Bear Grease - Ep. 414: This Country Life - Cold Hunter, Hot Gumbo

Episode Date: January 23, 2026

This week Brent's trying his hand at competition gumbo cooking. He and his friends from the Cache Bayou Hound and Mallard Club have entered a gumbo cooking contest. If it was a gumbo eating contest they'd win easily but it's not. Do they have the right stuff to come out on top, you'll have to listen and find out for yourself. He's also sharing a listener story about the perils of extreme cold weather duck hunting that could've ended tragically and almost did.   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. Cold Hunter, hot gumbo.

I've been doing all manner of things here lately except killing ducks of any significant number. That's okay. I've been busy just the same and lending my talents as limited as they are to competition cooking. That's right. I'm a professional chef. That's a lie. Probably not the last one you'll hear today. Just kidding. Maybe. I'm going to tell you what I mean in a minute, but first. First, I'm going to tell you a story. Today's story is an important one for all of us to pay close attention to. It's as timely of a message as I've ever put out.

It's a lesson on dealing with the cold at a time when just about everyone around the country is fixing to be dealing with or is dealing with some record setting cold. And I mean right now. It's from Greg Brown, who's living large and making tracks with his eight-year-old son. on Ty up around Chelsea, Oklahoma. Now, this story is from a time many moons ago, long before Ty was even a glimmer in Greg's eye. So in Greg's words and my voice, here we go.

In 2011, I was a senior in high school. A buddy of mine and I duck hunted a piece of public flooded timber that only had about four open holes. It was great duck hunting, but as you can imagine, with those few spots available, you had to get there pretty early in the morning to claim a spot. Now, this particular morning, we got there around 1 a.m. We sat in the truck until the first set of headlights were coming down the road, headed to the parking lot of the WMA.

Now, when that first set of headlights appeared shortly after we got there, we jumped out of the truck, threw our waiters on, grabbed the decoys and guns, and headed down the gravel-top levee that led to the flooded timber. We got down to the narrow clearing in the timber and stepped off the levee into the water. The rest of the walk back to the open hole was all flooded. And that morning it was 17 degrees

and the temperature had just dropped so there was only a very thin layer of ice on the water. I only had a cheap pair of uninsulated rubber waders on and we had only made it about 100 yards into the timber when I kicked a sharp stob on the side of a submerged log, which poked a large hole in my waiters just below the knee. I didn't want to miss out on a good hunt. I told my buddy, let's go.

I'll be fine. I'm not going back to the truck. So we kept racing back to our spot before anyone else could get there. We made it to the hole we wanted and began setting out decoys and getting everything ready. We set up by the trees we wanted and waited for sunrise. There was nowhere to get out of the water, and the right leg of my waiters had now filled up to my knee. I was cold before, but after we got set up and stopped moving,

I began to get very cold. I'd been wet for over an hour when I started shivering. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and we still had a few hours, before daylight. I told my buddy, I can't stay out here. I'm going back to the truck, and he offered to go with me. No, I'll be fine.

There's no reason for you to miss out on the hunt, too. So, not only did I separate from my hunting partner, but the only light I had was the light on my iPhone. I grabbed my gun and blindbag and headed for the truck. And after standing still at our spot trying to stay for the hunt, my right leg had gotten so stiff from the cold water that I could barely bend my knee, and I had almost a mile walk to get back to the truck. I made it about halfway through the water back to the levee when I tripped on a log.

Not being able to bend my right leg, I couldn't catch myself, and I went face first into the water, going completely under. This was the most shocking cold I'd ever felt. It completely took my breath away. I thought I was cold before, but now I was literally freezing. I managed to stand back up and was having to drag my leg as I limped towards the levee. I went a little further and my phone turned off from getting wet when I fell. Now I had lost my only light and the ability to call for help.

I would be navigating by moonlight from here on out. I started getting worried at this point, but I told myself just to stay calm and keep moving forward. Before making it to the levee, I hung my foot two more times and fell. Both times I went completely underwater. I was so cold and really starting to worry now. I finally made it to the levee and stepped out of the water

and onto solid ground. The narrow clear-cutting the flooded timber that led to the open holes ran east and west, and the levee that led to the truck ran north and south. The truck was parked to the south of me. When I stepped up on that levee, I wasn't sure which way to go. I'd gotten so cold that hypothermia was affected my judgment, and I wasn't thinking clearly. And then I started to panic. I began to pray for help and guidance for me to make the right decision

and to get me back to that truck because I knew I was in trouble. Finally decided to head south and thank God that was the right decision. The levee was wide enough for a vehicle to drive down and there was a ditch on each side followed by a big trees lining it all the way back to the parking lot. I walked down that levee dragging my right leg so stiffing out from the cold that I couldn't bend it at all. The trees began to close in on it. I felt as if they were getting closer and closer to me. I felt like they'd moved within the foot on either side of me,

and I started feeling trapped. In the moonlight, the road appeared to get longer and longer. I began to sense something was following me, and when I turned around and looked behind me, I would think I heard something run across the road in the other direction. I started seeing shadowy figures dark quickly in front of me, and then hear them behind me once again. In needless to say, I was in an extreme state of panic, all brought on by the intense indescribable cold.

Walk a little way and then tell myself, no, you're going the wrong way. You need to go back. Start back a few steps, then I had to tell myself, you know South is the right direction. Just keep moving south. I thought back to the Hunter safety class I too. They taught us about people with hypothermia, how they would hallucinate, walk in the wrong direction, even when they knew the area they were in very well. So I just kept telling myself, you cannot panic. Just keep walking. Can't stop.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally saw the truck and the glow of the moon. It was the most amazing feeling of relief I'd ever felt, and I got there, I reached in and I started it up. I knew I had to get warm fast, and I began to try to get my waiters off. Anyone who's ever taken off wet waiters or rubber boots knows that can be a pretty big task. Add what felt like a completely frozen leg and uncontrollable violent shivering to the mix, it was not an easy task or a very pretty sight. The fight to get my waiters off.

was so hard that I began to panic again. I thought to myself as I struggled, I made it this close only to die at the truck door. Now, I know I could have, I could have just gotten in the truck with the waiters on, but I was not thinking clearly. My ability to reason was all but gone. Finally, I got the waiters off,

and myself in the truck. Now, another thing that I remembered from my Hunter's safety class was that people with hyper-profile. Thermia can just fall asleep and never wake up. When I sat down in that driver's seat of that truck, I reached over and turned the heat and the fan all the way up, and then I started feeling very, very sleepy. It was the sleepiest I had ever been. I could not keep my eyes open.

I was fighting so hard to stay awake and get the heat going. But it felt as if my arm weighed 500 pounds as I was reaching for the heater not. As soon as I got the heater turned on, I passed out. I didn't wake up for a couple of hours. I give all the credit to God for getting me out of those flooded woods that day, and only he could have kept my mind right enough to push through and make it back. I was in a complete state of panic and almost made the wrong choice several times on the way out. There was always a moment of clarity where something kept.

telling me to keep moving forward in the direction I was going, reassuring me that would be okay. Now, here's something else that I'd like to share. My parents have owned and operated a donut shop for over 30 years, so they go in and start baking around midnight every night. Found out later that on the morning of the hunt, while my parents were busy making donuts, that my dad suddenly stopped, went to my mom and told her, We need to pray for Greg's safety today while he's hunting. They both stopped what they were doing, and they prayed for me.

When I heard this, it sent chills down my back, and it was just another confirmation that the good Lord kept his hand on me that day and guided me back to that truck. My friend made it back to the truck a couple hours after I'd woken up with his lemon of mallards. I don't have any long-lasting effects from that day, but I do listen to that little voice when it yells loud enough for me to hear it, and I pay attention. Like the time I'd started toward my deer stand after having forgotten my safety harness,

the little voice said, go back and get it. I listened. A short time later, I was dangling on the end of that harness after a strap broke on my lock-on. I hope my story will help someone listen to reason and go back to the truck as soon as they get. with or turn around and go get that safety harness or any other scenario that could turn tragic. I love to hunt as much as anyone, but there is no hunt worth losing your life. And according to Ty Brown's favorite hunting partner, his pappy Greg, that's just how that

happened. There's a lesson for all of us in there, Greg, and I appreciate you sharing it with us. 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 bed. 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 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 two of Blood Trails premieres April 16th. Follow now on Apple, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. Bait a trap with Duck Gumbo and I'm caught. Cut me loose and I'll step right back in there. That's the effect good gumbo has on me and just about all the folks I choose to associate myself with.

None so more than my compadres at the Coon Camp in Augusta, Arkansas. The place we now officially refer to as the Cash Bow, Hound and Mallard Club. Sounds cool because it is. It's the headquarters of a lot of buy Arkansas-based duck and coon hunting adventures with my pals, the brothers Whitmore, Randall and Wade, then there's Brad Clark, Michael Roseman, and occasionally old Claybow makes his way down from Walmartville to hunt in the real Arkansas, the flat part. There are a whole host of other regular guests and friends that shuffle through depending on the time of year

and getting to meet them while it's always a pleasure. especially when one of them can cook like South Louisiana's own Chris Kent. Now, this event featured me, Randall, Brad, Wade, and Chris in the addition of a bonus Chris from Tennessee named Chris Perry. He's a fire marshal by trade and class clown by choice. But we'd all gather together to do some duck hunting this year and participate in the Mallard Masters gumbo cook-off. It's a contest within a larger one-day festival.

called the Mallard Masters Championship. The whole event is supporting community education scholarships while showcasing the area's rich history of duck hunting and duck cooking. Look it up. It's a relatively new annual event, and it's growing bigger every year. The ducks hadn't been cooperating very well, so we switched on the fly to chasing coons and cooking gumbo. I brought Wayland and my year-old puppy Jesse.

Brad and Randall had Jesse's brother Zee, and for two nights we coon hunting, fellowship, and watched our hounds move through the river bottoms on dry ground that should have had water and ducks on it. That led us to change the old saying of no rain, no ducks, to no rain, new coon hunting ground. Jesse's progression can be measured with an inchworm, while Zeke appears to be not only heading in the right direction

but treeing coons by himself as he goes. I'm proud of what. Brad's done with that youngster, and it gives me hope and inspiration to keep plodding along with Jesse. Michael Roseman has another sister to Zeke and Jesse, and she's starting to come out of her shell as well. Coon owls don't always make coon dogs, and that may be what I'm dealing with here. Who knows? Hunting dogs develop at a different rate, even those from the same litter.

So with my fingers crossed behind my back and a hopeful look toward the heavens, I'm saying a prayer that she'll start figuring it out soon. She started ranging out further, and Michael suggested taking her strictly walk-hunt, next in the distraction of the side-by-side. That seems to be working. He said it helped with his dog, helped her pay more attention to what was going on around her.

We'll see if it works for Jess. I do know that I'm going to be hunting her every opportunity I have this frame because I want her to have the opportunity to do it on her own. But Saturday was the big day of the gumbo cooking contest, and we got going in that booth around 8.30 that morning. The gumbo team was comprised of Chris, Randall, Wade, Brad, me, and the other Chris, Chris Perry. Randall is a great cook and cooks for us all the time in camp. He was making the rue while Chris Kent did just about everything else. Brad and Wade chopped up the Holy Trinity of onions, bell peppers, and celery, while I drank.

coffee, visited with folks walking by the booth, and irritated as many children as I could get to stop by and talk to. Most of the things I'm qualified to do. Chris Perry was the gopher, and he was busy doing everything from plumbing at the camp to bringing things we've forgotten to the booth. It was a flurry of activity, mostly by the head chef who was stirring, cut, and mixing, tasting all the while watching the clock and working around the rest of us who were seemingly in his way every time he turned around.

There were calling exhibitions, food vendors, kids' activities, arts, crafts, and a whole slew of family-oriented activities. And for a town of only 1800, I bet I saw close to a third of that number, Saturday by noon. It was a lot of fun, and our booth was a wall of wooden pallets nailed together

and decorated with mounted ducks, mounted coon, and the big boar's head. Switch came from the vial behind the cavits, some old decoys, and an old wheat brand coon hunting light. Easily recognizable with its silver top battery box that hung on a belt and the thick black cord

that connected the battery with the headlight attached to a hard hat. It was a coon hunting standard for many years, and it, along with the ducks and the decoys, represented us and our camp very well. Feeding time came at 12, and that's when we hollered Suey and started giving out samples. The line for all the gumbo at all the booths was long and slow going. We served it until it was gone, saving a sample in the contest-issued container to turn in to the judges.

Now, Chris's gumbo was the best I've ever at, and I make gumbo at home all the time, and I fix it just like I like it. but his was better. And even though at the end of the contest, we didn't win for our gumbo, we did win first place for the best booth. Well, that night, we celebrated by hitting the woods with Wayland, Jesse, and Zeke. After we collared up our four-legged hunting companions, we made a cast into the woods,

anticipating tree and hounds at any moment. Jesse took off and stayed with Whelan out to about 400 yards before finding their way back. Whalen opened up on a track after a few minutes, and we all listened to him singing our favorite verse as he tracked down through the bottoms. He followed it up with a course, loud, and long series of chops letting us all know he was convinced that he had a coon tree. As we walked to him, his barking, echo, and through the timber, we discussed everything from how good he sounded to asking how in the world did Chris's gumbo not win first place? Just thinking about it. and now makes me want another big bowl of it.

Anyway, whalen had a coon treated in the first fork of a big tall red oak tree. We got some great pictures of him with a national wildlife boundary sign on the tree that the cooom was in, making use and taking advantage of our public lands. I petted Waylon up and we sent him on his way. Zeke was doing his own thing in another direction, and we all sat on a log in the dark listening to him barking on the track. Those of us were tracking receivers watching the intricate twists and turns as the mapping device painted a visual picture of what our ears were telling us. Brad's been hunting night after night all through the late summer and fall, working hard to learn just exactly what Zee was saying.

It takes a while, but repetitive trips for the hound whose job is to communicate with you by barking will tell you exactly what they're saying. To the un-initiated, it sounds like I'm making this up. To those that know, it's second nature and very real. I heard what I would call a locate bark from Z. The locate bark comes just before the dog rolls his bark over into a chop or steady bark indicating that he's treating waiting for you to get there. In a competition, you can get penalized if the judge thinks you're waiting too long to declare your dog tree. I jokingly told Brad as if I was a judge, sir, I'm going to need a call on that dog. Then Chris Perry, a guy that's getting into bear hunting pretty heavy with dogs, he said he sounds treed to me.

And Wade was watching just like I was on his handheld tracker. And if a dog is treed, an icon on the tracker resembling a dog with his front feet on a tree is displayed. Wade said his collar shows him tree. and I poke Brad again with, sir, I need to call on that dog. Out of all the words in the English language, Brad chose some intensely colorful metaphors to tell us all to shut up. Once the laughing subsided, I looked back at my tracker and heard with my ears as Zeke's bark and moved a little further south. Not much, but enough to notice. The dog's voice inflection and rate changed just a bit, and Brad said,

That's it, right there. But we walked the 300 yards or however far it was to the tree that Zieg was trying to push over with his front paws while simultaneously tried to blow the last few leaves out of it with his barking. Someone then said the magic three words that every coon hunter longs to hear. I got him, and sure enough, he did. On a limb way up in that red oak was a big old coon looking right back at us. Now that was a good job on Zeke's part and a better one on Brad's.

He knows that hound, and he called him treat old school without ever looking at his tracker for any clues. Listening to that dog over the last few months on countless trips, mostly just the two of them, it's created a bond that is special and good, one of love, loyalty, and trust. The same thing that brings us all together. every chance we get. Good stuff. Thank you so much for listening to Clay, Lake, and yours truly. We really appreciate it.

Send those stories to me and Reva at MyTCL story at themeatater.com. And until next week, this is Brent Reeves. Signing all. Y'all be careful. 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 Rinella cut is an easy-to-use cut for beginning callers who just want to start making good turkey noises and getting action.