Bear Grease - Ep. 363: This Country Life - Here, Have an Elk

Episode Date: September 5, 2025

The first time doing anything with a high level of anticipation is a recipe for strong memories. That perfectly describes Brent's first elk hunt. It was an experience of a lifetime that has as potent of an effect on him today as it did fourteen years ago. Brent details that hunt on this episode with what seemed like the perfect setup that went from good, to bad, to great, all in a matter of moments. It's time for MeatEater's This Country Life podcast. Shop This Country Life Merch Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and Youtube Clips Subscribe to the MeatEater Podcast Network on YouTube Shop This Country Life Merch Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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Welcome to this country life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From Coon Hunting to Trotlining and Just General Country Living, and I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the Storemore Studio on Meat Eat 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.

Here, have an elk. Archery season is kicking off in a few days and has already begun in some places. In my seemingly unending desire and habits of most things outdoors, bow hunting is close to the top for me. I'm going to share the story of my first bull elk. It's my only elk, actually, but it's also the only one I ever drew my bow on. every trip before since that hunt was to film someone else. I'm one for one on six-by-six bull elk, and I should stop right there if I want to keep my elk harvest to hunt average above average.

But I can't. In theory, anyway, I just need to get drawn in a state that allows it, but that's another story. And I'm fixing to tell you this one. I was on patrol when my phone rang. caller ID said Leon Boyd. It was July 2011. Leon is a friend of mine from Virginia.

I'd met him a couple years before when I was hired to film him and some of his friends and employees on a mule deer and elk hunt in Colorado. They put on a big hunt nearly every year and were some of the absolute best folks I ever had the pleasure to meet. humble to a fault and their generosity was beyond measure. I like these people, and Leon was a shining example for all of them. His accent and tone of voice would fool you if you'd only talk to him on the phone. Seeing him in person was a little more intimidating. He is a big rascal. But his equally big smile and polite nature put me at ease from the moment I met him.

him two years before that conversation. I answered the phone and in his easily identifiable accent, he said, Brent, you're going to be able to make it out to Elkank this year? Now, I had to smile and said, of course, Leon, I'll have my camera ready. He told me that was what he wanted to hear, but I didn't need to bring my camera this year. Well, I assumed he was renting some better equipment from. me to use. That's when he said, I want you to bring your bow and kill you a bull. I sat there in the parking lot where I'd pulled over to talk to him, eyes unblinking and staring at the phone like a

cow stares at a new gate. You're kidding. Now my friend, I want you to kill a bull. You worked your tail off filling for us and now you want you to hunt with us. You know where we're going, so get your license, get practice up with your bow, and we'll pick you up in Little Rock on our way to Colorado in September. What do you say to that? Thank you doesn't seem like enough. He still doesn't, and that's been 14 years ago. Leon is the kind of friend that you can have and not speak to for weeks, months, or even years, and when you do, you're right where you left off as if you'd spoken to him the day before, a true friend. I'm blessed to be called him mine. The day's weeks and months passed like cold molasses pours. And finally, September. The drive-out seemed even longer.

I'd practiced and practiced shooting my bow in the backyard religiously every day, rain or shine. I was ready for anything out to 60 yards, even though I'd drawn the line myself at 50. That was the mark I'd set, the limit I'd put on myself to keep from doing the thing I feared most, and that was to make a bad shot. Everything else would be acceptable. No opportunity? That's called hunting. Weather keeps you from hunting, it happens. Wildfires close down the area where we're going.

That happens too. No, the one thing that I had total control over was to shoot or not to shoot. That was all up to me, and no one else could or would be responsible. But now, practice was over. It was time to climb the mountain. The bugles in the distance hadn't faded in beauty or frequency from the last six days. And the mountain I found myself on resonated with those echoes that will forever haunt my memory of that September afternoon in Colorado. all during the week as I stumbled along behind my guide I felt as if I may have been trespassing

not in the sense of being somewhere I shouldn't and maybe trespassing isn't the word I'm looking for but I felt as though this ritual that I was witnessing wasn't meant for me to see the dynamic of what I was seeing and hearing was so overwhelming that the majority of time that I was staggering through the woods, my mind raced to record all of what was happening. I would replay in my head what I had just seen and heard as I was logging that memory. It would quickly be replaced by yet another amazing display of nature. We hunted hard all week. One morning a light rain fell as I raced from place to place at the direction of my guide

to intercept the bulls that were responding to his calls. A young bull slipped into where we stood, and at 20 yards, I let him walk. He had some growing to do, but I'll never forget how he looked as he stood close enough for me to hear him breathe. Another bugle, and we were off again. I could hear limbs breaking, and the bull's bugle sounded like a roar. It was louder than what I'd expected. I stared into the trees and strained to see the elk that was making all that racket. How could something be so loud, so big, and so close, and me not be able to see him?

My heart was beating fast, and I was trying not to hyperventilate when he was getting closer, and I didn't know how this was going to play out, but I knew right then, right there, in that vast wilderness I had dreamed of all my life that I was right where I was supposed to be. I imagined every scenario I could think of trying to anticipate what was going to happen now. next. I ranged every possible place the bull would emerge from and tried to remember each point calculating which pen I would use and when to draw my bow. The cow trotted out from behind the brush, stopped and stared at me. The bull I could hear getting closer and closer as he broke limbs and raked his antlers on what sounded like every tree

between where he and I stood. I saw the city limb shaking and from left. I saw the city limb shaking and from than 25 yards he walked out into the opening. He faced me and bugle so loud it hurt my ears. He was a heavy five by five and I could draw my bow now without him ever knowing I was there. Two more steps. These two steps away from giving me the opportunity I've dreamed of since I was a kid. The cow that I'd forgotten about had stood at all she could and with one swift, motion she wheeled and ran into the woods. He followed on instinct and stopped at 55 yards, offering a marginal quartering shot. I wasn't steady enough or confident enough in the angle to risk trying to slip that broadhead

into the narrow kill zone. I just wouldn't do it. And he walked away. Now, I didn't regret not shooting. I tried to breathe again. I tried to breathe again. I tried to realize all that I'd just seen and felt and couldn't keep from shaking all over. This thing that was happening to me, the transformation that was taking place inside me, and the insignificant role I was playing in the grand production occurring all around me, was changing how I thought, felt, and saw the world. All of the events that led up to this September afternoon hadn't prepared me for what was about to happen. Walking around a mountain trail and standing face to face with a black bear,

listening to the literally countless bugles day in and day out and standing on a small portion of this magnificent place on earth. Aiken to share with what I was seeing with my loved ones didn't offer a clue what I was about to experience. 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.

We settled into the blind above the pond. Bulls had been bugling above us since we left the truck as well. We snaked our way up the mountain to the watering hole we hoped would give us a shot at a decent bull. By the time I got my gear stowed and caught my breath, it was time to put on the rest of my camo and try to find a comfortable place to sit on what had to be a 45-degree grade. I had never shot a boat sitting on my behind, but I had no choice in this spot unless I moved further away, and that wasn't an option. I referenced this place as a blind, but there was nothing manned.

made or manufactured about it, it was just a couple of bushes that offered a place for me to sit down behind. I wanted every advantage in my favor, and I would have to deal with the uncomfortable conditions and just make the best of it. I wedged my left foot

against the stump of a long-gone sapling and sat on my right leg I had tucked underneath me, and it was actually somewhat comfortable the minute to a minute and a half it took before the circulation was cut off to my leg. It didn't take long and my leg was killing me.

I tried to ignore the stinging that plagued my lower extremities. I ranged every large rock and bush I could find trying to determine the lay of the land. Bughals were inching closer and becoming more frequent. I practiced drawing my bow from this terribly uncomfortable position. It had been a long week. My muscles ached. I was hot. I was nervous.

I was ecstatic to be. there. And the beauty of this rugged land was surpassed only by its lack of oxygen. The guy that taught me how to film was serving as my cameraman on this hunt, and he said it best when we first arrived at our hunting area earlier in the week. As I looked up the mountain at the awe-inspiring scenery, he said, don't let them pretty woods fool you, Bub. There ain't no air up there. He wasn't kidding. But movement caught my eyes. eye and I focused into a gap in the timber across the water hole, and I sat motionless as a bull elk walked out into the opening and announced his presence to the world as only those

majestic creatures can. Other bulls answered him in the distance. The spike bull walked to the opposite side of the pond and drank, and yet this one he strode confidently to the water's edge, ignoring the challenges that were being thrown in his direction. He drank loudly. I could hear him slurping down. what seemed like gallons of water is a mere 30 yards away.

Well within my range when I started breathing so hard and trembling that I closed my eyes and I said a prayer to calm my nerves, steady my aim, and for my arrow to fly true. Immediately, I calmed down, relaxed, and I concentrated from the mission at hand. He drank as he waded closer and farther into the water. water hole stopping 20 yards in front of me. Then he turned broadside. He looked away in the distance and started to bugle. This was my chance. The dream was about to become a reality. He was a half second into his bugle when I decided to draw my bow. And with all the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins, the excruciating pain that had rendered my right leg useless and the excitement

of what was about to happen? I failed to take my left index finger off the arrow that lay in weight on the arrow wrist, and I drew my bow back so hard and so fast, that I pulled the string right out of the knock. Then, like an axe-handled possum who had just had what little sense he had left knocked out of him, I released the pressure of my left index finger

and gravity took control. My arrow dropped and clattered against the bottom limb of my compound and held short from falling completely off only by the broadhead that caught on my air arrest. The bull stopped just short of finishing his bugle. He turned his head and he looked dead at me. And I felt my dream slipping away as I held an empty string with a perfect sight picture focused on the 20-yard pin and decreased behind the shoulder of the bull elk I'd been waiting on all my life. A bull bugled in the distance, and he looked in his direction and slowly started

moving away. I whispered to my cameraman, I can't shoot. My arrow fell off. He said, put it back on. I said, I can't. He pleaded, why not? Fix my arrow. He turned to saw my predicament, and in one smooth, subtle move, he gingerly picked up my arrow, placed it back on my string and resumed his duties on the camera. I remained calm. More calm than I had been on the whole trip and at a point in the hunt when the worst thing possible could have happened actually happened. I followed him with the top pin and transitioned to the middle pin when he reached the 40-yard mark. He stopped to grab a few bites of grass and my cameraman whispered he's about 45 yards. Three more steps and I fixed my bottom pin on his right front leg that I could see as he quartered away exposing the left side.

The peep sight settled perfect around the pen and I remember saying out loud he's 50 yards. And without realizing a conscious effort, the string left my release and I tracked the orange knock of my arrow and watched it as it buried up in the fletching right where I had envisioned it going only a split second before. The elk charged into the timor kicking rocks and breaking limbs as he disappeared. I looked at my friend who was running the camera and asked about the shot placement. I replayed it in my mind and felt confident it was good. Thirty seconds later, you heard him crash.

The calm that I'd felt during that near calamity of my air coming off the string was replaced by the realization of what had just happened. A flood of emotion rushed from within and I struggled to think of something to say. I tried to compose myself but was overcome by the fact that I had just seen a lifelong dream come to fruition. All I could think of was how proud my dad was going to be of me. And that's when I started crying. My family is so supportive of me and what I do and to have experienced that moment knowing they were going to be just as crowd as I was, seemed to be a little more than I could deal with. I was a wreck. And when the tear started, it didn't stop. Waiting it prescribed 30 minutes from shot to track and may have been

tougher than the ascent up the mountain. But 80 yards later, we were kneeling beside my trophy and thanking the good Lord for giving us the opportunity. What a release of emotion. Outside of events involving my family, this was the most of the most of the moment. moving experience I'd ever encountered and one that has changed my life. People that don't do what we do, that don't challenge themselves to seek out their dreams and struggle through the hardships and obstacles that separate just getting by from getting it done will probably find humor in the fact that a grown man cried on the side of a mountain after shooting an elk. But it was a pivotal moment in my maturity as a

person of faith who needed help and asked for it, and in an instant was granted a reprieve from losing my mind when a small, seemingly inconsequential mistake nearly cost me the opportunity of a lifetime. It's funny. Now, that always seems to work out. Good night, nurse. What a hunt. I'm thankful for that day, my friend Leon, and all of you who give all of us here on the Bear Grays channel, some of your attention each week. If you're close to Lebanon, Missouri, come see me tomorrow. September the 6th at the celebration of the Ozarks Case Knife event put old by my friends at Shepherd Hills Cutler.

It is going to be so much fun. And Alexis and Bailey, they're going to be there too. Then on next Saturday, September the 13th, we'll all be at the World Championship Squirrel Cookoff in spring. Ringdale, Arkansas. For the love of humanity, the fun never stops. Until next week, this is Brent Reeves. 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 Lights new fieldware gear at firstlight.com.