Bear Grease - Ep. 183: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Hunting Heritage

Episode Date: January 26, 2024

What does a homemade boat, a mule-drawn wagon, and coon hunting all have in common? Guessing the name Brent would be the obvious answer, and you'd be correct. How they all relate to our host and hunting heritage is this week's topic on MeatEater's This Country Life podcast. Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Youtube Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

First Lights fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldwear gear at firstlight.com.

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.

Hunting Heritage. I went coon hunting with some folks last week, and just like every other coon hunt I go on, I spend the next few days going over in my head how my dog Whalen did and analyzing his performance against my expectations. With terrible weather looming in front of us, what I expected was nothing short of terrible.

What I got was nothing less than spectacular. I'm going to tell you all about it, but first I'm going to tell you a story. Papal builds me a boat. This episode is about hunting heritage. This story recalls the time and an event that was more related to fishing. The heritage link is on the land in which it happened, and my maternal grandfather is the protagonist in this story.

A man who didn't hunt. The location and farm had been in my mother's family since sometime either before or just after the war between the states. That's how it relates. here, and with that said, here we go. When I was in high school, my maternal grandparents, Finis, and Bula Sly were the only grandparents that I had that were living. My grandfather on my dad's side had been killed while working in a shipyard in California during World War II, and my grandmother on that side died in 1983. So my only set of living grandparents were

Mama Sly and Papal. That's what we called them. That's what everyone called them, even my friends. Mama Slyle liked to brim fish and like to eat fish as well as anyone. Every Friday night was automatic. We were going somewhere to eat fish, and I stayed with them a lot, and we'd head to Monticella, Arkansas, to a fish place over there, or out to Ann's restaurant and warned to eat. They had good fish at Ann's, but I'd rob a bank this very second

to have one of their chicken fried steaks. Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. I got off track thinking about vittles. Anyway, Mama Sly liked fish. Pipeau worked on the farm and didn't hunt or fish much at all. Matter of fact, I don't ever remember him doing either to amount to anything. He wasn't against it. He just didn't have the patience for it.

He liked farming and everything that went with it. He was always fixing her building something to make life easier on the farm. He was a voracious reader. He read National Geographic from Congress. Cover to cover. Western novels by Zane Gray and Louis L'Amore and popular mechanics. He was highly intelligent and mostly self-educated. They bought their first VCR player that they or I ever saw, and it looked as big as a bathtub. You could load a tape in there, and it sounded like you were slamming a bank ball shut. Well, it quit working one time,

and Papal took it apart and fixed it. It looked like someone had taken a slay. It looked like someone had taken a edge hammer to it. It was in a jillion pieces on the kitchen table. Tiny screws, gears, and parts are laying everywhere. No manual, no instructions, no Google, no YouTube, no help desk. But last and not least,

no training in VCR repair. Just brainpower. I was grown and married, living on my own and didn't have enough sense to set the clock on one. It worked. But that flashing Digital 12 still haunts me. I got off track again. Papal read every night after supper and TV before he went to bed.

Now, one evening, he read an article in popular mechanics that described how to build a one-man fishing boat using rudimentary materials. He loved building stuff and was a sought-after tablemaker and craftsman during his retired years. He built all his grandson's gun cabinets, and we all still have them. He made them out of oak, and they are tremendously heavy and built to last. He loved building things for his grandkids,

cradles for babies, furniture, toys, whatever. He took a notion to make, he'd make it. And not only would it work, but it would work well and better than anything that was commercially available. Now, this one-man fishing boat he made for me, he surprised me with it one day when he drove up to the house. Come out here, son.

I got something I think you're going to like. Well, I about took the doors off the hinges getting outside to see what he'd made for me. I didn't have a clue what it could be, but if Papaw had made it for me, it was going to be cool and one of a kind. We had a two-acre pond less than 100 yards from the house. It was full of fish, a big bass, brim, and catfish and crappie. Also, bullfrogs and snakes. It was a good place to fish, and I have a ton of memories catching fish snakes and gigging

frogs there. All year long, that pond was the focus of some type of activity for me, my brothers, and my friends. That day, however, it would be the launch pad for my grandpa's latest feat of engineering and the first ship in his fleet of homemade boats. Y'all get you imaginary pencil sharpened and draw this out on your brain while I describe it to you. He had a big intertube from one of our tractor tires inflated and two tuba-fours laying parallel to each other along. the top the boards were wide enough apart to attach a square milk crate that sat down in the donut hole of the inner tube he had one eighth inch plywood as deckin screwed in place across the top of the tuba force the decking was less than three feet wide and about five and a half feet long

now inside that milk crate he had a car battery and it was wired to a trolley motor that he'd mounted to the front of the plywood deck. Are you following me? I hope you are, because the best part is coming right now. Centred directly above that hole in the inner tube that housed the milk crate was a folding lawn chair. It was the old kind with a woven synthetic weapon for seating, and the legs were fashioned from U-shaped pieces of aluminum. Stay with me now.

The rear legs were held in place using the electrical condescending. undo it fasteners screwed to the decking. The front legs were free, allowing the chair to be folded down when in transport. Now that's assuming that you'd want to take this little beauty out on the road and who wouldn't. I could already see myself loading this unit into the back of my truck and launching my one-man battleship down at Crane's Lake and getting back into places we couldn't get dads or Tim's aluminum boat in. I would be a brim fishing ninja.

A fly rod would be my samurai sword, and crickets would be my throwing stars, and this boat my papaw built for me would be my trusty steed on which I would ride into battle. Tim lived right up the road and came down to watch the launch. Mama had walked outside and stood by my mama's life and watched as me and Papal unloaded it from his truck, hooked the battery cables to the terminals and sat the whole contraption gingerly down on the surface of our pond. I unfolded the lawn chair, dropped the trolle motor into the water,

and climbed aboard my ship. I knew what Neil Armstrong must have felt like when he climbed into the Apollo spacecraft to fly to the moon. I knew what Columbus must have felt like when he set out on his voice to the new world. I knew what Captain A. It must have felt like when that big white whale did a tomahawk chop to the middle of the

Pequod because only seconds after settling into the captain's chair of the USS Papaw, I was upside down in the pond. Looking up at the surface of the water and on the bank I could see my mama's life and my mama. My brother Tim and my Papa all looking for me like I had just disappeared in a magic show. Why did Tim have to be here? I would never hear the end of this. Weighing my options of ridicule against just staying on the bottom of the pond, I let the lack of oxygen down there make my decision for me,

and I surf as much to the delight of everyone. My boat floating aimlessly upside down, just off the bank with the trolley motor buzzing like I saw at the lumber mill. Papaw waited out to get me, but like the rest of the onlookers, he was laughing so hard he hardly catches breath. Son, he said, between laughing and trying to breathe, our center of gravity was off. I know how to fix it.

No, sir, not for me. I'm going to swim out there and get this thing back for you, and I'm going to help you load it up. But I have sat in the last intertube boat I will ever sit in. That was 40 years ago. And I still haven't. And that's just how that happened. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason. and 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 Rinella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action. Hunting Heritage. You know, I can make this whole podcast about hunting heritage, and maybe in a world, I already have to a certain extent, but this week it really came home to me in a special way.

You hear me talking each week about stories and events that evolved me and my family and friends, and this week will be no different for you, but it was for me. And at the time, I didn't even realize it. My friend Brad Clark called me. He lives in Mississippi, and you heard me talk about him when I was doing my duck hunting episodes. You also heard me talk about his lifelong friend Randall Whitmore. Who you didn't hear me mention was Randall's younger brother Wade. Now, Randall and Wade are the sons of the late Dick Whitmore.

They're all from Tennessee, but Wade now lives in Texas. Their father, Dick Whitmore, is a legend in places where folks put importance on good dogs and more so revere good men. Mr. Whitmore was placed highly in both categories by those who knew him. Now, back to the phone call from Brad. He wanted to know if my fellow coon hunting addict, coon hound trainer, CEO of Sunspot hunting lights, and part-time spiritual advisor, Michael Roseman could take Brad, Randall, and Wade, coon hunting on Michael's lease when Wade came up for a duck hunt. What?

Make a plan and commit ourselves to go on a coon hunting? You bet we can. They didn't actually need me for any of it. Michael's got one of the best dogs around and it's his lease. Pretty sure they keep me around in case they need to blame something on somebody or comic relief. Regardless, I was happy to be in a mix and was looking forward to going coon hunting with the boys. Randall and Brad are partners on a coonhound, and they can hunt anywhere, but where Michael hunts now was for years Mr. Whitmore's coon hunting lease.

All three of those guys grew up hunting with Mr. Whitmore, and it's a great place to train young dogs because of all the coons that are there. I know I've talked about it before on here, and I'm sure I will in the future, but that's what I'm talking about this week. Hunting Heritage. That's the binder and the thread that keeps the tapestry going as we knit out living our lives and sharing our experiences. Every person adds a thread of experience or a memory to the never-ending project

that tells a story of that place and those people. Michael and I hunt a lot by ourselves on that property. Normally, it's just me and Michael and our dog's wailing and heck. Yes, his dog's name is heck. It's a long story. Anyway, regardless of who's there or who isn't, and it's just me and Michael, he'll tell a story of another time when he was hunting there

with other people or even Mr. Whitmore. Some of them I've heard before, but I always enjoy hearing again. Some are new to me. But they all make me feel closer to, that land and closer to the people he's talking about by hearing the stories from someone who was there. Here's a case in point from my family. My great-grandfather on my father's side died in 1964. That's two years before I was born. But my dad told a story that my brother Tim reminded me up today when we were visiting on the phone. In October, every year, when all the

crops were in, grandpa, Uncle Ed, Uncle Dob, and Uncle Bob, and I'm sure a laundry list of others that different times would go down to the Saline River and have squirrel camp. They didn't have a tent, so they fashioned a camp out of tarpaper, and they'd stay for several days. My dad's first recollection of being involved was when he was 10 or 11 years old, and they wouldn't lie him to go because he was in school. But what he did have to do was to hitch a wagon up to the mule. and ride it several miles down where they were camped to pick up the squirrels and all the other

game that they killed and skin out to be taken back home and put in the family freezer. He said he had to make that trip three or four times during the week depending on how long they were staying down there and how good the hunting was. Now, I know where that spot is, where they camp. My brother knows where that spot is. I will never go by there or talk about that place without seeing my dad as a little kid driving a mule drawn wagon down the dirt road by himself going to see what the men folks got on their hunt.

Then making that sad trip back home with all the game because he had to go to school the next day. Now in my mind, I can see my great grandpa standing beside that tar paper camp in his coat and overalls. A fire crackling in the background watching my dad drive away while checking his pocket watch and figuring the time in his head when that boy ought to be getting home. Now, I don't know if that happened, but I know that that's what I'd have been doing if I'd have been him. Heck, if I'd have been him, I'd probably let him lay out of school. I used to take my son Hunter with me for a week every year in Missouri to turkey hunt.

He'd do his lessons every day in the afternoon once we came in from hunting. Then the school put an end of that and wouldn't excuse him anymore for missing school. But I never go there that I don't. don't think about something that he said or did when we were there together. And I've been going every year for over 20 years or better, and Hunter hadn't been back in 10. But just like that place in the Saline River Bottoms in Missouri, I'm connected to that place and that heritage by the firsthand experience

and the stories of the places I've seen. And I say all of that because a heritage of honey is connected to the land and to its people. My ancestors and the Saline River Bottoms, my son and my friends in Missouri, Michael, Mr. Whitmore, Brad Rand Wade, and a coon-hunting who's-who of others have hunted that property along the White River that we were hunting that night. Michael's nephew, RJ, was riding with us the other night when we met Brad and Wade at the legendary Dick Whitmore camp on the cash bio near Augusta, Arkansas. The best part of that recent coon hunt was the addition to Cooper, Wade's six-year-old son. Now, old Coop had been on a coon hunt recently with his daddy, Brad, and Randall, but he'd never been on that property where his grandfather had hosted so many people for so many years

and hunted some of the best dogs in the country. It was pretty cold that night, and if we hadn't already had the hunt set up to take Wade on his visit up from Texas, we may not even win. They say the worst day fishing beats the best day working, and I can't argue with that. But the worst night hunting in bitter cold will never beat a good night's sleep

in a warm bed. Luckily for us, this wasn't going to be the worst night hunting. I told Michael when we popped up on the levee in his side-by-side with RJ in the middle and the dogs in the box and Brad Wade and Coop following behind us and theirs that if we could see one coon tonight,

on the outside of a tree, we'd be successful. Coons down here don't stir around much when the high temps dip below freezing. Our frigid weather doesn't usually last more than a few days, and the coons pretty well lay up in the dens and wait it out. Now, they'll come out to eat a little or get a drink, but they don't ramble far from the den trees, so that's where we normally tree when it gets real cold as in a den tree. If you can't see all the way up in the hole,

then you can't see the coon and seeing the coon is what we're out here for. So like a lot of my efforts over the last 57 years, I expected the whole hunt to be mostly an exercise in freezing futility with occasional bouts of despair. But I also like to have fun, and being outside is fun to me. Being with my friends is even better. Throw in a pack of coon hounds and a kid, and that'll make even the worst of times good.

I still live by the motto my dad told me when I was a kid, if you're doing something that ain't fun, you make it fun. So in spite of everything that was working against us weather-wise, I was determined to have a good time, which if you know me is what I'm always trying to do. We treat a couple of den trees, and Whalen bade one in a hole. Then Whelan and Heck both treeed one each on the outside of trees

where we could see them. and Hex Coon was in a good spot. It was easy to see and to shoot out and to bring home. So we waited for Brad, Wade, and Cooper to get there before we did. And I watched as we all shined our lights, and Wade showed his son Cooper the coon that was fueling Hex's excitement. RJ knocked that coon out of the tree with a brand new 22 rifle that Michael had given him for Christmas.

He made a good shot and we were all proud of him for it. Then we all walked over and Wade picked up that coon and he showed it to Cooper. It wasn't the first coon that Cooper had ever seen, but it was the first one he'd seen in that place where his grandfather had hunted. And this hunt was the first time Wade had been back on that property since Mr. Whitmore passed away a little over six years ago, which coincidentally is just how old Cooper is. There's a lot there in that story.

and heritage is just part of it. Thank you all so much for listening and being a part of this country life family, and it is a family. Someone called me everyone's favorite uncle the other day. I like that. It made me smile. Hold on to your memories and the folks and the places they're made from. That's the fabric of life's quilt that we're constantly sewing. the more folks you let add to it,

the warmer it gets. That's where the heritage lives. Until next week, this is Brent Reeves, signing off. Y'all be careful. First Lights Fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters.

No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.