Bear Grease - Ep. 380: This Country Life - A Valuable Lesson that Only Cost a Buck

Episode Date: October 24, 2025

It's said that the best things in life are free, but the best lessons learned come at a cost. Brent's story this week is a testament to that, putting gains and losses into perspective. This particular lesson cost Brent a buck, but you can learn it with just a bit of your time. Settle in, and listen up! It's a wise investment on this week's episode of 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.

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.

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. A valuable lesson that only cost a buck.

Lessons can be learned in every situation if you're paying attention. Today's episode is one of those, and it revolves around the annual pursuit of white-tailed deer. More folks chase deer than any other creature in the woods, and I've seen some sketchy stuff go on when a person's judgment gets clouded by these magnificent critters. The teacher and the student were separated by only a hearing. handful of years. But in that span, a person can become wise far beyond a measured amount of time.

We've got a lot to talk about. So let's get to it. 41 years is a long time. 41 years from the memory of a specific hunt and 41 years in prison are both a tad shy of 15,000 days. But one seems like yesterday and the other, I assume, would be like a literal lifetime.

Time, as they say, is relative to the subject matter. But I remember this hunt like it was yesterday in the grandest detail for what I lost instead of what I got. But what I got would eventually be bigger than what I was after. I was sitting within sight of our camp's eastern boundary, a surveyed white-painted landline adorning trees

that separated the timber company land within our claim and the clear cut of a different timber concern. The stand I was roosted in during the first week of gun deer season in Arkansas was built by my brother Tim and his brother-in-law, Joe Brian. It consisted of short tubifores used as rungs that were nailed between the gap of two young white oak trees that stood a few feet apart. 15 feet above the planet Earth, up that series of steps,

was constructed a small platform that was two feet wide and about three feet long, and floored with enough tuba force to make a good seat. You could comfortably sit and danger your legs like you were sitting on the tailgate of a truck or use either tree as a backrest and face either east or west. Eyeball on the trail that went right past it that was leading out of or into the neighbor and clear-cut. It was all determined by the direction the deer were walking. It was a quarter of a mile walk east from the big army tent that we were sleeping in to the stand, and to get there, you'd have to walk the very trail you hoped the deer would be using once you got there.

A cold front had the wind coming out of the north that morning that was perfect for getting deer up on their feet. And that westward running trail for deer coming out of their beds from that big ticket across the property line would have me sitting in the perfect spot to catch them coming toward me before they ever. had a chance to smell me. Breakfast that morning was coffee, light bread, bacon, and eggs, and we cooked it in a visqueen-wrapped kitchen that was just big enough to hold a Coleman stove, a lantern, and the ice chest containing all the vittles.

If you're trying to do the math on that light bread description, it's just untoasted white bread from the loaf. I was in my 50s when I learned not everyone calls it that. I've learned a lot of things in my 50s. Sadly, none of them have been how to make myself invisible. That would come in real handy during turkey season. It was cold that morning with a good frost, and I had climbed onto my perch way before the appointed time for the sun to rise.

The two trees the stand was built in stood side by side laying east and west. Now, I sat down, and I leaned against the tree to the west and faced the opposite direction from which I came with an unobstructed view from that little oak flat I was sitting in to the edge of a thicket on the other side of the property line 80 yards away. As Don creeped into Arkansas, I could see to my left, which was north, and to my right being south, and everything in between through the open woods. An occasional glance would have to suffice for covering the way I'd walked in, but knowing how much those deer like bedding in that thicket made me direct my full attention in that direction.

I had gotten as cold as I was going to be all day, which for me is right after the sun comes up. The occasional rigor would rattle me as I sat quartered away from the wind when I heard the old familiar sound of leaves crunching under deer feet. Louder and louder it became, getting closer and closer, and I had no reason in my mind for not being able to see it. As plain as the day that was dawled before me, I could see the well-beaten trail leading out of that thicket that could have doubled as a cattle trail across a pasture. Where was this dead-gum deer? And then from somewhere in the recesses of my misfiring synapses, the thought occurred to me to look back the way I came. There, 30 yards away and getting closer was a little spike, walking toward the thicket stepping in tracks. just made 30 minutes ago.

His nose dipping down almost to the dirt every few steps. I immediately began to warm up as I followed the young buck as he traced my path to the stand stopping right beside me where I was sitting and where I stepped off the trail and climbed the tree. The wind was blowing straight to him, but since he hadn't run off, I assumed it was blowing over the top of him. Why he hadn't buggered over smelling where I'd walked was the math problem. I was currently working on in my head.

He stuck his nose down and got another whiff and jerked his head up looking in the direction of the thicket. I swiveled watching between him and the trail that lay before him when I saw a doe and a yearling pop out of that big briar patch and head toward where he stood and I sat. She wasn't running, but she wasn't just strolling either. Her yearling was big, but he still had a few spots that you could see and alternated between picking up acres and trying to nurse. She ignored the attempts of him trying to nurse,

except for the occasional kick to junior's head that spoke the universal mom language of, I'm busy, you got to find your own self something to eat. She stopped 20 yards away, and that little buck hadn't twitched from his location until she did. Being the opportunist he apparently was, old Spike ignored the tax deduction the dough had tagging along with her and took it upon himself to let romance bloom.

It was quite rude. The Spike was bobbing and weaving like a cutting horse trying to keep her in one spot for a slow dance and wound up having his behind to the thicket she and junior just came out of. She'd already taken a couple of poorly time jabs at Spike when from out of that same thicket Spike was no longer looking toward a big nine point shot out of there like he was looking. late for work.

He covered the 60 yards like a missile and was Spike's full attention directed toward Mama, the Big Buck gave Spike nine reasons to get out of Dodge, right in his back pockets. Yowsa! The world being round is the only way Spike could ever make it back to those woods. He left there so fast that if it's flat, he'd run off the edge before he could have slowed down to stop. But that wasn't the end of the action by any means. It was plain to see for everyone that these two had a history. They're mutually agreed upon Amorous Field Congress,

used the whole dance floor from the ticket table to the band. Junior and I just passed the time, focused on other things like eating acres and trying not to stare. Then all of a sudden, I remembered I was there to shoot a deer. The band must have taken a break because when the dancing stopped, Mama and Junior used on down the trail, and the nine-point just stood there catching his wind when I decided to let it all out of him.

He was more than quartering to me when I settled the crosshairs on where I wanted, and while he watched his main squeeze disappear down the road, I gave the trigger a squeeze and sent him my 150 grains of getting my freezer, all of which he toad with him had a slightly more ten, himmit rate than the spike had left with. He was heading north and was swallowed up by the thickness of the over-seated pine woods between the oak flat where I was sitting in the state highway before the echo of that rifle had stopped bouncing around in the woods.

I know I hit him. I couldn't have missed from that distance. He was rolling low and hugging the ground when I last saw him and I walked over. I found some blood after a short distance. Now, it wasn't pouring out, but it wasn't dripping either. He was headed toward the highway with me in hot pursuit when I hit a seemingly impenetrable thicket. A double back and headed to the camp to get my truck and some help. 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 pool 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 left 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, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. Tim and Joe had heard me shooting or waiting for me when I got there. I was telling them the story. I told him where I'd lost him in the thicket near the highway and that we needed to go get him from there. As I was explaining to them where he was, we heard a rifle shot exactly where I was pointing. We all paused and looked at one another, and Joe said, Somebody just shot your deer.

From that point, the fictitious band that was playing belly rubbing music for the Star Cross Ungolets queued up the traveling music, and I jumped in my truck and Tim and Joe followed. I pulled out of the highway a half mile down the road, and I could see three folks standing on the side of the road, exactly where I figured my deer would have crossed. Ah, a sigh of relief. At that particular point in my life, the deer that only moments ago I had shot and tracked

that thicket was the biggest buck I never shot in my life. I had already picked a spot out for them on my wall. I don't know why those folks shot, I assume they must have given the old coup de gross, but whatever reason could there have been. I pulled up and there stood what could only be described as an amalgamation of beings. This eclectic crew of misfits gathered together could have only been the result of some monumental egregiousness of human malfeasance. They could have rented themselves out to haunt a house.

First impressions showed that they were missing teeth, a limb, and personal hygiene. And what they lacked in cleanliness and tasteful appearance, they made up for with tier one trashiness, and they were all standing over my buck. One was holding a lever action rifle. Was he still kicking when y'all shot him? I said that to no one in particular, but aimed at it to whomever was going to be the spokesman for the group. Kicking?

He wasn't kicking. He was standing there in the edge of them woods when I shot him, and that's timber company land. Anybody can hunt there. Hmm, well, now he was right about that. Even though it was counted as ours by gentlemen's agreements from the camps all around us, this was still before leasing land started. We had no legal right to tell anyone that they couldn't hunt there.

But I said it don't matter. I shot him 15 minutes before you did. That's my deer, and I fin to load him in my truck. The greasiest of the lot slowly looked up at me and said, that deer is ours. I can see this playing out in a couple different ways, both of which would have me celebrating my 19th birthday in the state penitentiary or Reeve Cemetery.

What a terrible way to spend a birthday, and yet that's exactly where I was intended on going at that moment in my life. Over a deer, as they say in the dramatic movie scripts, the plot thickened. I am not a coward. But I have been scared before, seeing the totality of a situation. But as I stood there looking at my buck, me on one side,

and the mangyest trio of near-do wells I've ever seen, including up to right now, I didn't have sense enough to even be cautious. Words were exchanged, and in a matter of moments, things began to get a little sporty. Then my brother walked up with Joe right beside him. All right, that's three of them. on three. Somebody ring the bell and let's get this Donnybrook started. I got a deer to skim. Tim asked me what happened and I told him and Joe about the conversation the three amigos and I

had just finished. Tim introduced himself to these vagabonds and I looked at him sideways when he did. Now Joe referenced the story that that fellow had told me and he said, you shot this deer when he was standing over there and pointed to the edge of the woods. Yeah, shot him right behind the shoulder. That's where it went in. He pointed right where I had shot him. Joe rolled a deer over on the opposite side was an exit wound filled with dirt. Joe looked at the dirt in the wound and looked at the miscreant that was holding the rifle and said, no, you didn't. You shot that deer laying right there on the ground. That's how all the dirt got in there.

That was it for me. It's time to rumble. I've already picked out who I was going to punch first. The man with the rifle was fixing to get one on his go-to-sleep button. It'd be hard to see who to shoot with both his eyes shut and his nose mashed flat, but my plan was to continue wailing on him while Tim and Joe settled on the other two, one of which was sporting a freshly bandaged nub above his right wrist where his boxing glove should have been. Now, whichever one got him was going to have an incredible reach advantage. Then my brother said, Brent, shut your mouth and go back.

to the truck. Y'all get this deer and get out of here. Don't let me catch you back here again. He said that with a sternless unlike I'd ever heard him use. They didn't say a word. And I didn't care what he said. I was going to knock this dude out. And Tim looked over at me and said, now.

And I knew he meant for me to do what he said, not what I was intended. I turned around and I walked back to the. that truck mad as a mashed cat. And I turned to see Lefty. I'm just guessing they called him. Lefty. I was what I'd have called him. But he was now holding the rifle while the other two drugged the deer to their rattle trap of a car.

There went my deer. Now here came my brother. I didn't want to talk to him. But as I started to pull off the shoulder and go back to camp, my right front wheel dropped into a hole, and I got stuck. I had to stop Tim now and ask him to pull me out. I wanted to punch him. And now he was laughing at me for being stuck on top of just giving my deer away.

I felt like Tom Cheney in the classic Western true grit. When little Maddie Ross shot him with her late father's big 44 caliber cold dragoon revolver. He said, everything happens to me and now I'm shot by a child. Well, I feel you, Tom, but you only got shot. Your brother didn't give your biggest deer away. Tim and Joe pulled me out and we all went back to the camp, and I was steaming. But it started to cool off a degree or two by the time we all found our spots at the fire. We talked about the right and the wrong things to do

and how the right thing is hardly ever the easiest to do or to say. see. My feeling of loss was over those horns, and for years afterwards, I felt somewhat ashamed for being willing to fight someone over something as insignificant as a set of deer antlers. Had I been trying to feed my family with that deer, Tim would have been the first one to get out and start swinging. Maybe that's what those folks' motivation was. I don't know.

If I had to say, I'd guess their interest was the same as my. a trophy, that only they and the good Lord know that and in the grand scheme of things. What does it matter? It didn't then, and it doesn't now. What does matter is being magnanimous in display and integrity, and my brother gave me a lesson in both that day, one that I haven't forgotten. Anytime we tell that story, we always find the humor and poking fun at that crusty trio of buffoons.

but in my mind, I remember the day that my brother made me stop, think about the situations you find yourself in, realizing what's really at stake. Actions have repercussions that can affect your life forever like a rock dropped in a steel pond. The ripples go in every direction and touch everything within the banks, each of them in one way or another. It would be hard to look back now over 40,

years later knowing I could have walked away from a potentially bad situation and didn't. Thanks, Tim. But sometimes I still want to punch you. Thank you so much for listening to this country. Life of Mine, Bear Greece and the Backwoods University. Drop us a review if you have a chance and send those stories into my TCL story at the meat eater.com. If it's a hunt story, try to make it as relevant to the time we're in.

I've got some good Turkish stories waiting, but it'll be a few people. months before we tell them. My signature case mini trapper is back in stock and they tell me they're starting to make a run out the door once again. If you want one, you might want to check in on them before they're gone again. Christmas ain't that far away. Same thing with the tickets for the meat eater dip down here in the motherland this December.

That's going to be a fun time and I'm really looking forward to it. Hey, if you like crime stories, check out the new Blood Trails podcast with my pod and the Jordan Sillers. It's dropping on October the 30th. Man, it's going to be good. That's it for me, and until next week, this is Brent Reeves. Signing on. Y'all be careful.

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 pool 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 backwards. Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness. Because out here, there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people left. 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, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts.