Bear Grease - Ep. 291: This Country Life - A First and A Last

Episode Date: January 24, 2025

In everything, there is a beginning and an end. We can usually control the onset of the things we choose to do, but our final day of participation is sometimes chosen for us. Brent's relating a listener's story about a first squirrel hunt and telling another one that describes a final deer hunt, which had quite an effect on him. Gather up and get easy, it's time for MeatEater's This Country Life podcast. 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.

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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. A first and last. A first and last, the beginning and the end. If there is a start to anything, there will most definitely always be an end. We can plan for the beginning, but the end is hardly ever known. From a first squirrel hunt to a last deer hunt, we never know when they'll end, but we hope that the last one will be as memorable as the first. I've got what I believe are great examples of each,

and I'm going to share them with you now, starting with this story. There are four states in the U.S. that refer to themselves as Commonwealth states, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, the home of a this country life listener who shared the following narrative from 44 years ago. So in his words and my voice, here we go. My name is Howard Howie Toller from Bluefield, Virginia. My story takes us back to 1980 when I was 10. An October was quickly approaching, and I was eagerly awaiting the time to come when my dad, my uncle, older cousins, hitch up my dad's camper to the white Jeep Grand Wagonier with wood grain panels and head out to Greenbrier County, West Virginia for my first squirrel hunting trip. I've been hearing the guys telling their hunting tales for as long as I could remember, and I absolutely could not wait to get out in the woods. I remember being on the top bunk.

I thought I had won the toss and got the best sleeping position. But I was soon reminded that heat and the exhaust of the other guys following chili with beans for dinner rises and hangs out right on top with me. And being a camper, there were only a few valuable inches of airspace between my nose and the ceiling. I certainly did not get much sleep that night. before opening morning. Excitement and the strange smells and lack of sounds except for the occasional acorn bouncing off the roof of our camper

kept me from getting much more than a few non-consecutive hours of sleep. About the time I got good and asleep, the mallet on that old wind-up alarm clock started banging away at its two bells. Someone, and I'm not sure who, smacked that obnoxious clock and bounced it off the wall, putting an abrupt end to all the racket. Now I shot up and I slung the covers off and I swear it seemed like I had my boots on before I hit the floor. Everyone was squeezing past each other in the narrow camper stepping over boxes and duffel bags trying to get dressed.

Getting the day's snacks packed and slurped down a cup of coffee except dad, he just laid in his bunk looking at his foot that was sticking out from under the cover. Two things to know about my dad. Everyone called him foot. and because of an unfortunate accident in the coal mine, he had only nine toes. Sometime during the night, someone had tied a game tag to his tow next to the one that was missing and rode on it, Fudd, gone to market, be back soon. It was probably the funniest thing I'd witnessed in my 10 years, and dad was quick to say it's not many people who get to see their tow tag and live the telemark. Soon after, me and dad were parked on the lawn, me looking uphill and him downhill, or at least that's what you said, I had no idea because it was still dark. To say I was a little uneasy sitting in the pitch black in the woods was an understanding.

I was sure every twig and falling up was some unseen toothy beast planning to make breakfast out of me. Dad kept scooting me down, saying if I get any closer, I'll have to get in his pocket. Soon enough, that old son did what it does and started to rise above the ridge. I got my first looks at where I'd been sitting, and even though it was really no different than the woods I played in behind the house, I was certain that our four feet were the only ones to ever leave tracks in that portion of the wilderness. And even though that wagoneer that we had rowed in on was within sight just 200 yards away. It was shooting light now, and Dad pulled out a three-inch number five, four-tenance,

shell from his pocket and told me to load up, but don't close the breach on my single shot. We sat there on that log for what seemed like days, but was probably only an hour or so, and Dad reached over and took the shell from my gun and told me, come on, close her up, and we stood up, and I snapped the 410 clothes, and I followed him over the ridge to another spot where we repeated the process of finding the log and looking in opposite directions. Again, not so much as a chipmunk made an appearance. My dreams of shooting herds of squirrels from the tree jobs were quickly fading in boredom, cold in my butt getting numb on that damp log started setting in.

By now, it was close to time to head back to camp for lunch. I think my dad knew I was losing a little of my excitement, so since we were leaving anyway, we found an old vina sausage can stuck it on the branch and stepped off a few paces. That did me a shell Let me shoot my gun and kill that can. I was glad to do it. We headed back to camp, and after lunch,

Dad knew another place where he had found squirrel cuttings under some hickory trees. We parked ourselves on another log, looked in the opposite directions again, and I got my shell in my open breach 410, and I'm ready. I was beginning to question repeating this same approach to squirrel hunting, walk and sit, walk and sit, walk and sit. My thoughts were wondering to everything 10-year-old boys ponder on, namely Daisy Duke, and watch that weird bug. And can I squish it with a stick that I'm playing with?

I pretty much given up on looking for squirrels and basically just keeping Dad company while he hunted. Suddenly a flash of moving and a tree caught my attention. I'm thinking, sheesh, another stupid bird. Think on a minute. That bird has a fuzzy take. Could it be? Dad, there's a squirrel. Dad slowly glanced over his shoulder and began scanning to locate what I was seeing,

and in short order, he locked on. Son, get ready. That's a bigot. At a snail's pace, he swung his legs over that log, and it was now facing the same direction as me. We watched and waited while that squirrel worked its way closer and into range of my shotgun. Finally, it was close enough and stopped while it sat in the, crotch of a limb on a tree just nibbling at a hickering nut. Dad said, go ahead and shoot.

And for whatever reason, I stood up and got down on one knee like I was going to ask that squirrel to marry me. I rolled the hammer back. I settled the bead and bang! I recovered from the shot and my squirrel was still where it was when I shot, only now it was on the trunk pointing upward toward the canopy. Dad handed me another shell, but that squirrel lost his grip and fell with a thud. Walking up, I knew it was a whopper of a fox squirrel, but it wasn't dead. Dad got it by the tail and ended it suffering by swinging it and thumping its head on a tree. I was a little shocked by the violence of it all, and I remember feeling slightly guilty

for what we just did. Later on, my dad remarked that if there ever comes to time when you don't have a little remorse for taking a life, it's time to quit hunting. We got back to camp first, and I couldn't wait for the others to make it back so I could show off my prize. Soon enough, everyone started straggling in. I had it all planned out. I'd wait for everyone to get back, and when they all pulled up the day's squirrels and began the cleaning process, I'd throw my wapper down on top of the pile and soak in all the adulations and the backslaps.

And just like I planned, my uncle cousins had a pile of gray squirrels and one nice fox squirrel that they were proud. of, and everyone was telling the stories of how their squirrels came to be in their game vest. Now, they just commenced to clean the squirrels when I walked up and dropped mine on top of the pile like an old West gambler throwing down a straight flush and said, bam, boys! Sure enough, the holy cows, the good gollies, and the way to goes started just like I planned, and I finally had a hunting tail to share. Now, that old fox squirrel ended up in a pot with dumplings,

and Dad always regretted not having that squirrel mounted for me, but I never really cared that he didn't. I had a memory and a tale to tell that has stayed with me for nearly 45 years. I had more adventures than taking bigger and better game, but that fox squirrel back in 1980 is my favorite memory. Dad and my uncle are gone now, but they are with me every opening morning in squirrel season, and sometimes I'll chuckle out loud thinking about Dad's toe tag

and the note from the little piggy that went to market. And according to Howie Toller of Bluefield, Virginia, that's just how that happened. Now, Howie included a picture of that day of him, a skinny 10-year-old boy, his dad, a pile of squirrels on the ground, a normal-sized fox squirrel in his left hand, and the trophy in his right that's as big as a small child.

Thanks for sharing, Howie. If you're interested in seeing that picture, check out my Instagram. 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. It was open the day of gun deer season in Arkansas over 20 years ago, and I was working uniform patrol as a lieutenant and the day shift supervisor. My sheriff was deer hunting, my major was deer hunting, and the captain was deer hunting.

They were all only a phone call away from working, but if nothing happened, they would only see the reports about what took place in their absence. So why was I working on opening day? Well, I just answered my own question. the admin folks were off. The standard operating procedure was anything that happened requiring additional personnel to be called out, like CID or narcotics or the coroner. My immediate supervisor would have to be notified, and then he would determine if it was to be passed on up the chain of command and so on. Also, I was leading by example and showing the deputies

in my charge that I was willing to work so one of them could enjoy the own set of firearms season at their family's camp. It was an excellent example of leadership. It was also a testament of my misreading the schedule weeks before when that deputy had put in for his request to be off duty. Nice job, Stephen Vestel. Anyway, there I was working when I didn't have to, and on a day when I didn't have to. I wanted to be off-hunting with my family.

But it would turn out to be one of the first of the first of the first of the first of the first of the best days at work ever. Not the best, but right up there close. A day that stands out in the top 10% of a 32-year career. Of that in itself speaks volumes of how it affected. One singular event out of literally thousands of interactions that to this day, when someone asks for a story, this one comes to mind, but I seldom tell it. Not because I don't think they'll appreciate it,

because I don't know if they'll appreciate it enough. Besides, most folks only want to hear the stories when someone winds up not being amongst the living before it's over with. Those are the ones that I wish I could forget, the ones that I don't talk about unless it's just someone who was there in a setting where folks that weren't can't hear us. And even then, no details usually just a passing mention of, remember such and such? Yep, that was a bad one. And then we go on and we talk about something else. but I think about them often. Then there's this story,

and it's one where someone passes away. When you hear it in a few moments, and if you see it in your head the way I saw it that day, I think you'll agree why it's not one that I choose to share in the idle conversation. It deserves some reverence. I wrote this the day it happened when I got off work. I would eventually find out that all my assumptions in the time, text of the story proved to be true. So clear your mind and walk with you. I didn't know the old man.

I had never met him or even heard his name before when they told me who he was, but I'll never forget him. The old man's obituary will read that he was in his 80s and that a wife, children, and grandchildren survive him. It may mention that he was a veteran of World War II and was retired after a long career in a mundane job somewhere that he worked to provide for his family for the majority of his adult life. It may even remark that the old man was an outdoorsman, but they'll never be able to convey on a pamphlet handed out by an emphatically somber suit-wearing funeral director the way that old man went to heaven. I know.

I know because I was fortunate enough to be able to see what the old man saw. The call came out from dispatch to meet up with a reporting party at a deer camp in a rural portion of the county. The tin code she relayed to me over the radio was one that meant there was an unintended death. Someone had died alone. I was in that district and answered the call this morning and met with one of the camp members who would lead me to the place where the old man was. I got there and I walked the short distance to where the old man had been hunting out behind the camp. The sky was clear and the sun was shining through the trees in the little oak flat where his ground blind was. The air was crisp and just cold enough to stay warm wearing a jacket if you were moving around or if you were sitting,

a thick wool-lined, antiquated canvas coat like the old man had on. A short distance away was a lean-up stand that the members of his camp had told me that they convinced him to abandon in his failing health. One of the members built the ground blind that faced this little flat where the cool breeze blew water oak leaves from their limbs. They rustled around like ripples in a pond settling into a patchwork of sunlight that dotted the area where we stood. There was a small buck's scrape in front of a blind and a few small red oaks that showed signs that were a bucket recently rubbed his antlers. Beside the blind was a brown and rifle leaned against an oak tree. The rifle was old but immaculate. The blue one was worn and there was a few scratches here and there,

but one could see that this rifle belonged to a hunter. Maybe the old man carried a different rifle many years ago when he served our country. I don't know. But you can bet that if he did carry one, it was kept just as clean as this one. A short distance in front of the blind lay a buck that was dropped in his tracks by an old man using this old rifle. And lay him beside the deer. the old man. The deer had been expertly field-dressed by someone who had done it more than once.

And among the old man's few possessions, inventoried from his clothes was an old man's pocket knife, stained with the blood from his latest and last deer. A single-blade trapper, sharp as a razor, the blade thin for many trips up and down a wet rock. I held it in my hand and I saw the pocketwear that had rendered the logo almost unreadable and the scales slick and polished from years of being carried in his pocket, but immediately recognizable as to what it was to anyone in my circle.

I imagine the old man sitting at the campfire at night telling stories or listening to him while he drank coffee and sharpened his knife. I feel like he saw heaven twice that day. The first time around 9.15 in a little oak flat where his body rested when I first saw him. 9.15 was the time recorded by the old man on the tag that hung from the Bucks Antlers.

The second time he saw heaven was a short time afterward when he walked the wooded trail home to be with his maker. What a beautiful day in a beautiful way to go to heaven. I think about that day now over 20 years later and while I know there are folks who

I'm sure still mourned the loss of the old man, I feel privileged to have been there as a witness to his last act of being as close to creation as one could be while living. And then a moment later, beside the one that created it. He'd accomplished what he'd loved to do. He filled his final tag in a place he'd hunted all his life. The place he loved the most. And when he finished the field work, he put everything in his place and lay down to rest forever.

His heart for over 80 years faithfully matching the pace of his life had simply played out. And that was the end. That was the last. You know, I shared that story on a private hunting group forum from back in the day right after it happened, and wouldn't you know it? A friend of a friend of mine saw it and shared it with the old man's family. A week or so after his passing, they reached out to me and thanked me

and told me they took great comfort in hearing how I had interpreted the old man's last morning. I'll never forget it, and as I sit here now, I can still hear the cool wind and the rustle of the leaves as they tumbled across the ground and feel the peace that was around us all that November morning. Thank y'all so much for listening. It is my absolute pleasure to bring these stories to you each week and share them with you. Keep sharing and spreading the word, old Claybow and I appreciate it. Appreciate it very much. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve. 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 calls. who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action.