Bear Grease - Ep. 109: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Country Vehicles

Episode Date: May 12, 2023

This week on the show, Brent tells you everything he knows about choosing a vehicle to get around the backroads. We're not talking lifted trucks and shiny new dualies that'll go to the junkyard without ever having towed as much as a duck boat -- we're talking real, genuine country rides that are ALL about functionality.   Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Youtube Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host Brent Reeves. From Coon Hunting to Trotlining and just general country living, I want you to stay a while as I share my stories and country skills that will help you beat the system. This Country Life is proudly presented as part of Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the Airways have to offer. All right, friends, pull you up a chair or drop that tailgate. I think I've got a thing or two to teach you.

Country Vehicles. This week, we're talking country vehicles. Your signature slid that gets you from the casa to the woods and back. Now, whether you're fixing fence, feeding cows, or chasing critters that ramble amongst the flora, how you get to and fro says a lot about who you are. It's your statement without making a statement. And it's for everybody else's eyeballs. We're going to talk about what makes a good one and where you might find these units. But first, I'm going to tell you a story. My first truck was a six-cylinder standard shift three-speed 1973 Ford F-100, long wheel-based pickup. That inline six-cylinder motor didn't have enough power to pull a greasy string out of a catch-behind, but it was easy to maintain and it cranked from the seat, which is always a plus.

It was powder blue, and outside of the gun rack I'd installed in the back glass, it was as basic of a vehicle as you could get. If it had been a pack of smokes, the outside of the package would have been white, and the black print would have only said cigarettes. No air conditioner. The only air turning in the cab was a direct result of how much glass you rolled down inside the door. It was not fancy. I bought it in 1982 when I was 16 years old.

With money, I'd made hauling hay and trapping. It cost me $700. The dimmer switch for the headlights was on the floorboard. It had an AM radio that could get the local radio station in Warren, Arkansas, but it also, the Grand Ole Opry on WSM all the way from Nashville, Tennessee, clears a bell on Saturday night if I jobbed a fresh sweet-tator down on that five-inch nub of an antenna that had survived my ownership. Yep. I remember that we'd all gathered up on a back row and built a fire one time,

and while I was trying to fine-tune the dial to get the music to play one evening, someone found a sweet-tater in the bed of the truck, and as a joke, stuck it on there, and voila, sounded like we was right on the front row, so every Saturday night that we gathered, someone would fresh tater the radio, and we'd light a fire. I remember not long after I bought it that I was taking our old cowdog, Luke, to the vet, for a checkup over in Monticella that was 16 miles away from Warren and 22 from our farm. I'd ask a young lady whose company I was currently partial to go with me,

and her mom and daddy said it was all right. So when I got to town, I scooped her up, and with her sitting in the middle next to me and Luke loving life and seeing the sights of town from the bed of the truck, we took off from Monticella, Arkansas. It was a big deal for a young man to have his own vehicle back then, especially one that he'd bought and paid for himself. And I was feeling plum-groved and like a big deal

and more than a little proud of myself as we rattled down the highway fitting the image in my mind of just about every country song that faded in and out of that single speaker in the middle of the dash. Pride is said to goeth before a fall. That actual quote is from Proverbs 1618 that says Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. fall. Well, in my case, it was pride goeth just like the tailgate that fell off your $700 truck and is now sliding down the highway behind you and under the wheels of that log truck that only a

moment ago looked to be a safe distance away. Apparently, the bondo that had repaired and hit a previous owner's damage on the left rear quarter panel had vibrated loose, releasing my tailgate from its vehicular bonds and sent it to its doom along the highway. way like a blindfolded armadillo. I pulled over and loaded what was left of the tailgate in the back of the truck, put Luke up in the front with us, and we went on to the vet. I decided I'd work on fixing that when I got back to the farm. Now on the way back on that same stretch of road,

and with old Lucas checked out and good to go, and the embarrassment of that tailgate situation behind me, I felt that old familiar prideful feeling sneaking back up on me, and why not? My cow dog was healthy. I was cruising down the highway with a pretty girl, and the truck we were riding in was paid for and belonged to me. And so did that muffler that had just come loose and slid off the highway

and entered the Saline River, never to be seen again. It seems old Uncle Rusty had overtaken the exhaust system of my chariot of fire and separated the mutherlander and a good portion of the tailpipe from its designated spot at a most inopportune time. I ain't had that truck long enough to get it real dirty, and with every turn of the wheel, it seemed gravity was working against me. That last four miles back to her house with no muffler on the truck was so loud I didn't hear her say goodbye when she jumped out of the truck at a stop sign about a half a block from where

she lived. Oh well, Luke's day was me till he died, and when he did, that old truck was what I used to tell him to his grave. and that's just how that happened. Now, getting to where we want to go is important. Getting back home, now that's importanter. And folks will have their druthers about the best way to do that. Their loyalties to a specific brand of vehicle is intense and unmovable.

You'll hear them say Ford stands for found on the road dead or that Webster's definition of Dodge is to avoid and go around. Chevrolet, Toyota, GMC, Nissan, all of them. They've all got their supporters and detractors, and that's not what we're talking about here. We're talking about not walking, and I'm a fan of any conveyance that saves me steps. I used to work with a fellow in the woods who'd shake his head and pity and say whenever we pass by somebody walking for exercise on the road, look at that idiot. The good Lord only gives you so many steps in your life, and that moron is burning his up on the side of the highway. So to keep from burning your steps up unnecessarily, we need some wheels.

And guess what? It ain't even got to be a truck. There were several of us that worked in the woods together managing timber on different crews, and one fellow was a hog hunter. And when I say he was a hog hunter, I don't mean he hunted hogs occasionally. Saying Harry was a hog hunter was like saying, sometimes I eat when I'm hungry. Because sometimes I eat when I eat hungry.

What's hunger got to do with it? If we got vittles, let's eat. That's how Harry felt about hog hunting. Harry's hunting rig was a car, a two-door, Bermuda Blue, 1959 rambler with the rear seat removed to accommodate his dogs. The hood came from the factory

with two chrome ornaments that looked like front sights on a cold peacemaker. They were placed side by side, a few inches off the center line of the hood. Now, Harry had removed, them and replaced them with a tusk of a big boar hog, and he'd wired them through each hole. He had a pair of ground-grip tires on the back that would sing going down the highway, and even though it wasn't a four-wheel drive, that little lightweight car was unstoppable in the woods,

especially when Harry was properly motivated by the boys in Milwaukee, causing him complete disregard for the paint on the fenders or the bark on trees. There was no mistaken when Harry drove by. He made a statement. Your rig needs to serve your purpose. It should enhance your opportunities in the field and add to your comfort, safety, and security. Many nights I've slept in the seat or on a dog box in the bed of my truck waiting for a hound to come back or to just have a jump start on a spot where I thought a turkey might be gobbling the next morning.

Now old Harry had removed a whole rear seat from his little rambler to custom. to buy us his rig to fit his mission profile. Here it be the system. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls and building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms called prime cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to go, I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen.

But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobblers are looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts.

Check out Prime Cuts at Phelpsgamecalls.com. I think you'll be glad you did, and you'll find out that the Steve Ronella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning calls. who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action. On the other hand, Michael Roseman, the owner of Sunspot hunting lights, the man who had the vision and wherewithal to say, hey, why don't we put the light and the battery on the Coon Hunting Helmet?

That electrical wizard of sunshine and literal light, my friend, my Coon Hunting Buddy, his first hunting rig, it was an 80-model, two-door Oldsmobile Cutlass. It's been said that poor folks have poor ways, and old Mikey, like a lot of us, comes from humble beginnings, but through hard work and perseverance he's risen to the top of his game in the coon hunting world and become a successful businessman, and that his first hunting rig might have been what lit the fuse on his methodical rise to glory. Michael told me about him and his best friend Timmy, borrowing that cutlass from Timmy's aunt, and how they'd load the dogs up in the trunk.

and leave to go hunting. He said the rear deck speakers had long been removed from that car, and the hounds would take turns poking their heads up through the holes to see where they were going. I'm sure that was the sight, and one that makes me laugh every time I hear Michael tell that story. It's a feel-good story to me. Two young boys finding a way to do what they love to do, and one of them loved it so much he now makes a living inside the coon hunting world. It don't get much better than that. God bless America. There's two examples of country boys having rigs that suited their needs, even when at first glance you wouldn't think so.

Because if I ask you to picture a hog hunting or a coon hunting ride, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that neither one of those conjured up a modified rambler or a cutlass. Harry and Michael, they beat the system. Gary Newcomb. You know Gary Newcomb. Daddy Declay. patriarch of the Newcomb Covey, Sear of Panthers, and other mythical creatures? Well, Gary says the measure of a man is directly tied to his ability to buy a used vehicle.

I tend to agree. It's as important a skill as knowing where North is and being able to build a fire. If you can do those three things, you can drive, survive, and navigate to better places and friendlier people. Be bad at buying a car, and you could end up walking every day. where you go. Moving at the speed of flip and flop will get you nowhere fast and having you depending on others for transportation. And since I don't recall ever seeing the city bus rolling down a country road picking folks up and totting them places, you best acquire that skill, stat. I recall my dad and I driving through Kingston, Arkansas, birthplace of Johnny Cash on our way

to rising where my dad's office was. And we picked up such a fellow once. This man was unknown to us, but back then it wasn't uncommon to give folks a ride you didn't know. There wasn't a whole lot of meanness going on, and my pap wasn't ever out of reach of a pistol of some sort should someone take a notion to try to rob us. Anyway, this fella was what we'd call an in-betweener. He was in-between where he started and where he wanted to go. He was in-between jobs and in-between baths. He didn't need no money to ride with us, but since it wasn't raining,

and he smelled like a goat, he was assigned to set in coach, which was the bed of the truck. He had an extra big straw hat on that was covering him well in the heat of the day when we picked him up. My dad told him to hop in the back, and with the grace of a Boston ballerina, that rascal hopped up in there and sat down on the edge of the bed. My dad hollered at him to sit down inside, but he stayed perched up on the edge like a crow on a light line. One hand holding the edge and the other holding the crown of that big old hat. Now my dad told him to sit down again and as we pulled out on the highway for safety, but he didn't budge. It was then I could see my father took this as a direct challenge to his authority as being the captain of this flight.

He looked at me and said, he's going to sit down or I'm going to blow that hat plumb off his head and away we went. At 65 miles an hour, the brimble that hat started to vibrate to where you could notice it a little bit. But that man never flinched. At 75, it was flopping up and down like a jackhammer, and he was mashing it down so hard with his offhand that you couldn't see his eyes. Ten minutes of 85 miles per hour, and the brim of that hat was hanging around his neck like a bouquet of flowers for winning the Kentucky Derby, and the crown of that hat looked like one of my grandma's shower caps. We had to slow down to almost a complete stop to let someone turn off the highway, and I guess that fella had had enough and decided to deplane before.

we reached the terminal gate. He bailed out there like it was on fire and the last time I seen him, he was lighten a shook across the ditch into the woods and cussing up a storm. We felt bad about his hat, but had he had sense enough not to be walking and depending on other folks for his transportation, or if he had just sat down like my dad told him to, he'd still be sporting that cover. So where are we going to find you a rig at? Word of mouth in somebody's yard, unless you know the used car salesman, I'd steer, clear, and hunt for the deal where someone is selling it themselves.

You'll see them advertised as just in time for hunting season or, perfect for the farm. You know what you're getting there, and a seat warmer probably ain't going to be on the list of extras. Probably ain't going to be a lot of wiggle room on the price either, but there'll be some, and you need to haggle a bit. Remember what Gary Newcomb said about the measure of a man and buying a used vehicle, haggling over a price makes men feel like men,

and both of you come away a winter. Remember, we ain't buying a show truck. We're not looking for this unit to do anything outside of getting us to the country and back without breaking a sweat or swinging their arms. So a little dent here and there ain't going to bother us. It adds character, like a broken pair of leather boots or scars that remind you of a past adventure. Heck, if we had a dinner to along the way, your first thought might have have nothing to do with getting it fixed.

It could be, thanks for the check insurance, man. Ain't nobody going to notice that little dent because they're going to be too busy looking at my new trolley motor when I cruise past them headed to the river. Well, that ought to get you squared away and pointed in the right direction if or when you decide to update your fleet with a new-to-you country cruiser. I hope y'all enjoyed our visit today. If you have, share it with other country-minded folks that might enjoy it.

And remember, you ain't got to be from the country, to be country. This is Brent Reeves, signing all. Y'all be careful. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls and building each of our own favorite turkey diaphragms called prime cuts. Now, I'm going to tell you, I love mine because it's easy to use. I'm not going to go, I'm not going to win a turkey calling contest.

It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that gobblers are, looking for. I have a great turkey hunting track record. If you go listen to real turkeys out in the woods, they're not going to win calling contests, right? That's who I listen to. I can make those sounds on my cut. I also hunt with Phelps's cut, and I hunt with Clay's cut because they're all three great cuts. Check out Prime Cuts at Phelpsgamecalls.com. I think you'll be glad you did, and you'll find out that the Steve Ronella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises

and getting action.