and forklifts move onto the next shed, fling open the doors and unleash themselves on the next barn of unsuspecting turkeys. 

By this time, I am in a state of shock. The shock of what we were doing, the shock at the cruelty, the shock of our naivety. I had barely spoken to Marty or Andy and when I did catch their eye, could see they too felt the same. 

Unable to think clearly, I needed refuge and pushed my way through the birds into the darkness towards the rear of the shed. I found myself deep in the blackness, surrounded by nervous turkeys, out of sight from the melee taking place at the front of the shed.

I stood motionless for what seemed like an age but was probably only minutes. Then, out of the darkness, both Marty and Andy appeared in front of me, both having followed my lead and retreated to the darkness at the rear of the shed. Stunned, we looked at each other in silence before Marty spoke what we all were thinking. 

‘What the fuckin fuck are we doing?! We gotta get the fuck outta here!’ Truer words were never spoken.

‘Let’s go’ I said, and unanimously we fought our way through the birds to the front of the shed and walked past the mayhem, out into the forecourt. The foreman saw us, jumped to his feet and yelled ‘Hey, where the fuck you think you’re goin’?’ Andy, the bigger and stronger of us all, took a few long strides in his direction, stood a few inches from him and quietly replied ‘Go fuck yourself, we are outa here’.

The foreman stood down and we walked quickly along the dirt driveway toward the front gates of the farm. Breathing easier, we walked in silence along the dirt driveway for about 2km, arriving at a ’T’ intersection. Here, the reality set in. We had no idea where we were and no idea how to get back to the van, and I only had one shoe.

Our only option was to walk until we found someone, or something, that could help us find our way back to Vancouver. We walked for what seemed like hours along this back road, with no sign of another farm or any hint of civilisation. We didn’t speak, I know now because we were all scared. 

Finally, car lights appeared on the horizon and collectively we sighed in relief. As it got closer, we spread out on the road, waving our arms in the hope of flagging it down. 

When it was close enough that we could see the driver, he merely planted his foot on the gas and sped up as a sign that said I ain’t stopping and we jumped from the road out of the way as he sped past. Our collective disappointment was palpable. 

We continued walking and fortunately, it wasn’t long until another car light appeared on the horizon. This time we were determined to make it stop so we sat down on the road and waited for it to arrive. It worked and it slowed to a stop a few metres from us. I told the guys to stay put and approached the vehicle with my hands in the air in a sign of pure desperation.

The driver wound down the window a little and I explained that we were Aussies, lost, had been working on the farm and were trying to get back to Vancouver. He told me there was a main road and gas station a few km back from where he had come, but he also let us know he wasn’t prepared to drive us there, we’d have to walk. And so walk we did.

Arriving at the crossroads, there was a gas station, and nothing else. For miles in any direction. Walking up to the doors, we had no money with us, so I took the lead and approached the attendant and pleaded our case in the hope he’d donate us some coffee and possibly a day-old sandwich from the display. No such mercy. We sat outside on the curb and waited for what we didn’t know.

After a short time, a van rolled into the station and our hopes were buoyed when we recognised the familiar stickers of K2, Vans and Oakley on the windows. They were fellow riders; skaters and snowboarders it turned out. We approached the vehicle, introduced ourselves and told them of our hellish night. They took pity on us and offered to drive us back to Vancouver and help us find our van. 

They shouted us hot coffee and some snacks and we loaded up in their van and set off back to civilisation. ‘You guys fuckin’ stink’ one of them said as he opened the window for fresh air. I couldn’t tell, but looking at our clothes we must have reeked as we realised just how filthy we were. 

On the highway back to Vancouver we shared tales of our ordeal with our saviours, much to their amusement. The more we shared the more we relaxed and now feeling safe, could also see the lunacy and comedy at what had just happened. 

Although we didn’t have an exact address of the poultry plant and where we had left the van, one of the locals was certain he knew where it was having grown up around Abottsford, and it wasn’t long before we rolled up along the perimeter fence, our trusty van visible deep within the compound near the factory itself.  

We thanked the guys for saving our asses and exchanged phone numbers. We invited them to Banff once the snow season started and told them they were to come as our guests where we could repay the favour, much to their refusal. They drove off, and it was just us and the darkness again.

Looking through the wire fence across the vast compound, we could see our van. We could also see about six of the truck trailers parked up in a row, stacked high with the cages of birds loaded on the back. In the hours it had taken us to get back, they must have loaded and delivered the trailers from the farm, with the trucks returning to shuttle more trailers full of birds back for processing. We looked at each other and knew exactly what each other was thinking.

Rather than go through the front security entrance, we circled the fence line until we found a section close to a wooded area of pine trees with overhanging branches. We scaled the trees and jumped over the razor wire and into the property. 

Like navy seals on a covert mission, we made our assault in absolute silence under the cover of darkness toward the car park where our van and the trailers of jailbirds were parked. Andy scaled one of the trailers, opened a cage and began pulling the turkeys free. Some birds simply fell out, and others flapped and fought their way free. Within minutes, the cage was empty except all bar one that hadn’t survived the treatment and or, the journey.  

We wasted no time and got fast to work, clambering over the trailers, feverishly tearing open the cages and freeing the birds. Cage by cage, trailer by trailer, within an hour we had emptied every cage on every trailer. The last cage emptied and I looked down at surveyed our work. A sea of white, turkeys everywhere, thousands of turkeys, roaming free. 

Some were injured, some were dead, others were still stunned and many were now running as far away from the trailers, and us, as possible. We climbed down from the trailers and stood together, grinning. 

Collectively, we knew full well what this meant. Every single one of these free birds would be almost impossible to round up and catch again, especially given the vast, wide open space of the compound, and the fact that it would be daylight in an hour or so and with first light, they’d spread out far and wide. 

Andy ran to our van and rummaging around in the back, returned with a large kitchen knife. ‘No point stopping now’ he said with a devilish grin and proceeded to knife every tyre on the trailers.

“Fuck ‘em” he said “the cruel cunts”

“How we gonna get outa here” asked Marty, and the reality of our situation dawned on us. The only way out with the van was through the front security gates, and these were protected by a boom gate, controlled by the fat-assed security guard who would no doubt have a radio and a phone line to the local police station.

After a quick discussion, we agreed we have two options on the table. The first, and best case scenario, was to simply roll up to the security gates like nothing had happened and hope that a simple wave to Captain Fat Ass would see him wave back and raise the boom gate allowing us to casually roll on out and away. Due to the location of his little hut at the gate, we knew that there was a good chance he couldn’t see what we had just done. And coupled with the fact no alarm had so far been raised, only assured us this was the best option with a high chance of success.

Option two was simple. Roll up to the gate, casual-like, and when we were close to the gate, plant the foot on the gas and bust out of the place like they do in the movies. High risk and little chance of success. But epic, nonetheless. 

Jumping in the van, Marty took the wheel with myself riding shotgun and Andy jumped in through the back doors, to be ready at the sliding side door in case he needed to burst out and fight the security guard, which is what he probably wanted because he lived for that kind of stuff. 

Andy suggested taking off the licence plates, so they couldn’t identify the van, but before he finished with the suggestion he realised the stupidity given the custom, cop-magnet paint job we were pushing.

“Act natural” was all I could think to say as we approached the security gate. We waved and smiled, and the guard looked back with a puzzled look. I gathered he was confused as he had watched us leave hours earlier and hadn’t checked us back in, so how was it we were now leaving? 

We stopped a the gate, he pulled himself out of his chair, put his jacket on, slid the hut door open and approached the van. Marty wound down his window, “G’day mate, howz it goin” he said in an embellished, hyper-Aussie accent.

“How did you boys get back in h…” before he could finish his sentence, Marty panicked, planted his foot on the floor and gassed it. We lunged forward and smashed the boom gate into tiny pieces as we accelerated out and down the road. 

I looked back in the side mirror and could see the guard rushing back to his post, no doubt to call the cops. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?” I screamed at Marty.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I panicked” he squealed with his foot still firmly planted on the floor. 

“Slow down for fucks sake” I yelled, my mind racing with what this meant. Cops, probably many, very soon. 

“What do we do?” I asked, turning to Andy in the back. Andy was sitting quietly, smiling, his arm around a turkey. 

“What the fuck?!” 

“I wanted one!” He said. 

“What the fuck are going to do with a fucking turkey, you idiot?”

“I don’t know, I just thought it would be funny”

“You fucking idiot”

My mind raced, battling to comprehend how pear-shaped this had quickly become. Thoughts led to the list of charges racking up against us. Wilful damage, theft, I didn’t even know what the charge for liberating 10000 turkeys would be, but I was certain three Aussies and a stunt like this would bring the full force of the law against us. 

“We need to get back to Vancouver, and fucking quickly too. Cops will be looking for us for sure” Said Marty.

“No shit dickhead. Drive!” That was all I could say. 

Dawn was almost breaking and the highway was almost empty of other vehicles, which made us and the van stick out like dogs balls even more. We were lucky, we didn’t see any cops on the way back and pulling up out front of our mate’s place in Vancouver, we were feeling confident we might have gotten away with it. 

Then, on cue, flashing red and blue lights lit up behind us. 

“Everyone get out, and don’t mention the fuckin’ turkey,” I said and climbed out my door with hands held high. Marty followed suit and Andy climbed into the front and out the passenger side of the van, leaving the gobbling bird in the back of the van.

Two police officeers stood behind their open doors, both smiling, one shaking her head.  They approached the van slowly and I began to plead our case. I told them of what had unfolded, the brutality of the rednecks, the moral dilemma we faced as animal-loving humans and the epic journey out of there. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said, holding back laughter. “We heard over the radio what you did. We’re both vegetarian, what you just did is hilarious. We’re not going bust you guys, but we suggest painting your van a-sap. Every cop in Vancouver will be looking for this heap of shit”

We thanked them over and over, sharing a few more laughs and tales of what had just unfolded and they jumped in their patrol car and drove off. We walked up to the house to share the story with our mates and Andy stopped suddenly.

“What about Allen?”

“Who”?

Andy returned to the van, picked up the turkey by the legs and walked up to the house with the bird dangling next to him.

“I’ve named him Allen,” he said proudly as he walked past us into the house.

A shower, change of clothes and we were out on foot to the hardware store to purchase six cans of matt black spray paint. Team Relaxo crew van was no more. The Thunder Turkey was born. 

Allen lived for almost 10 years at that house and became a much-loved part of the household. 

Marty still has scars on his legs. 

I didn’t eat meat for 2 years and haven’t eaten turkey since. That’s why I was a vegetarian.

*names changed to protect the guilty and the scared.