Bear Grease - Ep. 324: This Country Life - Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun

Episode Date: May 16, 2025

Brent’s taking one more swing at turkey season with a couple of good ones. A father shares a son’s firsts--that’s plural--from down in Texas and Brent’s got something hot off the press from the Show Me State. Double gobbles, double gobblers, and double barrels on this week’s “This Country Life” podcast brought to you by Case knives.  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 Knives 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.

Double your pleasure, double your fun. Oh, Moss Turkey episode before we switch gears. The main offering is from a hunt this year that was a first for me and my friend Toby Niemeyer. It seemed like we could do nothing right in the turkey woods and then we caught a break. And I'm going to tell you all about it. But first, I'm going to tell you this story. This is from this country life listener Brady Johansson. Brady's from the great state of Texas and sent in this one about chasing turkeys in the

lone star state. So in Brady's words and my voice, here we go. Last year, my eight-year-old son, Porter and I had a great day in the field for spring turkey season, a red letter day, as my dad and his grandfather would say. But before I get into everything that happened, I have to explain a long-standing family tradition that my brother and I are committed to up, holding and one that we cherish. In our family, you must wait until you're 10 years old to kill your first deer and your first dove, the two standard game animals and hunting seasons us Texans look forward to every year.

Now, leading up to your 10th birthday, starting at about six years old, you're giving a BB gun, and you get to start tagging along with dad, and if you're the younger brother, you get to go with your older brother, too. Now then, after you have mastered the BB gun and can show the basics of gun safety, you're allowed to start shooting a 22 and also a 20 gauge. Then after you show proficiency with these calibers on targets, you advance to start hunting small game, rabbits, varmets, squirrels, etc. This typically happens around 8 years old,

and then finally you graduate to a rifle large enough to kill a deer. In our family, we have an old Remington model 706 millimeter with the original Weaver scope on it that was purchased when Porter's grandfather was 10 years old in 1965. In fact, my father killed his first deer with this gun, as have my brother and I and countless other guests and family members. So by the time you're 10 years old, you've been practicing for quite some time with this rival in anticipation of your first hub, but no matter. matter how good you get, you still have to wait all the way until you pass your 10th birthday to finally make that first shot on a deer. Now, back to why all this matters for my then eight-year-old son and I. Last year, he was showing some advanced proficiency with this rifle, and shotgun skills were pretty good too, and I should also add that he's big, if not bigger

than many 10-year-olds I know. He started asking about when he gets to shoot a deer. Now, me having already explained the family tradition to him multiple times, he already knew the answer, but he is getting quite impatient, and to be perfectly honest, so am I. He is my oldest of three sons, so I'm not sure who is excited more for that first deer, him, or me, but neither of us can hardly stand the weight. In response to the extremely hard answer of no to the deer hunting, he asked, well, what about pigs?

Now, we have a little wild hog problem here in Texas where we currently hunt, but we did not where my brother and I grew up hunting with our dad. So this poses a bit of a gray area when it comes to the family tradition. Now, I think for a moment, and I decide that a hog is not considered a game animal in Texas, more like a varmit, as there is no season or bag limit or hardly any regulations on killing them. So why not? Yeah. Yeah, son, hogs are in play, I answer, and his eyes light up. Then he asked, what about turkeys?

Now, I have a real problem because in my reasoning for the hog approval, I did not consider that he would ask about a turkey. Once again, growing up, we didn't have turkeys in the area of my family hunted, so this, it never came up. There is also one other problem, and that is that my father passed away 17 years ago, so he's not here to consult about the rules and the regulations of this long-standing family tradition. There's no board of directors either, but there is my brother and Porter's uncle to consult,

so I started trying to justify my explanation to him because, to be honest, I wanted to take my son, turkey hunt. A quick phone call and the discussion that probably sounded like a teenager, trying to convince his parents to let him stay out late past curfew. And my brother gives his blessing and says, yeah, turkeys can be taken prior to the deer at 10. And with that endorsement, it's on now, buddy. Opening morning of Texas' youth turkey season, and we head to our first spot.

And within five minutes of getting set up and hitting that call a couple times, we hear a gobble. I hit the call, and he gobbles again. I told Porter get ready and be still, he's going to come in. Five minutes past, another yelp and another gobble. I don't believe my eyes when I see him about 100 yards away, bobbing and weaving through the grass coming in hot. He popped up over a little hill and Porter lets him have it. Wham!

The turkey goes down to Sota's Porter. I swapped his 20 gauge for my 12 and a 3-inch turkey load because I wanted to be sure he got his first turkey and he didn't leave the situation with a wounded or a missed bird. Now, I did mention that Porter was a big eight-year-old, but I ain't so sure he was ready for that. In hindsight, I realized that was a little much, but he popped back up quickly, and we celebrated and high-fived and laughed and cried over his first turkey.

I explained to him, now, he kind of got spoiled on that first one because it never happens like that, especially the first time out, and especially with a tom that was spoiled, and a 11-inch beard and curved spurs that were well over an inch long. If that was the end of the story, it would have been a great one. Here's where the story gets even crazier.

That evening, we decided to give that little honeyhole to our hunting buddy and his son, and we headed to a part of the ranch that we had never seen turkeys before, but we figured what the heck, we might as well try. So I pulled up in the truck and told Porter to stay inside, not anticipate much, and as I hit the box call, I didn't believe my ears. A gobbler responded before I even got out my fourth yelp, and he was only about 200 yards away. Get out, truck, Porter.

Get the gun, let's go. So we set up again, and once again, a gobbler is responding right away, and then we see him, 100 yards out, way across an open field in full strut. Then, much to my surprise, two Jakes come charging right at him,

and they proceed to get into a vicious 201 all-out brawl. They are jumping and spurring and pecking and scratching and eventually disappear back into the tree line. On top of that, there was a hen yupe and further down the tree line right where they were headed. I started letting Porter down gently and told him how cool that was to see, but our hunt was probably over. But it's all right because we'd already got one that morning. Once again, I was wrong.

on. After a few minutes, he reappeared in full strut and hit a straight fire, Jake and hen decores. I guess he figured he'd just whooped two of them. What's one more? And we got an absolute strut show for all the time it took him to get within range. And finally, I tell Porter to let him have it, and wham! Turkey number two goes down. More celebrations and high fives and hugs, and I explained once again, this never happens like this and how unfortunate he is, but I don't think he understood. And as the sun was setting on that beautiful March evening, while we were taking our pictures and selfies holding up turkey number two, our fingers signifying the second bird

of the day, I can't help but to think that his grandfather was looking down upon us. He might have had something to do with sending us both of those birds, letting us know he approved by the loophole that we'd come up with in the new, family tradition. And according to Brady, caller of turkeys, litigator for youth turkey hunters and father of Porter,

the gobbler smashing baseball playing eldest Johansen tax deduction. That's just how that happened. I had the pleasure of vision with young Porter during a FaceTime call hearing him tell me that story

and another turkey tale that has his tally up now to three. I'd be lying if I told you. you any particulars about that the last turkey he killed, I was so distracted by how polite and respectful he was and how good his manners are. I feel confident his two younger brothers are of similar demeanor. That's a good boy you got there, Brady. I thank y'all for sharing your story. 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

I love mine because it's easy to use. 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 phelps game calls.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. Toby said, I'll just go hunting with you tomorrow. Job size is too wet to do anything,

and I ain't killed a turkey in 30 years. Well, I was surprised to say the least, but not shocked. My Missouri born and bred brother by choice had been hosting me for over 20 years now. And anyone who's paid half attention has heard me talk about him numerous times on here. His home was my home away from home every spring. His family is my family every day of the year. They're the kind of folks I don't have to talk to every day, week, or even month, even though I'm all for it. our bonds transcend time, space, and frequency.

I have a handful of folks like that in my life, but none surpassed them. I love these people. I didn't think twice when he said he wanted to go with me. I did, however, when he said, I ain't got no camo to wear. I checked my bag and found a leafy top I hadn't been wearing yet this year, and I knew I had an extra face mask in my turkey vest. I always told an extra because before the season is over, it winds up being the only one I have because I've lost the original somewhere between the

South and the Midwest fortune favored Toby this time because I had yet to lose one. He looked at me and said, I can't find any camouflage pants. Well, my response was, you know how many turkeys have been killed by folks wearing overalls a lot. The grass is tall. You've got on some brown jersey gloves, that leafy jacket, and a face mask. You'll be good. Just be still. When 4.30 a.m. rudely punched me in the ear the next morning, I stumbled out of my room to see my new turkey hunting partner dressed and pouring coffee. I told him we were going to my regular spot and listen. It was my favorite jumping off spot for hunting their family's land. I knew it as well as my own and had been standing in that spot at daylight for the majority of the last three decades.

At Goblin Time, we were there, standing beside the side beside, sipping coffee, and a day. and listening to Missouri wake up. And I out what I thought was a reasonable, if not perfect facsimile of a barred owl, leaning forward as to catch the recoil of the coming gobbler, and dang near fell on my face when I got no response. How dare that turkey not answer me. We waited a few more minutes, and after hearing nothing, we moved out on foot. Toby, we're going to go down to that bottom field, cross the creek at your deer stand,

and listen in that other bottom field where they'd normally roost. We walked the 500 yards along the edge of the woods and slipped down past Toby's stand. We were standing at the fence directly under the roost tree where the day before, I'd called four hens to me off that roost. I'd sat up at the edge of the field 100 yards behind where we had just walked through, but now it was well after flying downtime. No way they're still on the roost. I know this land and I know these turkeys.

I told Toby Those hens were roosted right here Right here close yesterday They flew out in the middle of that field And they came straight to me They didn't roost here last night Obviously or we'd have heard them fly down this morning Toby looked up to our left

At a big sycamore tree 30 yards away and said There's a turkey on the limb right there I looked up and saw two turkeys I pulled out my binoes and confirmed One did have a beard But it was the bearded hen that I'd called up the day before They putted a couple times and flew off.

I out right behind their leaving and a gobbler sounded off a long way in the direction they flew. Well, them leaving ain't going to bother us none. Let's slip across the creek and sit up right over there. They like to meet up in this spot and strut. I've seen them do it a million times. I wasn't kidding when I told him that. I'd killed several turkeys out of that bottom field over the years. My confidence level had yet to wane.

My plan was solid and all we'd scared off was a couple. couple hens, which more than likely was going to help us by eliminating some competition, because if there's one thing I know it's this. The turkey you hear goblin ain't the only one out there. This is when patience and knowing the land comes into play. I ain't a rookie at this. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty dang good at it. That's what I was telling myself. When two gobblers blasted off the roost across the little bottom field flying to what I can only assume was Nebraska, followed by three more hens. I looked back at Toby.

He was giggling at me like a little girl. We changed directions. We sat up on the edge of another field, and to make a sad story shorter and even sadder, we couldn't convince six jakes an hour later to walk up to our decoy. They ignored me and her. I wanted to cry.

Then it started raining. And we walked three-quarters of a mile back to the side-by-side, chasing something we felt we had more control over. breakfast. The waitress at the Pioneer Restaurant tried to kill me with eggs, pancakes, biscuits, and all the coffee I could hold and tote in my pockets. And for the next few hours, we drove around looking at turkeys milling around in the big open farm fields as safe from us as they could get. Nothing short of an artillery or lightning strike could harm them with the latter being a greater possibility than the former. It was storming. Then around three that afternoon,

we drove by a family friend's farm. A visit with the landowner saying we were just killing time, riding and looking until the rain stopped, turned into a genuine invitation to hunt his property. And his property, hmm, is loaded with turkeys. He said there was five strutting down there by that gap this morning. Y'all should try that out in the morning. And I asked Toby, why don't we just go this afternoon

and see we can get a head start on tomorrow morning? What a grand idea. So after driving around muddy mile after muddy mile for a few hours looking at turkeys all over creation, we parked and made our way into our new hunting spot. We studied the layout on Onyx before taking off, and I said, you see that field right there, Toby? That'd be a great place for turkeys to be this time of day after this rain. Well, about 600 steps later, we confirmed that being a great place for turkeys to be as we watched them spook out of the field that we were trying to slip up on.

Toby suggested we'd go home before we caused further calamity. That made close to a dozen turkeys we'd spooked. If that trend carried on, it would be like hunting turkeys on Neptune by daylight. We walked down to the gap that farmer told us about and scoped it out, kind of picking out a place to set up the next morning, and we left. Two hours later, the farmer sent us a text. There's a whole pack of turkey strut. down there by that gap. Are y'all down there? I hate Turkish and everything they stand for.

But tomorrow will be another day. Alexander Pope was a poet born May 21, 1688 in London, England. And there's no doubt in my mind that that dude was a turkey hunter. Here's how I know. He wrote a poem called an essay on man. And in that work, he wrote the line that every turkey hunter lives by. Hope springs eternal. The full quote is hope springs eternal in the human breast. Man never is, but always to be blessed. The soul uneasy and confined from home rests and expatiates in a life to come.

The phrase suggests that hope is an inherent part of human nature, a persistent and resilient force that allows folks to persevere even when things seem bleak. Now, that's every turkey hunter I know right up until the season closes. Tomorrow is going to be better. Tomorrow is another day. Now, you need further proof Alexander hunted turkeys? Check this out. He died May the 30th, 1744, at 56 years of age.

He stood four foot six inches tall and I soon measured the same in his casket. But regardless, he died at the end of spring. Probably had a rough go in the turkey woods and turkey hunting had obviously. obviously, stunned his growth. The next morning I rolled out of bed for day three and beat Toby to the coffee pot, and in short order, we were on the way to our new spot. Our plan was simple. We'd just sit inside the fence just down from that gap, and that meant that before daylight,

I'd have to slip out and job that hen decoy up in the edge of that field to give the gobbler something to concentrate on due to the limited back and cover we had. The trees were small where we had to sit. And there was a five-strand bobwire fence that could become an obstacle, but we had no choice. We had to sit right there because of the cover or lack thereof. So picture it in your mind. We're sitting there just down from this gap. We're on one side of the fence.

Decor was on the other. Gobbling time came and went, and we heard one faint gobble we estimated to be a half a mile away. Time ticked away, and by 8.30, after two and a half hours, we hadn't heard anything else. then directly across the field a gobble. The lay of the land and the rise and topography kept us from seeing directly across in front of us, which was south or back to the right on the west end of that 80-acre opening. I called, and he responded. Then another unseen gobbler gobbled further to the west, and that would be the way it went

as they traveled away from us down to the right from the west end of that field out of sight and for the moment out of our lives. We were stuck, unable to move because we didn't know where they were or really where they were going. For all, we knew they could be making their way toward us. Yeah, right. But that's the last place I expected them to be, and unfortunately, this time I was right. A more faint gobble confirmed that they relocated to the southwest end of that field, a quarter and a half away.

I slipped up behind a tree right on the fence row and I watched through binoculars as they strutted and gobbled and what could have passed for a turkey jubilee that was taken place down there. It looked like they were having a lot of fun. I wanted to go. They didn't invite us. Then another turkey gobble due west

straight down the fence line from us in the northwest corner. Toby, we fin to crash this party. We're going to slip down this fence 150 yards and try to work this other turkey. Now the only bad thing, and I told him when we were moving, is we couldn't get that decoy without spooking every bird on that 80-acre field. My reasoning was we'd call to this turkey that was at the West End, but on the same side of the field as us. And the easiest way for him to come to us was right down the edge of the field where we'd be sitting. Then he'd walk up to the little rise between us and him, see that decoy that was way down back behind us to the left,

and he'd walk within a few feet of me and the killing end of my double barrel. We stopped 150 yards or so west of the decoy. I sat down against a small tree, but in front of me on the fence row was a cedar tree that I could see through, but absolutely made me disappear. Toby lay down to my left at the 10 o'clock position, his feet toward me and his head right at the edge of the bottom strand of bobwire. Now, I wouldn't have done that, and he was in a terrible position to shoot a turrets. but at the time I didn't think much about it, but I should have. I could hear the gobbler to our immediate ride at the northeast corner,

and see the other one strutting out at the southwest corner. I watched them until they faded out of sight drifting away further and further, I assumed to the southwest away from us and that field. Fifteen minutes later, the gobbler on our side of the field, down at that corner, quit answering me, and he never got any closer. I pulled out my phone to look at O'Nex again and see about finding a way to loop around toward where he was if I could get him to answer me one more time. That's when I caught movement from Toby. I saw him frantically pointing with his hand down behind his leg and below the grass out toward the field.

He looked back at me to see if I was looking and saw my eyes bug out of my head as I saw gobbler's head poke up above the rise in that field a hundred yards away. and then another one, and then another one, and then four Jakes, seven turkeys, the first one running point, the second and full strut, the third one riding herd on the four youngsters that were trying to work their way up to pecking order, and they wasn't having any luck. I whispered to Toby that that hen decoy was going to wreck us. When the league gobbler saw it, they'd make a beeline for her,

and where they stood right now at 100 yards would be as close as they'd get. to us and my street sweeper. The strutter gobbled and the point man under his order started making tracks toward the decoy. Toby, bless his heart, was now looking back at me, unable to move, having to judge everything that was going on by what I was doing and how I was reacting. The vibe I was putting off was desperation because I had already done the math. No calling in the world was going to compete with the decoy sitting in the very spot they

were heading towards anyway. But I was going to try to do it. it. I turned my head and I started purring and yupping to the right and that strutter started goblin, still inching his way to our left towards that decoy. That'd gone about 10 yards in the wrong direction and I poured it on him. It's best I could anyway, purring and yuppen, begging him to turn towards us and come to me something he couldn't see instead of something he could. And to my surprise, he did. He pivoted and started easing in our direction. I kept turning my head and called him back over my right shoulder and now he was on a string coming straight to us and that was bad

Kobe was laying on the ground looking back at me but directly between me and the turkey rodeo that was taking place in front of us I wasn't going to be able to shoot unless I could get them to fade more to the right around that cedar tree that was hiding me and I turned my head even further as far as I could get it to turn without turning completely around and I called some more. The strutter gobbled and started moving more to the right. The point man was now on the left edge of the group and finally made his way directly in front of me. Now it was safe for me to shoot. I let him keep walking and I picked out a hole in the cedar tree at the one o'clock position

that would have me shooting away from Toby, away from where he was laying. I used my shotgun on my shoulder and I popped the safety off and took starvation aim at the point man who was just left of the strutter. Bam! I sent what amounted to a tablespoon full of poison seed ticks right from the barrel of that 410. It was the last thing that went through that turkey's mind. The instant he dropped off the radar, Toby rolled over and smoked the strutter.

The last one raced the four jakes to see who could get across that field first before they broke out and bullet holes themselves. Toby had missed. the whole show, but he had redeemed his poor choice in shooting positions by making up for it with reflexes so fast they would have kept Johnny Ringo around for the end of Tombstone. It was that quick. Riva, stick a fork in turkey season. I'm done with them until next spring.

Maybe. But I'm headed to have some fun adventures this summer and I have some other things I want to talk to you all about as well. And it's all coming up here in the next few weeks. listening. We appreciate y'all so much. Until next week, this is Britt 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 a performance. form built to last. Check out. First Lights new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.