Bear Grease - Ep. 289: This Country Life - Keeping Your Cool Above and Below Water

Episode Date: January 17, 2025

Cue up the danger music, Reva! Brent’s sharing some risky stories from his youth involving tractors and motorcycles. He’s also narrating a recent event that may be humorous now, but at the time was anything but funny. Make sure your seatbelts are buckled and your tray table is in it’s upright and locked position. This one is gonna get a little bumpy.  Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch 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 trot lining and just general country living, I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This country life is presented by Case Nives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcasts the airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Keeping your cool above and below the water.

Good night, nurse, we've got some stuff to talk about this week. I thought my adrenaline-filled living on the edge of safety adventures were over when I hung up my badge and spurs from chasing criminals around. But alas, they were not. I'm going to tell you all about it. There's no leading story. This is a long one, kids. So grab a cup of Joe and get ready for this one.

I still remember the opening sentences of the liability waiver that my brother Tim and I had our family attorney draw up for our guide business. Welcome to Southern Waterfowler's Guide Service. Waterfowl hunting is an inherently dangerous activity. And from there, it went on to describe that associating your person with firearms, dogs, water, boats, ATVs, inclement weather, and others either known, or unknown to you was a risk you took voluntarily and assumed all the responsibility should any calamity befall you whilst participating in any activities during your stay. It took a whole page of legal Latin you couldn't really understand without deciphering it with a Rosetta Stone to say, you're on your own, pal, don't do anything stupid. Now, the reason we had to hire a lawyer to create that document for clients to sign was because of lawyers in the first place. It's like the circle of life.

They created and profited from this whole assumed liability thing to the point where you can't swing a dead cat around your head without hitting someone looking to sue you for something, including hitting them with a dead cat. It's in our DNA to take risk. Folks have been taking risk since like forever. For instance, had the Spaniards not risked the rest the Royal Farm on Columbus's exploration of the West, we'd all be working on the second Thursday of each October instead of sitting in a tree bowhunting like Queen Isabella intended for all of us to do. I'm no stranger to taking risks. Anyone who's listened to this weekly struggle should be well-versed by now on my continued attempts to unintentionally martyr myself doing the things

that I love most, which is spending time outside. I've never been what I would call. I've never been what I would call reckless, but there have been occasions when I have used poor judgment. I was 10 or 11 when I unintentionally discovered that it was possible to pop a wheelie on a tractor. I was bush hogging a field behind the house. For those that aren't familiar with that term bushhogging, allow me to hold forth a simple explanation. Bushhog is a brand name for a rotary cutter that's pulled behind a tractor to cut high grass, weeds, and tree sap, with bushes, all kind of such as that.

And it was powered by the tractor's PTO by a drive-cheft that you connected to the gearbox that ran the blades. The faster you set the throttle, the faster the blades turned. It was a big, overgrown lawnmower, and it was an inherently dangerous activity to begin with. And trusting it to a child even more so, or one would think. but it was it not really. I was well first on how to run both pieces of machinery before ever being turned loose on.

I lived on a farm, and it was part of my very existence, along with the regular chores of mowing the yard and other activity that kids of the time found themselves bound to and what I like to refer to as my error of indentured servitude, no work, no vittles. It was a simple arrangement that there were required no knowledge of Latin to understand.

I didn't really mind it unless it was taking the time I'd allotted for hunting and fishing or running around with my friends. Otherwise, I actually enjoyed it, especially when I found out I could do tricks on it. It was a massive Ferguson 245 diesel tractor manufactured from 1976 to 1983, and you could buy one in its final year of production for $17,150. We'd had that one for a few years by then, but it was in great shape and well taken care of. I'd just sat down in the seat and started it up, set the throttle to the RPMs I'd been instructed to do, and placed the tractor in the appropriate gear and range I was allowed to use for traveling from the barn

to wherever I'd be running the tractor on the farm. I had a different set of instructions for actually engaging the bush hog and mowing. It was higher RPMs, but lower gear. I left the barn across the pond levee and slowed down to a crawl to cross the spillway on the west side of the pond. Reaching the other side, I increased the throttle above where I was supposed to, but I was in a hurry to get to bowing. And with the bush hog raised a few feet above the ground behind the tractor, it looked like a diesel-powered red waltz with its stinger poking out. While releasing the clutch, my left foot slipped off the pedal, and I popped. the wheelie on that tractor and rode it for about 10 yards before I slammed it back down.

The wheel on the back of the bush hog acting like a wheelie bar and keeping the front wheels from getting more than a couple feet above Arkansas. It scared the living soup out of me and was exhilaratingly fun all at the same time. I needed to do that again, and I did, on multiple occasions when the coast was clear of parents and snitches. Papa Nilely was my gateway maneuver that led me to power-breaking individual back wheels allowing me to whip into a power slide in the mud and change directions on a dime on that tractor. Never thinking how easy it would have been to flip the tractor over on top of me, which was a real and probable occurrence that thankfully never manifested itself in my routine of tractor tricks,

witnessed only by me and our cowdog Luke. Now that was the extent of my tractor tricks and thinking back on it now, I realized how blessed I am to still be here today. I'm also reminded of the time my friend Wayne Parnell rode his motorcycle all the way from where he lived in the country on the other side of town out to our farm. We were about 14 years old, he'd been exactly two months to the day older than me. It was the summertime and I was the only one at home when Wayne came rolling up on his new wheels. man that's slick he said you want to ride it heck yeah i do this would be the first time i had ever rode a motorcycle in my life you know how to ride one don't you yep sure do what's the gears one down and three up he said got it and i'm gone and with that i eased out the clutch while rotating the throttle and away i went down the driveway out on the county road and around the curve that only a few short years ago i had mud drifted the family farm truck, ending that escapade from Walker Creek. Chasing the school bus, you may remember. Once I was out of Wayne's line of sight, I down shifted into first gear, showered down on the

throttle and released the clutch with the intention of popping a wheelie and riding it for a piece down the road. That was my intention. It was my maiden voyage on a motorcycle. I needed it to be memorable. Now what happened was before Cat could lick his behind, I was laying on my back holding a Honda motorcycle in the air like I had been placed there in the middle of that gravel road like a paperweight to keep the rocks from blowing away in the wind. As gently as I could, I uprighted Wayne's motorcycle, inspected it for any signs of abuse, and there was none, casually rode it back to where he sat waiting for me on the front porch. I have known him for 50 years. I have guarded that secret for the last 44. I feel better now that I've confessed. Sorry, Wayne.

On Blood Trails, the stories don't end when the hunt is over. They just get darker. I've seen something in the road. I instantly thought it was a sleeping bag. And there was a full of blood. Oh, my God, he doesn't have a hit. Blood Trails is a true crime podcast born in the outdoors. Where the terrain is unforgiving, the evidence is scarce, and the truth gets buried under brush and silence.

Indications were he should be right there, but he wasn't. This season, we're going deeper. From cold case files to whispered suspicions, from remote mountains to frozen backwoods. Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness. Because out here, there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people, behind trying to piece them back together. He's not an honest person. He's incapable of being honest.

Somebody somewhere knows something. I'm Jordan Sillers. Season 2 of Blood Trails premieres April 16th. Follow now on Apple, I Heart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. Outside of playing cops and robbers with real police cars and chasing real bad guys, some of which were pretty dynamic, I've kept the danger needle pretty much on zero when it pertains. row when it pertains to purposely putting myself at risk just for the sake of thrill and adventure. That's not to say it didn't happen because it did, just not on purpose.

Some of the occasions I've alluded to on this very program, another that happened a few days ago I'm about to. I and a few of my fellow compatriots gathered in Arkansas at the head of a recent Arctic cold front that was rumored to be bringing in frigid temperature, snow, and clouds of ducks. Two-thirds of which would turn out to be true, but as I sometimes say, that's a story for another day. Anyway, after months and months had planted with my colleagues at First Light and Meat Eater on a duck hunting film we've been working on, the time came for the rubber to meet the road, or better yet, for the waiters to meet the water.

I'd gained permission to hunt a few places that are a little off the beach, but you're a little off the beaten path that some friends have access to, and it was one of those places our adventure would begin well before daylight and well below freezing. We rolled up to the meeting place an hour and a half before daylight and met another one of my friends who would lead us, and by us I mean all seven of us, a number that included two video cameramen, a photographer, a producer, a black lab named Moss, and two others, along with yours truly toting shotguns. Camera gear, a dog stand, backpack, shotguns, and three sons of the South would occupy a 15-year-old side-by side that has been a fixture at the Cache Bayou Hunt Club.

The number of ducks and coons and hounds and people it has carted back and forth along the White and Cache Rivers would be far too many for me to even hazard a guess, but you get the idea. It's been well used. And like our old tractor, it's always been well taken care of. It wasn't treated as a circus prop like I did that tractor on occasion or a barred motorcycle from a childhood friend. It was a conveyance to and from the hunting and fishing locations, a tool in the drawer to be used, cleaned, and put away. That's how a piece of machinery lasts for 15 years in an environment of wearing hardship. And it is with this contraption that we would all narrowly avoid tragedy on the onset of this.

production. We gathered in a huddle delegating who would ride where before taking a two-side-by-side convoy down the levee and across a wooden bridge into what I like to call the mother church a duck hunting, knee-deep, flooded green timber. It is the one true place to enjoy D. Corn Mowler Ducks and seeing the beauty of how they seemingly sometimes just crash down in through the holes in the canopy. Their wings stir in the air like a big ceiling fan and ended in a splash of water that sometimes reaches where you stand.

The image I just struggled vainly to describe is what we were going to attempt to capture on film. But even then fails to show all the wonderment of decoing ducks. You feel it as much as you see it, you smell it as much as you hear it. And to fully appreciate it, you have to be there with friends in which to share it. and with friends I was, both colleagues and hunting buddies. We followed our counterparts down the levee, they and the lead side by side, and us bringing up the rear. The bridge that crossed the ditch leading into the flooded timber was fashioned with new six-by-six-treated timbers and tuba forms.

It was solidly constructed in the lead vehicle and our element crossed without a hitch, and we followed suit. Brad Clark, the pride of Hernando, Mississippi, our driver, lined up perfectly and eased our way across the bridge that allowed for a little less than a foot of clearance on each side of the six-foot wooden expanse that separated dry clothes from wet ones. The next incident was quick and in slow motion all at once. No one can say for sure what happened, but after the rear tires touched the bridge and we were 100% committed to the crossing, the rear end slowly slid left. I sat in the cab staring straight ahead of the flooded woods in front of us, as did Brad and Trevor Nevin. My young friend who in his senior year of high school joined us on this film to play a pivotal role in the message that we were trying to capture. We all felt a sudden shift as the left rear tire crept toward the left edge either due to the ice that had formed on the bridge or possibly a board that had become loose.

We don't know. We still don't know. But the cause was immaterial. What did matter was that we were all doing the math in our heads, and the rate of leftward motion was going to surpass the rate of forward momentum that we needed to reach the other side. Now, Brad did the only thing he could have done, and that was to send the foot feed to the floor

and hope the front tires could pull us back from the brink of extinction. It was not to be. Now, before the armchair quarterback start writing in and telling me how this, that should have been done differently. Save it. You weren't there and no one, and I mean no one knows how they'll react to anything until they're in that situation. Given it all again, same situation, same surroundings, I would expect him to do the same thing. But next time I wouldn't ride, I'd let him cross by itself. Just kidding. Not really. Now, back to the bridge. I reached and grabbed the right front handle of the roll bar whose colloquial name has never been more fitting

or descriptive than it was at that particular moment. My left arm was on the back seat and around Trevor's shoulders and as we reached the point of no return, I grabbed as much of his coat that I could squeeze into my left hand and I pulled him as close to me as I could manage. The side-by-side dipped toward the left rear and in one fluid motion whipped the front toward and into the ditch. Freezing cold water rushed into the cab and passed my waist, and I pulled with all my might on Trevor's coat to keep him off of Brad, who I assumed was now completely underwater

and pinned there by me and Trevor. My right leg was contorted and hung behind me, preventing me from sliding out of the side by side because I couldn't get out, I couldn't get Trevor out, and for all I knew, Brad was still underwater. The time stood absolutely still. I didn't feel the cold water. I didn't hear anything.

I could see that Trevor was fine and of the three of us was in the best position to come out unscathed, which he did. He was sandwiched between me and Brad. Trevor didn't even get wet. We were all wearing our waiters and Trevor had his coat buttoned up to his neck. Inside his clothes we found out,

he was dry as a bone. Brad was my focus. I struggled as hard as I could to free my right leg, from whatever was holding it behind me doing a reverse sit-up to keep my head above the water the whole time calling Brad's name. He didn't answer, and for all I knew, he was still under water. This had gone from good to bad in the blink of an eye, and I knew it could turn tragic just as fast if I didn't get Brad above the water. My colleague and friend, Max Barter, jumped in the water and was helping hold me above the

surface while Trevor climbed out. Someone freed my leg and I was hauling Brad the whole time trying to find out where he was and I crawled out and as fast as I could I turned around only to see Brad standing up looking at me. He did go underwater but he popped up pretty quick and he didn't answer me when I was calling his name because he thought I was trying to get him to free my leg that after he looked at it he thought was broken because of how it was positioned. He's the one who freed my leg so I could see. save him.

Turned out, he didn't need saving. As is often the case, communication was the problem to the answer. We got a tractor in a backhoe when we pulled the side by side out of the water and loaded it back on the trailer. Daylight hadn't breached the horizon and we were headed back to the camp. That was enough adventure for the first day. We finished up with three more days of shooting and got on film what I think will be something really special. I hope it is. You can judge it for yourself when it comes out later this year.

I know it will always be special to me because of the shared experience of the hunt and the camp life. We shared that experience with old friends and new ones. We can each tell our own version of that story to others who weren't there, but they'll never know exactly how it was. Adrenaline-filled moments with acquaintances and friends make them family and brothers, who above all will always have the defining moment that when faced with adversity, we put each other before ourselves. I've had a few of those moments over my law enforcement career, mostly with the same few people.

And up until a week ago, the folks that fit that criteria of acting beyond self would just about fill up a church pew and that's all. But now there's even less space on that pew. There's risking anything, getting out of bed, crossing the street. The best thing we can do is to be ever vigilant and always have a plan. I didn't have a plan in place for riding a side by side off a bridge, but remaining calm, assessing the immediate threats to our health and safety, and acting accordingly was what everyone did when that situation presented itself.

Now, that ain't always been the case, even with so-called veteran-trained professionals. I've seen it firsthand. But one of the shining examples of that day who did just that was an 18-year-old high school senior from Cabot, Arkansas. The world will benefit from him and others like him. I know they're out there, and I'm proud to call this one, my friend. Thank y'all so much for listening. I can't wait for you to see this project when it gets released later on.

Thanks for tuning in to the Bear Grease, channel and listening to me and Clay. If you're so inclined and have a minute, please share our podcast with others that you think might enjoy it and leave a review if you have a chance. It really helps to spread the word about what we're doing here.

Until next week, this is Brent Reeve. Signing off. 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, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldware gear at firstlight. com.