Rose Dickson
Hello, readers!
It’s been a while. This seasonal transition from Summer to Fall felt like a good time to jump back in to sharing my passion for local food, community and connection to the land.
Earlier this summer, after visiting the bustling barn of a lovely friend and neighbour, we decided we would get some Bantam hens from them. There were a couple of broody hens sitting on a large shared nest, and newly hatched chicks ran about peeping. I’ve raised a few chickens in the past, but not here on Denman, so had no infrastructure for them. Getting smaller hens meant I could house them in a smaller area, which felt manageable to build. Also, they were described as feisty in the face of predators, and a little bit more wild than bigger hens. This appealed to me because maybe they would scare off the ravens, known for stealing local eggs. And so, it was settled. We would build a coop and run, and return for some chickens as soon as we were ready.
This last week we finally completed our fully-enclosed run, and made the highly anticipated trip to get our new girls. Six tiny little chickens had been selected for us, and were jumping boisterously about in their crate. When I opened it up back home, they flew out in a tizzy and began exploring the boundaries of their new run. They quickly settled into pecking at snacks, self-grooming, and contentedly following each other around in the afternoon sun. I admired their mottled plumage, and appreciated that our friend had chosen birds with a nice variety of colouring for us. All was well in the world, and my half acre felt particularly idyllic with the addition of these tweety little sweeties.
That night, I made a mistake. Instead of trusting that my new birds would find their way into the coop once it was dark enough for them, I tried herding them towards the little door. Panic ensued, and they flew up, scattering in all directions. I foolishly tried again, inducing more panicked flapping. Suddenly we realized that one bird had squeezed her way out of an area of fencing with slightly larger gaps. She was outside the run. I immediately went out and tried corralling her back through the door, but she ran as fast as her tiny legs would carry her, circling my field of rabbit hutches and then bee-lining for the forest. It turns out, the fencing that keeps dogs and deer on their respective sides does nothing to stop a young Bantam hen.
We followed that hen around in the deepening dusk for over an hour, hoping that her night-time instinct would kick in and subdue her urgent need to keep away from us. She lost me for a while in the forest at the edge of my lot, only to turn up a few minutes later in the yard again. She clearly wanted to get back in with her siblings, who were calling to her from inside the run. But since her strongest urge was to run away from me, I wasn’t sure how to help her. I wondered why on earth I’d thought wild and feisty were good traits in a chicken!? We ended up losing sight of her again in a thick patch of salal as night descended in earnest. We realized we had to give up, and would resume our search in the morning. Our remaining young hens, for the record, marched straight into the coop of their own volition as soon as they were ready, as if they’d always lived there.
The next day brought no sign of our escapee. I kept hearing birds in the bushes, but they were never her. I would think I heard the tweeting pattern she’d called out to her sisters the night before, only to trace it to some wild birds up in a tree. We wondered where else to search, and what we could do if we did spot her. But we never saw even a glimpse, and so mourned the loss of our sixth hen. I reinforced their run with some finer fencing where it was needed. I accepted that I had five chickens. Five was enough, they were still cute and would do all the things we wanted them for. But the guilt of what had happened nagged at me.
The next morning, five little hens came out of their coop. Five hens eyed me suspiciously as they ate up the scratch I threw for them. I returned a couple of hours later to refresh their water and saw five hens again. Then in the afternoon, I brought over some sunflower seed treats, only to find the run empty. I could hear cooing coming from inside the coop, so I clicked my tongue in hopes of calling them outside. To my delight, they started filing down the ramp, their curiosity over-riding their suspicion of me. My delight turned to awe as six little chickens walked down that ramp.
I am struck by the tenacity of her remaining hidden from two humans, cats and dogs for a day and a half while eyeing up the coop in the middle of the yard for just the right spot in the fencing, and flying back in to be with her flock. I think of her surviving two nights in our yard and forest, with cats, rats, wild birds, possibly mink and raccoon. Surviving the wild and choosing to return to the cush life of sunflower seed treats and beautiful sisters. I look forward to earning the trust of these ladies. Stay wild and feisty, Denman.