Bear Grease - Ep. 394: This Country Life - Inside the Secret Hideout

Episode Date: November 28, 2025

Brent's making good his promise to take us on a tour of his new Stor-Mor studio. While the building itself is enough to talk about, in this episode he shifts the focus to the contents. The items inside are more than mere decorations, they're mementos representing people and places that he holds dear. After he tells the story of his first attempt at having a place of his own, he enlightens us with his description of his new one. 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, 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. Inside the Secret Hideout.

All right, I'm getting my commercial over with first. Unless you live in a cave, you know that the big black Friday sale is going on. Go to MeatEater.com for the details. And for all you folks hollering about the commercials, I'll refund you what you paid to listen to the content. Oh, yeah, you didn't pay nothing. Now then, today I'm going to tell you all about my man cave, my new studio, the new office, the secret hideout,

whatever you want to call it. But I'm not just talking about the structure. I'm talking about just a few of the contents and how I got them and what they mean to. I think you'll enjoy it. But first, I'm going to tell you a story. The thought of having your own place is as part of our genetic code as anything. We're more or less hardwired to be on the hunt for something we can call our own. It started after Adam and Eve got their eviction notice from the best.

piece of real estate this side of heaven. Folks have been looking for their own places ever since. It's fun to look for your own spot. There's always some mystery and intrigue as you wander around looking at property. In some cases, there's an element of danger, especially if you find yourself on the wrong side of town or your middle name is the, as in Alexander the Great or Attila the Hun. two examples of acquiring property that someone else thought was already spoken for.

And therein lies the danger. The only dangerous thing I ever did involving my own spot was trying to build something on a spot I already possessed. Well, family did anyway. Like the time me and a couple other naredo wells decided to dig our own cave in the middle of a cow pasture. There was a small rise in that southern savannah that was surrounded by a handful of sweet gum trees. On the backside of that rise was a hollowed out spot about the size of a 55-gallon barrel. It resembled a shallow cave opening if you tilted your head just right, closed one eye, and squinted with the other. Prime real estate is defined by its location.

This was a gift from heaven because the address was a secret. out rural route one boxed, Mama can't see us from the house. It was like some angelic forester had purposely planted those sweetgums in the direct line of sight between the house and where the excavation would take place. The three of us planned the whole operation in about five minutes. A big pond fishing trip had turned into a combat patrol when the fish refused to bite. While reconning for the enemy, we happened upon. the little grove of gum trees to cool in the shade

and discovered the hidden possibilities within the small depression that lay behind it, oblivious to enemy troops or spy satellites. It was the perfect spot. All right, we're getting our bicycles. We left down by the pond and riding to the barn by the chicken house. It was a half a mile away.

There, we're going to each slip into tool shed and steal three shovels to dig our cave with. We were behind enemy lines, Now and if captured, we could be shot for being spies, or worse yet, told to do some chores we left unfinished at our homes before we all decided to meet up and go fishing. We were kicking up dust like a runaway stage coach when we slid to a stop by the egghouse. We laid down our bikes and crept into the tool shed, snatching up two shovels and a sharpshooter spade. Looking like the juvenile tool thieves we were, we balanced our digging implements with one,

hand and peddled like the devil himself was chasing us as hard as we could go all the way back to what was going to be the world's greatest hideout ever constructed. I can see us right now as plain as if we'd all met up this morning. Todd was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a white t-shirt that had red on the hem of his sleeves and around his neck. Bob was wearing his World War II patterned camo shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. And I'll give you one guess, but if it ain't overalls, no shirt and boots, you'd be wrong for what I was wearing. The digging started with each of us, side by side of with the dirt flying behind us like wood being run through a chipper. Now, this wasn't going to take long at all. We figured by noon one

one of us could slip up to my house, have my mama fix us all up some fried bologna, and by the time whichever one got back with the rations, we'd be eating them in the comfort of the foyer of our underground fortress. It was the best laid plans of mice and men, and little boys with stolen shovels. The summer heat wasn't a factor in the demise of our underground layer. It was just one of a million flashes of youthful, vaulted enthusiasm that faded as fast as it burned when the topsoil turned to clay and the digging slowed down to a crawl. The fish would eventually start biting again, and a third of our crew that had left for the fried bologna had yet to return with even a bite.

We made tracks for the ponderosa and found him sitting at the table, smiling with a mouthful of grub and a double handful of a fried mule-lip sandwich. If you don't know what that is, you need some happiness in your life. It's pettigine bologna cut thick as a mule's lip and fried in a cast-iron skillet. I like mine with light bread and Duke's mayonnaise, but it's rumored there are humans out there that prefer mustard. Whatever. Anyway, that wound up being the end with that project. There were plenty more, one in particular that involved stacking tomato sticks like Lincoln logs in the loft of a barn and defending it with BB guns and sweet potatoes.

But that's a story for another day. Now, you remember those shovels? Well, we didn't. Several years later, I was bush hogging around that group of sweetgums and was almost in a trance from the monotonous drone of the tractor with the most god-offly racket of banging and clanging commenced from behind me underneath the bush haul. Oh, yeah, the show. And 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 win a turkey calling contest. It's just not going to happen. But when I run this call, I get the sounds that goblers 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 Rinella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action. I stepped up on the porch and walked inside a building that had been built in Kentucky and driven down the highway and parked behind my house. How it got there was the store. I told you all last week, a true blessing from start to almost finished.

The peace de resistance will be when Mr. Alis-Alesis andersoni arrives this spring along with his tanned hide. That moose head will be the centerpiece of the wall you first see when you cross the threshold. It will be the start of many conversations with folks who have like-minded interests like a lot of us. They're going to say, tell me about that moose. moose. I'll shoot that moose a million times over the coming months and years should I be fortunate enough to continue waking up on the right side of the grass, but the story of the moose will be a side note. The best part of me telling that moose story will be talking about

who I was with. How Craig McCarthy, my guide and good friend went down and cut meat off that moose every night for us to cook for supper. I'll tell them about Dave Garth. I'll tell them about Dave Garth. Gardner, who started out as a cameraman in a bear camp five years ago. It's now like a brother to me. We got to see his little boy, Bo, and his wife ate it through Starlink while we sat at the supper table and the northern lights danced around outside every night. And we looked at them except when it rained sideways. And then folks will look elsewhere and see the bear skulls.

Did you kill those in Arkansas? saw, all but one. Can I pick it up? Nope. But let me show you something. Then I'll show them the top of the skull of that first bear I killed and tell the story. See that crack in there? Well, there was three minutes or less of legal shooting light when that bear just appeared out of nowhere. I picked up by bow and with a set of eyes that now would be lucky to see the pins settled the glow of the top one in the middle of the middle and moved it a little forward and squeezed the trigger on that bear. He ran to the edge of the mountain and fell down a bluff, his head striking a big flat rock in

the middle of the creek, 80 feet below. And that's where we found him. As dead as the big rock he landed on. The crazy part is that boulder in the creek he landed on was 50 yards from the cabin I'd spent the night in. I backed my truck up to the edge of the creek, and me, James Lawrence, and Claibault loaded him in the truck. What's that? What's what?

Those sticks. Those aren't sticks. They're switches. Let me tell you about those switches. When my daughter Amy was four years old, she said, Daddy, Santa Claus is going to bring you switches for Christmas. She wrapped those up and gave them to me and thought it was the funniest thing ever. That was 30 Christmases ago, and they have never not been with me. I see them wrapped in that little tight bundle, bound with the bread ties that she used.

And I can see a little blonde-headed girl with a most mischievous grin watching me open that present with a tag that said, To Daddy from Santa. Is that an old flashlight? Yes, it is. That's a craftsman flashlight. and one that's exactly like the one my dad had back in the 70s. I can't count how many times I marveled at how bright that thing was. It was with him every time we cut the hounds loose after coyotes.

The fondest memories were when it was cold and I was bundled up and sitting on the dog crate in the back of the truck, trying to pick out which dog was which as they chased that coyote down through the Saline River bottoms. their barks and balls echoing through the cold night air. Sometimes we'd be right in the perfect spot to see them cross the road close to where we sat. The beam of that light going on for what seemed like forever into the blackness of the night until interrupted by the dogs as they crossed the gravel, each tried to gain the lead and the leaders trying to keep it.

We could see the steam coming off of them as they seemingly barely touched the crown of the road before disappearing into the woods on the opposite side. It was like they were a dozen train engines pulling a long line of invisible cars on rails bound for the unknown. Sometimes I would wake up in the cab of the truck. Dad having laid me down in the front seat and covered me up with his coat to stay warm. While he caught the dogs one by one and loaded them in the dog crate. Some of that I'll tell whoever asked him.

about that old light and some of it I'll probably just keep to myself. There's a gallery of photos in several frames hung up from mine and Tim's Duck guiding days and in those photos I can see Arthur, Mitch, David, Michael, Mike, Bill, Larry, Richard, and Dennis, just to name a few.

I can see Ann, my first lab from 37 years ago, several years before we started guiding. I named her little Anne, after the red bone in Wilson Rawls is where the red fur grows. And it's funny how things in my life circle back to that book. And it's seemingly everlasting effect on me. But it's a photo, Tim took of me driving that boat up to Arkansas River and towing his smaller boat behind us. We were using it to haul decoys. And if need be, an easier conveyance into a shallower spot that the ducks

sometimes like to go. I trained that dog myself, and she was the first retriever to steal my heart, and the first one to break it. A few years later, I'm thoroughly convinced that if there is such a thing as the spirit of an animal that Anns would come back to me again in the form of another black lab named Anna.

Decade or more later. Anna is a celebrated companion, and I've talked about numerous times on this platform and I only have to glance above my desk to see a framed picture of her as well. Each of those photos, taken decades apart, takes me to one place, a place where a wet dog is welcomed company, and love and loyalty are displayed with every breath. There's a cabinet with challenge coins given to me by my brothers and sisters

that serve our nation and communities, one from the Congressional Medal of Honor recipient, but none more important than the other. All of them represent service above self, but most importantly they represent someone who thought enough with me to want to share them. I may not remember all their names, but I remember all their faces and the pride they had when they handed them to me. I have pictures drawn and colored by kids that I've met. Some were handed to me, but most came in the mail. Wonderful surprise to open and see the efforts of a child who, above all else, wanted to give me something that they made themselves.

Not an email or a text message. A handwritten note with a picture attached. Some have bears in them. Some have turkeys and coons in them. But all of them have me in them, and most of them, old Wayland's in there too. I've got a flag from the nation of Ethiopia that was given to me by a man who did mission work there and happened to be traveling through Arkansas one time. He reached out to me on a whim and we met for coffee. I'd used one of his stories about an encounter he had with a hyena in that country on episode 238 if you're interested in checking it out.

A few months later, he sent me that flag and a handwritten letter. He also sent me a feather from the fan of the only turkey he's ever killed. Now, what in the world would I do with a lone turkey feather? I can stand flat foot in blindfold and grab a handful from the dozen or so turkey fans I have stored from more turkey kills than I can count. What would I do with that single feather? Cherish it as much or more than my own. That's one.

I can't tell you how many case knives are in here because I don't know. I'm waiting on the mailman to bring me one right now that I bought just the other day. So however many there are in here, add one more by tomorrow's mail. Ones I noticed right off are sitting in a lighted display case. And in that case is one I received on the day my grandson was born. There's the first one the case company gave me when they heard my podcast about them. and there's one in there that I gave my dad. It was the first one I ever bought.

Another one was given to me for Father's Day by my son. And sitting on top of that display case is a decorative railroad spike with two magnets that support a knife that wasn't made by my extended family out in Bradford, PA. It's a K-bar, three-bladed pocket knife made in America, and was manufactured as best I can tell no later, than the 1970s. It belonged to my great-uncle Bob Fry. He was married to my great-aunt Arleigh.

And if the Reeves family ever had an angel walking amongst us with the name Reeves on the back of her jersey, it was her. There's a buck on the wall that I killed in Mississippi when the mule skinner and I were on our great Mississippi River adventure a couple years ago. A decent deer that I was fortunate enough to make a good shot on in a windstorm that had me and cinematographer Drew Stekline flapping in the breeze like windsocks in Oklahoma. But that grand adventure and miraculous shot is no longer the story of that skull-mounted buck. He's missing his nose because I'd run out of room to hang stuff in that bedroom I was using

for a studio before I'd get in this one and I had it propped up in the corner. And that's where it was when I walked in one afternoon and whaling the Wonderhound had taken it upon himself to use it as a pacifier. I think it adds character, if not fuel, for nightmares. On the walls are duck and turkey prints that I have seemingly had forever. Most of them depict in hunting in Arkansas from some of the most well-known artist, Philip Crow, Arthur Anderson, and Mrs. Eddie Jones are world-famous wildlife artists who stand amongst the most talented professionals in that arena.

And yet all of them are all of them are all. overshadowed by a relatively unknown young artist in a medium some would suggest unworthy of inclusion in that category. I received the 18 by 8 unsigned original work as a gift from the artist herself back in 2013. It was a Father's Day gift from Bailey. She was a couple months shy of two years old and was so proud to hand me her finger painting when I picked her up from the babysitter. I hung it that day beside my chair in the living room.

When she was four, she was sitting in my lap. We were watching TV when I saw her looking at the painting. She was so focused on her work that she was oblivious to everything else going on around her, TV, the dog, even me. Finally, I said, you know, you painted that for me. She just nodded her head, never altering her. gaze. You never told me what that is that you painted. And immediately, she said, that's the forest. For almost three years, I'd glanced at that painting, seeing only the tiny patterns of

fingers that blended colors together in a more or less chaotic way. There, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason for what she'd done until I asked her about it. When she blurted out the forest, It was like the blur of colors and mismatched strokes morphed into an obvious illustration of timber, leaves, grass, wildflowers. It had been there all along. I couldn't see it because I just didn't know how to look at it. It was a stark reminder from a four-year-old that there's more than one way to see something. And if we put our biases aside for just a moment, sometimes the picture is very clear.

There's too many things in here to cover, but each of them stand for people in places that are special to me. I don't take those relationships for granted and value who and what the items represent. Thank you so much for listening. 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. instantly thought it was a sleeping bag, and there was a full 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 backwood. 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.