Minnesota turkey farmers still reeling from the toll of bird flu as Thanksgiving approaches

MELROSE, Minn. — Chris Huisinga drives to Willmar every Monday from his turkey farm in western Minnesota. Riding shotgun in his pickup truck? Test tubes filled with tracheal swabs.

So far, he's avoided becoming a statistic: one of the 100-plus farms in Minnesota to get hit this year by highly pathogenic avian influenza (HPAI), a plague that has devastated many turkey farmers for the second time in a decade, forcing them to euthanize 3.6 million birds in the state this year.

On the cusp of this year's Thanksgiving — when Americans gather around the bronze bird to debate politics, watch football and share thoughts of gratitude — Huisinga knows he's still only one vial away from losing everything.

"Divine intervention or coincidence or whatever you want to say has kept us from having issues," Huisinga said, speaking to the Star Tribune on Oct. 31 after pulling off the road on his way to the state laboratory. "I'm the last of a dying breed. I'm an independent turkey grower."

The greatest toll of this year's bird flu outbreak likely won't be on American pocketbooks but on the emotions and nerves of turkey growers.

Consumers shopping for a bird this month will find that turkey, like everything else, is more expensive than last year. The national average price per pound for a frozen turkey hen was $1.47 last week compared to $1.15 a year ago, according to U.S. Department of Agriculture data.

But HPAI's impact on the consumer price of turkeys will be a blip compared to the effect of inflation, farmers say, which is driving up feed grain costs and the diesel that powers their trucks.

Huisinga says he's taken to biking the roads between his farms to save on gas. He's paying more for natural gas to warm his barns. He buys grain — trading near record highs earlier this year — to feed his birds.

More turkeys inhabit the prairie pothole country of Kandiyohi County than most anywhere in the United States. By the latest count, Minnesota has nine turkeys for every human. The state's 600 turkey farmers, from backyard flocks with a couple of dozen to indoors barns housing thousands of birds, generate more than $1 billion in economic activity.

But it's the high density of commercial flocks — combined with Minnesota's bounty of lakes, streams and wetlands that attract migratory waterfowl — that has left the state particularly vulnerable to bird flu.

From a table in the True North Marketplace in Melrose, just off Interstate 94, turkey farmer Pete Klaphake pointed out the window to the nine turkey farms within two miles of town. In the spring, Klaphake called as many as he could to tell them two of his farms were infected with HPAI.

"You love the days when the sun's shining and the windows or doors or curtains are open and the turkeys are flying," said Klaphake, who also serves as president of the Minnesota Turkey Research and Promotion Council. "It's the craziest time in a barn."

But when employees saw something unusual in the birds — lethargy — they quickly surmised the flocks were sick.

"Very long days," he said, describing the outbreak. "You do get attached to the animals. I always thought it was neat that you could follow a flock all the way through [their life span]."

HPAI first landed in Minnesota in March, when a backyard flock in Mower County and a large commercial flock in Meeker County both tested positive for the dreaded virus. According to USDA's Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service, 85% of cases are introduced by wild birds.

Decontaminating a barn begins by depopulating birds — that is, a farmer culls his or her flock — to prevent further spread of a disease that will doom more birds. It's a nearly unimaginable scenario for growers.

The outbreak seemed under control over the summer before resurfacing in a Meeker County commercial flock at the end of August. It seems to be picking up steam: In the past week, a case has been confirmed in Stearns County and two more in nearby Swift County.

More phone calls were made to growers.

"It's too emotional right now," said a Melrose grower, who declined an interview on Tuesday.

After a farmer depopulates a flock, he or she will compost the dead birds, routinely taking temperature readings of the piles to ensure adequate heat, which kills the virus. Eventually, after more composting and working with government authorities, a farmer can bring poults (or baby turkeys) back into their barn — that is, if they can find them.

When the bird flu first hit in the springtime, Northern Pride producer John Burkel — who in 2013 traveled to the White House to see his turkey, Popcorn, pardoned by President Barack Obama — chose not to buy birds. A Republican state legislator from the state's far northwestern corner, Burkel didn't want to risk being unable to monitor his flock from six hours away while serving at the State Capitol.

By the time the legislative session ended, there were no poults available for sale. The bird flu had strained the supply.

Now his barns stand empty.

"This is the first time in my lifetime," Burkel said. "To go out there is a little eerie, to be honest."

Despite the bird flu decimating hundreds of Minnesota flocks, the industry does not expect a shortage of whole birds this Thanksgiving. A spokesperson for Minnetonka-based Cargill, one of the nation's largest turkey producers, told the Star Tribune there is "ample supply of turkeys, including fresh birds" for the holiday season.

In a September earnings call, Austin-based Hormel Foods, which owns the Jennie-O turkey brand, said its supply of birds could be down by 30%. The company declined to provide further detail, saying it is working to meet seasonal demand.

In many ways, the influenza — which reared its head in 2015 — may be part of a new normal, farmers say, like adapting to the coronavirus's peripatetic presence in American life.

"We're controlling the things we can control," Abby Schuft, an educator with the University of Minnesota Extension who holds a job created by the last crisis in 2015. "I think people are smarter. They're not taking things for granted. It's a thing now. It's not just Joe Schmo is going to do it this way. There are minimum standards they have to follow."

Back in Melrose, on Turkey Lane, trucks load up grain to take to farms at the Melrose Feed Mill. East of town, signs reading "KEEP OUT Disease Control" line a farm property.

Klaphake plans on having a big Thanksgiving. He's bought a couple of dozen for his team. But he remains vigilant.

"We're not a whole lot closer to the idea of how to get rid of this now than where we were going into the spring," Klaphake said.

And there's one question that gnaws at him.

"As a grower, is this going to be gone next year?" Klaphake asked. "I don't think so."