Bear Grease - Ep. 311: This Country Life - Flying Deer and Counting Turkeys

Episode Date: April 4, 2025

Flying deer have been a part of our culture since the first tracks were found on snow-covered roofs on Christmas Day. Turkeys that can do math are a wholly different animal in more ways than one. Brent’s sharing a listener's story and looking for answers to a 19-year-old mystery. Turn your ears on and let's see what you think. 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.

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 that airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Flying deer and.

counting turkeys. Turkey season is getting cranked up just about everywhere over the next few weeks, and your old Uncle Brent has got turkeys on the brain. I got a good story from 19 years ago that involves my son, perseverance, and a question that's still unanswered. I'm going to tell it and let you decide. But first, I'm going to tell you this story. This story comes from this country life listener, David Jackson.

David lives in Lead Hill, Arkansas, which is in Boone County, and close enough to Missouri to hit the Show Me State with a 22. I myself have chased turkeys near Lead Hill many moons ago, picking a few of the ripe ones and toting them home to the flat land. But David has offered the following for your approval, so in David's words and my voice, here we go. It was open morning and turkey season, spring. 2014. My dad had recently passed away leaving my sister to meet the family's hunting farm

east of Hardy, Arkansas. For several years, my dad, my sons, and I had enjoyed hunting and camping there. Lots of memories were made, as you can imagine, and my brother-in-law had never gotten a turkey, so I decided that this would be the perfect time to introduce him to our farm, and hopefully both of us would be successful. A dad and I had taken deer, turkey, and squirrel over there for years from that farm, but the turkey population was superior to that of the deer. They were everywhere back in the day. This cool crisp morning turned out to be exactly what we had hoped for.

Clear skies do on the ground, hot coffee in the thermos, and most importantly, knowledge of where the turkey is normally roosting. At least we thought we knew. The property north of our land was known for noise, late nights, and more noise. Now, this must have been the reason for the unexpected relocation of what we called our predictable turkey roost, causing them to move on the adjacent ridge on our southern border. I sent my brother-in-law to the normal roosting ridge while I chose to huddle up on the ground on the edge of an ATV trail, near the northwest corner of our land.

I just knew my hunting partner was at the perfect spot. I'd seen them flying down many mornings near this location. What we expected to happen that morning did not happen, not even close. Daylight broke and a few minutes passed when I heard Goblin to the South. I had never heard a sound from my brother-in-law's location, so I decided to just stay planted and wait a few more minutes. What I didn't know was that my brother-in-law also heard the gobbels too, and he decided to leave his spot and head to the South Ridge as fast as he could go.

Now, if you ever hunted on a ridge, sound sometimes seemed closer than they really are. His thought was that turkey was close, but in reality, it was much further. IRA TV trails allowed us to walk between various deer stands on the property, with ease. You could cover lots of ground quickly and quietly. Brother-in-law made it out to the trail just fine, but apparently had made quite a bit of noise going through the woods from that ridge he was on to the trail. What neither of us knew was that there were several deer-bedded on that ridge right between us. I was thinking and gathering up my

stuff and heading south to that ridge before they flew down, and I heard the noise. Now, I've heard deer running through the woods hundreds of times, but from a deer stand. This was my first time to ever hear him running from a seated position next to a main trail in the dark. He had apparently busted the deer from their bed, causing him to run for their deer lives, and it was fight or flight, and they chose the latter. Fortunately, for me, most of the deer ran just to the right, but one deer, one deer did not. I'm guessing it was a doe, but I really couldn't say it was pretty dark. All I know is that that deer was big.

And I mean running right down the trail, right in my direction. This deer didn't know I was on the ground in his path, and I suspected at the last second it must have thought, huh, a new stump on the ground. Well, that stump was me. And it jumped over my head and at the last second with one of its back legs grazing my left kneecap as it flew over me. but it felt like someone took a baseball bat and swung it at my leg. Did that really just happen? Am I injured? Is my knee okay?

Are there any more coming down that trail? Questions galore flashed through my mind, but thankfully, only that one made contact. Now, I had no clue that my brother-in-law had moved and jumped these deer, and neither did he. I also didn't know he decided to circle around and head to the sea. same ridge I was going to as well. We had both heard the goblin on the south ridge and both decided to head that way, coming in from opposite directions. Even with the deer collision, I managed to get there before he did, which turned out

to be a blessing and a curse. My path was pretty much straight up the ridge while his was over and around and then up. Quickly in position, a short time later, I saw the Tom's head. and beard in range just 20 yards away, and I let him have a three and a half Winchester number five. That was the blessing. My brother-in-law hadn't made it there yet, and was still down the hill on the other side,

and was out of range of my shot. That was also a blessing. The curse was that I would have preferred him to be the one to get that bird. It would have been his first. He came running and asked me, did you shoot? Yep, it was me. We were both shocked to see one another,

him thinking I was far away to the north and me thinking he was still up there where I'd left him. While hunter and gun safety were drilled into our heads from childhood, this is case and point that you can never be too careful. We celebrated and enjoyed fresh fried turkey over the next couple of days. I sported the sore knee for a week and wished that deer jump could have been documented on video tape. I bagged several

turkeys since that crisp spring morning, but none have been more painful. Safe hunting out there and watch out for those knee-knocking high-flying deer. Well, David Jackson of Lead Hill, Arkansas, thanks for sharing your story and the

reminder for the rest of us to make a plan. Have contingencies and communicate above all else. But according to David Jackson, that's just how that happened. Last spring, Clay Newcomb and I collaborated with Jason Phelps at Phelps game calls in 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. My son Hunter had been rambling around on the planet for eight years and one month, and it just smashed his first long beard a fortnight before. It was an

Arkansas open and morning double that had two turkeys flopped after three shots from his 20-gauge pump. He fired once and me sending two more after he patiently handed me his 870, the last of which hit its mark. It would be the fuse that burned bright for several years until for one reason or another his interest led him elsewhere. But that season, we learned a lot, both of us. Me teaching him everything I knew about chasing turkeys and he's teaching me too that, to borrow Steve Ronella's phrase, a fresh set of eyes does find more beans.

For our last tags, we were hunting a farm in southeast Arkansas that had little of no pressure and a good population of turkeys. We'd seen one in particular that had a harem of hens that frequented a section of timber and open fields. He roosted along the edge of a big open pasture, almost 80 acres worth of prime manicured cow food. The only irregularity was a point of woods that pushed out into fields about 60 yards. Also, there was a spring seat that acted as a natural watering hole and shade for cows in the summertime. It was also where that turkey roosted nearly every day. The gobbler would pitch out

in the middle of that pasture and the hens followed suit, usually joined by several jakes who lingered around the edges of the flock of seven hens that that gobbler pushed around the pasture like a cowdog moves cattle, always keeping the tight rain on the seven hens. I played every trick I knew on that turkey who would answer it nearly every call I threw at him, only to strut in circles as he herded the ladies around and around the open landscape. I called at the hens, but he wouldn't let them leave. I called the jakes-up so many times I started to be able to recognize the differences in them.

We'd become some paticos from our many visits, all within sight and earshot of that old boss gobbler who paid attention to their ventures, but never tried to join their escapades. No, he was satisfied with cording that gaggle of hens up and down the middle of that pasture, even though he was ruthless and heavy-handed about any of them straying off. He was unbothered with the addict number eight to his hair. It was like he knew his limitations and apparently seven was it. I tried a combination of calls and decoys and tactics with him. Diaphrams, box calls, slates, snuff box calls.

Snuff tobacco used to come in small, 10 canagers about the size of a half dollar in circumference and 3 to 4 inches long. Old timers would make them out of an empty can. You cut half the lid off, replace that portion with latex, held in place with a rubber band with a narrow gap between the latex and the 10. Now with the bottom of the can removed and a little practice, you can make some show-nuff turkey racket that I've seen make some old tough turkeys

come in like you had them on a string. But not this hickery, He wasn't playing around with anything but the safety of the middle of that pasture and those seven hens. Eventually they'd walk off and disappear in the woods around the field edges were so open from cattle use that there was zero chance of moving on him after he passed us up. We just had to sit and watch him walk away. Other turkeys would gobble, but it had gotten personal. No other turkey would do.

It had to be this one. And that wasn't just for me, that was all Hunter. He was on a mission to show this gobbler who the real boss was. Whenever we employed the decoy, we'd get there way before daylight and set up only to have him approach up to a certain distance from us and the decoy, always out of comfortable range of Hunter's shotgun and his ability to shoot it. This was his turkey, and even though I might, I might have smashed him on a couple of occasions, with my shotgun, I chose not to even try.

I was just as hypnotized by wanting Hunter to succeed as he was, maybe even more so. And we approached it every day like we were engaged in battle. We had long given up the decoy the last times we'd used it, the gobbler had gotten kind of spooked and I don't blame him. It was made from foam. The pain had almost all chipped off of it, and it wasn't that much of a true representation of a hen turkey anyway.

As a matter of fact, It was ugly. It was only in my vest because I had forgotten to take it out. It weighed nothing. It favored nothing. But it folded up and stayed unnoticed in the game bag. The more accurate description would be that it looked as much like a wild hen turkey as a hersey's chocolate bunny. It looked like a wild rabbit.

On day number five of hunting this gobbler, we were once again standing on the south edge of this big pasture, facing north way before daylight. A quarter of the property laid to our left or our west from where we stood. The other three quarters obviously were to the east and our right, and we were positioned on the west side of that point of wood that stuck out in the pasture, the one with the seep and spring I told you about. This morning, the turkey gobbled on the south side of the pasture, just like always, but he was further to the right or the east towards that end,

further away than normal, placing that point of woods between him and us. So picture it in your mind. We were standing on the edge of a cow pasture, 20 acres of open pasture to our left, and to our right was 60 acres, except for that point of woods that stuck out in the field on the same side we were, and the gobbler was roosted on the other side. We never tried to get closer. And we never made a peep.

To tell you the truth, I was all out of ideas. I heard him when he flew off the roost, and a split second later, I saw him glide out into the middle of that pasture in the early dawn. A few moments later, the hens followed, and I heard Hunter counting in a whisper. One, two, three, four, five, six. Dad, six hens. Yeah, I see him, hunter, and I've been seeing him for a week. No, sir, we've been seeing seven hands.

No, what? He was right. There had been seven with him. And we waited for number seven to fly off the roost, counting and recounting all the hens that he was ushering around in that field like a bull elk does cows. I wonder what happened to her. I told him I didn't know. Maybe she was already sitting on nests,

but if there was ever a chance for this hideous decoy of ours to work, it was right now. It was my last play. He could see the wheels turning in my noggin, and I grabbed him by the arm, and we sunk deeper in the edge of the woods and duck walked to where that point of wood stuck out in the field. From there, we got down on our bellies and crawled up the edge of that point to the opposite side away from those turkeys, both of us sop and wet from the mud and morning dew after crawling 40 yards. I stuck that hen decoy up and keeping a big red oak between us and the turkeys. I crawled over to it on the west side of that point and sliding up next to it. We sat down facing the absolute opposite direction from where they were.

We couldn't even see them when we got settled in. But round and round he strutted, pushing those hens around as they fed more or less in our direction, but on a course that would once again keep him well out of rank. Hunter sat on my right, and his shotgun oriented toward that decoy and his back to the goblin and yelping that was taking place right behind his shoulder out in that field. Not turning around was like trying not to watch your fishing partner's court. It was all I could do to keep still to not roll over and try to peek around the back of that tree to see where they were. They hadn't made a sound in what seemed like forever now, and there was absolutely nothing between. us and them but that big red oak, no underbrush, nothing.

We were as hit as the terrain would allow, which was only good until the turkeys got past that point of land and would then be able to see us sitting against the base of that tree, plain as day. Our only hope was that raggedy decoy I had jobbed in the ground out in front of us on a sweet gum limb I'd cut a week ago, and hopefully it would keep their attention. The steak that came with it was lost to who knows where, but that gum limb was a fit and substitute accessory that looked about as much like a turkey leg as that decoy did a turkey, but we were all in. That peg-legged outcast from the island of misfit toys was our Obi-Wan Kenobi.

It was our only hope. I looked down at Hunter and he was rock solid, his shotgun propped upon his knee and aiming down the barrel toward that decoy. I had to give it to him. The little man was mission-focused and front-side-oriented. You good, buddy? Yes, sir. Do you see them? I looked up out toward the middle of that field, and I did see them.

There they were. Loosely taken the same path they'd taken every morning before, rolling westward down the middle of that pasture, with that gobbler taking inventory every step of the way. He strutted around each hen, turned his fan toward whichever one he was closest to, She was the only gal in town. Bud, they're out there right now.

You'll be able to see him in a second. There's still only six hens with him. Dad, I am looking at number seven. And when he sees there, he's going to be all over for him. He was as confident as anything I'd ever seen. Me? Not so much. I gave it one in a million.

Nothing else had worked. And now I was betting on a turkey's math scheme. else to lure him within shotgun range of my eight-year-old. In doing so, he'd have to be close enough to see what no living entity should confuse with the live wild eastern turkey hen. The same one that he'd been leery of approaching two different times this week. Cut your eyes over at him now, you ought to be able to see him by now. They were moving at a slow but steady pace and the hens were feeding along with him right

on their hill strutting the whole way. 150 yards from us. I glanced down at Hunter. I watched him close to make sure he was breathing. He wasn't moving an inch. I felt good about that. I looked over and stared at that decoy and lost what little bit of confidence I'd built up over the past few moments. Turkey gobbled and broke me from my sneering gaze at that unreasonable facsimile of a hen turkey.

I hadn't I bought another one. I looked over and he was looking in our direction. He gobbled again and came out of his strut facing our direction, but looking straight at that decoy. He didn't move, and after a few seconds, all the hens were looking to. I figured at any moment this was going to be the repeat of every other interaction. Then after what seemed like forever, the hens went back to feeding, he went back to strut, and all of them slowly fit toward our direction. Wait a minute.

Are they actually doing this? Son, can you see them? Yes, sir. They were covering those 150 yards at a snail's pace, and with every step they made toward that decoy, I thought it would be their last. The hunter never flinched. He'd been sitting that way without moving for more than 20 minutes,

and he was eight. I was 40 and about to lose my mind. The ground was rock-hearted at the base of that tree with all the years of cows patting down that dirt. The only thing between my behind and China was two square feet of Arkansas and a butter bean-sized piece of flint I'd miss sweeping away when we sat down

that seemed to be growing in both volume and sharpness with each tick of the clock. I stared back at the decors who were now starting to pick up the pace as they came closer. And one by one, they passed in front of me and Hunter and either walked up to or just behind that one. one-legged ragged decoy that was 20 yards in front of us. They never gave us a second look feeding right on past her.

Then the gobbler strolled in and took his spot next to that foam Jezebel. Fan fully spread, wings dragging the ground and drumming like it was his job. Hunter waited until he stepped right in front of where his gun barrel was pointed without moving an inch. He popped the safety off and shot that Joker square in the left ear. Bang! The end. Now, from that day forward, that old raggedy decoy was known as number seven. No idea on what became of her.

We moved a few times since then, and she was on our way out the day she'd lured hunter's second turkey into its doom. The real question is can turkeys count? I have no clue, but it makes me wonder. I appreciate so much all of you. who've been the biggest part of this country life. It's not possible without you, and I encourage you to keep sitting in those stories to my TCL story at the meat eater.com. We love sharing them with you.

Thanks for listening to me and Claybow here on the Bear Greece channel. We've got a lot of new stuff coming soon that I'm really excited about, and I know you're going to enjoy. New this country life merch is coming in the next few months. Folks are working hard to get it here just as soon as possible. so y'all hang in there. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve. Signing 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. last. Check out. First Light's new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.