McKean Minute: The Butcher Bird and My Jerky

I was just turning a batch of elk jerky in my smoker, flipping each succulent strip in order to dry uniformly, when I noticed movement over my shoulder.

I keep my Camp Chef in the barn, where its beautiful work won’t stink up my house or deck. When I was a kid, our only source of heat was a wood-burning stove, and all my clothes smelled like wood smoke. I didn’t think anything of it when I was younger, but when I was in 8th grade, a girl told me I smelled like bacon. The way she said it made me think she didn’t like bacon. I’ve been sensitive about the topic ever sense. Hence, the smoker in the barn.

It turns out the movement I saw was the swoop of a bird, and as I emerged from the barn, I studied the critter. It was a northern shrike, a blocky grey-and-black bird about the size of a robin, perched on the tongue of an idle disc. We don’t see shrikes very often, so I paid special attention to this specimen, its curved beak and black-streaked head looking coolly around. Like a robin, shrikes are classified as songbirds, but they behave more like raptors. They hunt insects like grasshoppers or even small mammals and birds, often flushing them out of hiding by flapping their wings just above the ground.

But shrikes are sometimes called “butcher birds” for another curious carnivorous habit. They will impale their prey on thorns of trees or the barbs of wire fences, saving them in what biologists call their “pantries” until they’re ready to consume them. Some ornithologists think that female shrikes select mates based on the size and variety of his pantry. Apparently, these girl shrikes don’t care if their mates smell like meat.

I returned to my jerky, puttering in the plumes of rich smoke, preparing snacks that I’d add to my pantry and feed my family all week long. When I emerged from the barn, the shrike was gone.

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