Bear Grease - Ep. 185: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Oh, Canada

Episode Date: February 2, 2024

Brent’s telling tales and detailing observations from his adventures north of the border. Bears, boats, and eyewitness accounts sum up the heart of this week's episode of 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 and 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.

Oh, Canada. I've been to Canada three times in my life. Each trip was the trip of a lifetime. All of them hunting trips, but each unique in its adventure and the lessons learned. We're taking a trip north of the border this week, but no need for the Rosetta Stone. I'm semi-fluent in Canadian.

I'm going to tell you all about them, but first, I'm going to tell you a story. Planes, Suburbanes, and Boats. Five of us was. bear tags and one with the camera waited at a predesignated spot on an unnamed river that bled off the 800 square mile Walliston Lake in Saskatchewan, Canada. We were 163 miles south of the Arctic Circle and over 2,000 miles away from Arkansas. We'd rented a suburban when we landed in Saskatoon and if that wasn't far enough, we were still a 13-hour drive. We were still a 13-hour drive.

from the airport to where we now sat. I was there filming for my good friend Clay Newcomb, and it was back in the days before he or I worked for me, Deeter, and even before the original Bear Grease podcast. This film was in support of Bear Hutton Magazine, and we were on an adventure, an adventure that began the day before when I showed up at Clay's house, three hours before we were supposed to leave for the airport.

And he said, man, I've been. so busy getting a magazine ready to go out that I haven't even packed yet. I laughed, but he didn't. Then I knew he was serious. Holy cow, let's get to pack him. 30 minutes later, we were on our way to the airport with seven days worth of year. He never broke a sweat while I felt like I was having kittens the whole time until we were checked in and waiting at the gate. I hate flying, not the actual physicality of flying, but the process of flying. It used to be a relatively simple process as those amongst us who have traveled by air prior to the tragedy of 9-11 can fully attest. And I know the reasons for all the changes and I appreciate the redundancy of ID checks and

screening. I get it. I'm all for it. But that's the process that makes me anxious. There's too much responsibility on my end to have everything I'm supposed to have to prove to someone who doesn't know me that I am who I say I am. Plus, I lose things, often. Alexis is constantly saying in her condescending mom voice, if you just put things back where they go instead of laying them down in random spots, you wouldn't lose them. She usually follows that up with, have you seen my phone? I can't find my phone. Me and that gal were making. for each other. Anyway, there the five of us were standing in the middle of Saskatchewan, having survived the first two legs of our journey into the north. James Lawrence, Ryan Greb,

Carney Easter, and Claibold Newcomb, and yours truly. It was June, and we were all wearing jackets to cut the cold wind that blew off Walliston Lake. We were waiting for the last mode of travel to arrive. In the last 24 hours, we had been kept from walking by the engineers at Boeing, Chevrolet, and whatever water vessel was that we now waited that was 45 minutes overdue to our agreed upon a meeting spot that was supposed to keep us dry on our ride to the bear camp. It must be a big boat to carry us and all our gear. We had a ton of stuff, hard cases with camera gear, bows, drugs,

drones and duffel bags of clothing and hunting gear were stacked at the edge of a dock that looked like it had been built by the students of a beginner carpentier class in the dark. The boats we were expecting to ferry us the last part of the trip had to be big, so we were wondering how in the world they were going to fit into this small area and this homemade dock. We also wondered where the boat was. There was no way other than using a sat phone to contact the outfitter since he was the one coming to pick us up. And we doubted he'd be able to answer, so we'd just wait it. Another 30 minutes ticked by with us entertaining ourselves before we heard the sound of an outboard motor getting closer. Then we saw the boats. Two of it.

One was what I'd call a ski boat. It had a console steering and a walk-through windshield and a 50-horsepower out. outboard motor. The second boat was a 14-foot aluminum V-hull with a 40-horsepower motor and a tiller hammer. Now either those weren't our boats or we weren't going very far, I figured, but they were our boats, and we were a long way from the end to the boat ride we were fixing to take. I had figured wrong. The boats coasted to a stop along the edge of Canada's version of a Beverly Hillbilly's boat dock, each piloted by a pair of strapping lads who ended each question or mildly facetious statement with, A, like, been waiting long, eh? Or pretty long trip, eh?

After all the introductions, we started bringing our gear down to the boats, and the outfitter suggested putting all the gear in one person in the bigger boat. He was driving that one, and the rest of us would load up in the smaller boat for the ride across the lake, the camp. James Carney, Ryan, and I opted for the lighter boat after packing the bigger one to the absolute gills with bags and cases, then covering it up as best that we could with tarp to try to keep it all dry. I asked that hockey-loving cat who was mined in the tiller how far we were going, and he said,

oh, it's a ways. And he wasn't kidding. In Arkansas, you can hop in any conveyance available from a tractor to a bicycle, head in any random direction, and in two hours, you're going to be somewhere. Somewhere where there was something, something other than water, moss, and trees, and seemingly endless wilderness. Now, don't get me wrong, I was digging it. I love being in remote places, and getting there is usually a big part of the adventure,

but for the past two hours, I felt like my teeth were getting loose from the constant battering that boat was taken and transferring to me. I'd hooked my legs underneath the seat as best as I could, and I had a GI Joe Kung Fu grip on the gunwale, and the seat my behind was hitting about every other wave. The waves that didn't take me a foot off the bench, washed over the bow, and sides in the strong wind was soaking me in my fellow Arkansas with the cleanest water I'd never wanted to drink. At this point I looked out of the rain hood I'd pull down tight around my face in a feeble attempt to keep the lake out of my clothes and the bank to the starboard side of the boat was invisible. Nothing but water and it looked as big as the ocean. I looked to the port side and caught an occasional glimpse of earth between the solo cups of water. Old Mother Wallaston was spitting in my eyes.

I started using naval terminology in my thinking as the voyage. to the end of the earth drug on past eternity. I figure since we'd all obviously been shanghide by sailors posing as bear hunting outfitters that I might as well learn the lingo. I looked back at our pilot. He was wrapped up tight in his rain gear with nothing other than a small peepo where his eyes should have been. Occasionally a black tuft of hair would flip out before getting soaked and seeking refuge

back inside his parker. I caught him checking the GPS. Yes, he had in his pocket and mouthed the words, How long, eh? That was in my best Canadian accent. He yelled above the den of the outboard and the crashing of the hull of the boat on the waves that we were almost halfway.

Almost halfway. For the love of humanity was where we were going, going to look any different than where we were? It had all looked the same as far as what I could see now from the boat and the same I'd seem for the, passed 150 miles of road before we pulled up to that dock. Big round rocks, jack pines and moss. I caught a glimpse of Claibot's boat as it launched in the air between the waves,

the foot being the only thing that stayed in contact with the water. My fun meter had pegged out. I was ready to hit the bank. Gordon Lightfoot, Ontario-born balladeer and president of Canada, His greatest song ever, one of the personal favorites of mine, was on repeat in my head. Over and over, it played, and three and a half hours later, we pulled up to a dock that looked suspiciously like the first one I'd seen, 55 miles earlier, when that whole ordeal started. Clay and the boss outfitter had pulled ahead as we rolled into calmer waters, and were waiting for us on the bank.

Clay was smiling, happy to be there, happy to be bear hunting, but mostly I think happy to be alive. He walked out onto that unsteady dock. He reached his hand out to me to help me up smiling. Then he said, what do you think about that? When my second foot hit the top of that dock, I said, Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? Clay's eyes got wide and a surprise look came across his face. He squeezed my hand and said, wow, did you just make that up? No, Claybo, Gordon Lightfoot did.

That's just how that happened. 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. Oh, Canada. On my third trip to Canada, me and Claibault found ourselves in British Columbia.

It was a stark contrast to the terrain of northern Saskatchewan. This was mountainous, thick, wooded terrain and clear cuts. we were hunting black bears in the same woods where grizzlies lived. I'd always wanted to see a grizzly. I've always wanted to go on the archery hunt for one, and like a lot of folks, I'm intrigued by them. I also have a lot of respect for them, which is a manly way of saying they scare the soup out of me.

I'm not scared of much, and I haven't been in places and situations in my law enforcement job when I probably should have been scared at that time, but I was also focused on the mission at hand and fear was never a real factor. Now, all that went straight out the window when we got to Jeff Landers' primitive outfit in Bear Camp. Jeff is a bow hunter, and he and his wife Lana have become good friends of mine. They're good people, and she's from Arkansas. Good job, Jeffrey.

Anyway, Clay and I got to camp earlier than anticipated, and he said we could go out that afternoon, since we had plenty of light left to hunt. They decided not to use the electric bikes that they had out for us to travel down the gravel in the dirt roads for fear of rounding a curve and surprise in old gris. Stories that include surprise and grizzly don't usually end well for either party. I liked his thinking. The last thing I wanted to do was surprise anything that had claws, teeth,

and was grumpy to start with and could run 35 miles an hour. It's like 56 in Canada, so that means they're even faster up there. I didn't want to surprise one, but I did want to see one. Jeff hooked us up with our guide Gary. That's a good dude, and old Gary knows his way around the wilderness and those bears, both kinds. Clay and I got our stuff ready in short order, and before we knew it, we were heading down a one-lane dirt road that was about 20 minutes away from the camp. I was quizzing Gary on his exploits and grizzly bears and wondering if we'd see one before the week was up. He said it was a good possibility, but there was no guarantees.

They're as scared of us as we are of them, he said. The road we were easing down in Gary's truck wasn't much wider than a one lane of a two-lane highway, the alder maple and pine trees that were thick on each side, thick enough that you couldn't see but a few feet past the edge of the road. but up ahead about 300 yards that's 274 when translated into canadian the road opened up on each side the sun was shining and lightened up what looked like a big hay pasture quite a contrast to the darkness that stood on each side of the road i'd learned two things about gary in the short twenty minutes i'd known him he was a religious man i like that and he also tooted a at three thirty eight lapua rifle that was secured in a spot beside him he was a religious man i liked that and he also toad at three thirty eight lapua rifle that was secured in a spot beside me in the back seat. I like that too. Used correctly, both of those can get you out of a tight spot. One quicker than the other and one for longer than the other.

Gary said we'd walk the last hundred yards down the road and slip up to the edge and peeked down the wood line to see if we could catch a black bear feeding on the ankle high grass that they love this time of year. Good plan. He said he'd done this many times, found a bear initiated stalk and got within bow range. That's what we wanted. We might as well fill the tag on opening day. We were in a single file line until the last few steps. That's when Gary motioned for us to be quiet and to stand beside him as we crept the rest of the way to see down the edge of the woods. Clay in the middle of me on the far right. He whispered, now you guys look down to the right. The wood line goes down a lot further than it does on

this side. I'll check over here on the left. We eased along almost in cadence two more steps and we'd be able to see all the way down the field edge. I strained to see anything that remotely looked like a bear. I was laser focused on everything that was going on around me when Gary whispered, don't anybody move. The tone in which he said it made me here, look over here at the grizzly bear that's about to kill us all. Slowly and methodically I turned my head to see two grizzly bear cubs and a sow standing 50 yards away. The sow was chomping down grass like they weren't making it anymore and the both cubs were staring at us. The one in front and closest to us was standing on all fours and the one behind him and nearest to the sow stood up on his hind legs to see over his sibling and so he could see what we were.

They both bolted at the same time and ran away from where we were standing and passing right in front of the nose of Mama Bear. Looking back on it now, she didn't pay them any attention at first. I'm sure they did that playing and chasing each other all the time. It was when they hit the woods and didn't stop that she looked at the way they'd left and realized they were running away from something. Then she looked back to see what they'd run away from, and there we stood. All three of us, side by side, looking like a big bear hunting Oreo, with the double stuff on the right hand side. Mama Bear stood up on her high legs and stared at us for what seemed like a week. I'm not sure what that translates to in time-wise and Canadian, but in reality, it was really only for a few seconds.

She woofed loud when she stomped her front feet down on the ground, and it rattled the stuff in my pockets, and my mind immediately calculating, the number of clean sets of drawers I had back at the can. Should I live through this, for I was going to need some. Then as quickly as I processed all that, she was gone. Disappearing through the same hole in the woods, her cubs had gone. It was absolutely magnificent. She was beautiful, and so were her cubs. I felt privileged to have seen them and to have lived through it.

Clay doesn't remember it being as significant an event that I do, which proves my adage of if you want two different accounts of a singular event, get two eyewitnesses to the same thing. To the individual, perception is reality, and mine may have been biased by my innate fear of standing unarmed within rock chunking distance of a sowl grizzly and her cubs, my only defense being my inability to look like I tasted bad. Clay barely remembers the event and Gary the guide with whom I spent a week spotting and stalking bears all over British Columbia probably doesn't even remember us being there. Did I manufacture the events and how they unfolded?

Did I add some spice or use poetic license and telling that story about my first encounter with a grizzly bear? Absolutely not. Were my perceptions of that close encounter romanticized or clouded by how I, interpreted her reactions to our surprise meeting? Absolutely. I don't know what was going on inside that bear's head, but wildlife biologists tell us that for them, it's fight or flight. And I'm glad she chose the latter.

Perception is as individual as the cat doing the perceiving. That's something we can all learn from, and that's your challenge this week. Listen to folks tell their own bear stories and try to see it from where they were standing. You don't have to agree with them, and just as important, they don't have to agree with you. It's not a new concept to be respectful of another's viewpoint,

but it's one we're all a little out of practice of. We're all neighbors on this spinning rock, or, according to some folks, this humongous flat thing, we're surfing through space on. Either way, your neighbor is your neighbor. I'm leaving my second trip out for now and I'll talk about that on another day. That was a special trip and part of the reason I'm able to talk to you now is a direct benefit from that excursion. It's a good one and it literally changed the life path for both Clay and me.

We got some fun content coming out soon on the Me Dieter YouTube channel. Be looking for that announcement. In this country life, we've got a few surprises. as it's there too. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve. Sounding all. Y'all be careful. First Lights Fieldware 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. from built to last. Check out. First Lights new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.