Bear Grease - Ep. 426: This Country Life - Bear, Brent, and Coon-Kabobs

Episode Date: February 27, 2026

This week's episode discusses a two-hundred-year-old fable about coon hunting in Arkansas and a seemingly impossible task. The lessons are flying around like the monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. Get comfortable and check out what's happening on MeatEater's "This Country Life" podcast. Thank you to our sponsors, Case Knives and Stor-Mor. 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. Bear, Brent, and Coon Cabobbs

From an article about a coon hunt that was published 194 years ago to one I actually went on last night, there's a common thread between them. Chasing masked midnight marauders with hounds is older than this nation, and in a narrative that played out when all of America was still east of the Mississippi River, our story begins with the protagonist, sitting on a limb, laughing at the hunter and ends with the hunter having the last laugh himself. They're confused, don't be.

I rarely know what I'm talking about until we get toward the end of these things. So we might as well get to it. When I moved from my home office out to my new studio digs, provided by the good folks at Storemore, I ran across the items I'd misplaced and discovered others that, heck, I didn't even know I had. and one was a folded piece of paper someone had printed out for me. Now, I can only assume it was at a black bear banana or similar event, which is coming up March the 7th this year, by the way. I have no idea who I got it from, but from the way it's folded,

I apparently stuck it in the bib of my overalls and then hit it from myself in the old office upstairs. I do that a lot, hide things from myself, or Alexis gets up in the middle of the night and secretly moves all my stuff around, which is more than likely what's really going on. Anyway, it's a copy of an old story that was written in the first outdoor magazine published in America. It made me laugh a little bit reading it,

and some consider it to have been an influence on our Tier 1 Southern humorous, like Mark Twain and even Mr. Jerry Clower. But first, I'm going to tell you a little about the publication. The American Turf Register and Sporting Magazine was a monthly American magazine published from 1829 to 1844. In this monthly issue periodical, the subject most focused on was horse racing, fishing, and field sports. It was founded by John Stuart Skinner of Baltimore, Maryland. and it was the first magazine of its kind in the U.S.

I wouldn't be scared to say it was the grandpappy to all outdoor media, including what you're listening to now. It was published from 1829 to 1844, and during that 15-year period, there was a lot going on, especially here in Arkansas. Like shedding the designation of territory and officially becoming the 25th state in 18, which, coincidentally, was about the same time the Reeves family started making tracks down in what would become Cleveland County USA.

But four years prior to that great day of celebration, the American Turf Register published a letter to the editor entitled The Dog and the Raccoon. A fable. The letter was sent in by an anonymous pinman who identified himself only as an Arkansas hunter in his country. closing. Here in his prose is a fable within the tale of two soldiers, a dog, and a cone near Fort Smith, a frontier military post established in 1817. The event the writer describes was reported to the American Turf Register in 1832. Here now is the letter as written. Now, forewarning, there's one cuss word in here, and I'm going to read it as the fellow wrote it. If you're If you need a clue what it is before the kids listen,

beavers build them every day. Also, these folks wrote way different back then, so try and hang on through these run-on sentences this dude wrote their worst than mine. Anyway, I like this, and I'm going to read to you now. Mr. Editor Little Rock, Arkansas, August 29th, 1832. Mr. Editor

In one of the numbers of your sporting, magazine, you mentioned some well-authenticated facts of Captain Martin Scott's skill in the use of firearms, an anecdote which I have heard in connection with the same circumstances, which, though improbable, is so much to the point that I have been tempted to send it to you. When the old rifle regiment was stationed at Fort Smith on the Arkansas under the command of Major Bradford, Captain Scott, then Lieutenant Scott, was stationed at the that post. He was perhaps a better shot at that time than he has ever been since, for since then he has received an injury in the right arm. I well know that it was very common for him at that time

in a misty day to set up on the upper gallery or stoop of his quarters and shoot the common chimney swallow on the wing, with as unerring certainty as one of our backwoods would hit the paper on a target at 60 yards at a beef shooting. At this same post was another officer, a lieutenant Van Sweringen, who, though much addicted to the pleasure of hunting, was a notoriously bad shot. And it appears that a dog had treated a raccoon in a very tall cottonwood. And after barking loud and long to no purpose,

the coon expostulated with him, an endeavor to convince him of the absurdity of his spending his time, and labor at the foot of the tree, and assured him that he had not the most distant idea of coming down the tree and begs him as a fellow creature to leave him to the enjoyment of his rights. The dog replied naturally, but I fear not in the same conciliatory style of the coon, but threatened him with the advent of someone that would bring him down. At this moment, a cracking in the cane indicated the approach of some individual. The coon asked the dog who it was, and the dog replied with some exultation that it was Lieutenant Van Sweringen.

The coon laughed, and he laughed with a strong expression of scorn about his mouth. Lieutenant Van Sweringen, indeed, he may shoot and be damned. Van Sweringen made five or six ineffectual shots and left the coon to the great discomforture of the dog, still unscathed and laughing at the top of the tree. The dog smothered his chagrin by barking louder and louder, and the coon laughed louder and louder until the merriment of the one and the mortification of the other was arrested by the approach of some other person. The coon inquired who it was, and the dog answered with a quickness that it was Scott. Who asked the coon? Evidently agitated?

Why, Martin Scott, by God, the coon cried in the anguish of despair that he was a gone coon. rolled up the white of his eyes and folded his paws on his chest and tumbled out of the tree at the mercy of the dog, without making the least struggle for that life which he had, but a few minutes before, so vaughnically declared and believed, was in no kind of danger. Signed an Arkansas hunter.

Now, the moral of this fable is there is no elevation in this life that will justify us and indulging in unbecoming levity towards our inferiors. They wrote different back then. Now, what I got out of that little tale was a lesson in humility, respect and proper behavior.

And I got myself a dose of that earlier in the week when my little buddy, who ain't so little anymore, Barrett Nucum came to stay a couple nights. It cost a day reeds for an experimental exercise and coon hunting. Here's how it all started. 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 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. On February the 5th, I got a text from Bear John, and I quote, Do you think Whelan, Katrina Coon, I could shoot with my bow? Now, folks that know me know that I am forevermore a smart aleck whose self-confidence is limited only by the limitations of what the folks around me are willing to put up with. And when Bear posed that question to me, I responded with,

the question is, do you think you can shoot with your bow a coon that wailing trees? I can only imagine his response to my immediate reply was like the majority of his takes on my ever-febable attempts at humor. Instead of being an adult for once in my life and answering a question like I'm not in the fifth grade, I'm willing to bet he gave me a courtesy smile, reminiscent of Mona Lisa's while following up with I'll call you in five. Now I've watched this young man grow up for nearly a decade and a half and count among my biggest accomplishments when I've literally made him laugh out loud or gotten anything out of him beyond the Gary Cooper type yip during a conversation. He called me and we started working on setting aside a couple nights for his date with destiny. February is a weird time to coon hunt with hounds, at least it is in Arkansas. The rut is usually in full swing by then, and the boys are making tracks all over the country looking for the gals with similar inclinations.

Coonsent is everywhere, with boars going up and down every tree and in and out of every den and hollow log checking for sows that are in heat. They cover a lot of territory looking for willing partners, way larger than they normally roam, miles bigger, in fact. So feeding is secondary to their desire to reproduce. How does that affect the coon hunting? I'm so glad you asked. By covering more ground, it makes it harder for hounds to find them in the usual places. It doesn't mean that another boar could be in that place the others have abandoned. Could be, but not likely.

Once they locate a willing female, especially if she's the only one in her particular area, the bench can get pretty deep with potential suitors waiting in the wings and duking it out for a place on her dance car. There will be concentrations in a lot. in particular area where they've all gathered, but so far this week, that place has been hard to find. I've been hunting hard leading up to Bear's visit to find where these yokers are, so I could have a good chance at getting one treat for him to shoot with his bow. I have a place close to my house that has both ridges and bottoms.

Bottoms are covered in tall standing oaks like you'd find in any place where I grew up at southeast Arkansas. But on the rocky ridges of this same property, you'll find, acres of Quircus, Marylandica, the scrubby blackjack oak. Most suitable for cross ties, fence posts, and coon condos. The blackjack oak only grows to around 30 feet over there. I've treated a lot of coons there where they wouldn't be more than 20 feet off the ground, a perfect height for a fellow to make coon kebabs with a self-made boat. It was the perfect plan, except the coons ain't up on them ridges. It's been dry, this winter, and there's zero water up there. All the coons are in the bottoms where all the tall

trees are. But with hope in our hearts and a coon dog on the leash, we made a cast through the ridges just in the off chance of boar had chased a sow up into that short timber. Nurp. Whelan never cracked his jaw, and he covered it from one end to the other. Eventually, he drifted southward toward the creek bottoms, and there he struck a track. He was over 500 yards away and we listened to him methodically working out the old cold track, barking every time he caught a goodwill for what he was tracking while zigzagging back and forth through the timber. We sat in the can-am watching the hunt unfold on the garment screen but relied more on what I was hearing from how he was barking rather than concentrate solely on what the electronics were dictating.

Finally, we heard a long locate from Wayland that let us know he decided on a tree. It took a while for him to work it out, but he sounded confident, and we headed to him. He was right on the edge of the bottoms where a big creek snaked its way through the hardwoods, 250 yards south from the short black jackoaks we were hoping he'd tree in. Alas, it was not to be. We gathered the cameras and the bows and arrows and lights and little shuck for where Wayland was telling all with an earshot that he had a coon tree. Since Bear had called me and asked me about the possibility of him getting a coon with his bow

that Whalen treed, I knew the limiting factory we'd be facing was how far the shot was going to be. He's not shooting a compound. That'd be like using a 22, except you're more than likely not going to get the Araback and, or you'll pin the coon to the top of the tree, neither of which being a desired outcome. I had zero doubt the lad could accomplish this feat in the proper terrain, but my hopes were fading fast on this second night of hunting after we treed the first one the night before on Bear's second shot, he bounced an arrow off of that coon that was sitting over 40 feet in the tree, hitting him right in their bread basket.

But the coon was as high as Willing Neville. Nelson and the arrow had lost so much energy by the time it got there, all that Coon did was climb a little higher. We made our way to this tree and met whaling at the base of a water oak that had forked near the bottom with each climbing into the darkness at a 25-degree angle and stretching way beyond Bear's bow range. As I crossed the creek on a sandy shoal, I saw that it was littered with coon tracks. Well, at least I found where the Coons have been hanging out. I crawled up the opposite bank, gave wayl and a pat on the noggin, and got a better look at the coon bear had first spotted from across the creek. The shot wasn't much further than the one the night before, but there was a bigger chunk

of that coon hanging out of the fork of the tree that he was laid up in. He made a way better target. So bear crossed the creek and handed me to camera and commenced the flinging errors with no effect into the heavens. One by one, I watched them as they arched toward that resting cone. who, like the one in the first part of this episode, must have equated Bear's marksmanship skills to that of Lieutenant Van Swering's. He didn't look the least bit concerned until I pulled the coon squalor out of my chest pack

and started serenading him with the sounds of Coon spoiling for a fight. I kept squalling at him, Whalen doubled up on his barks per minute. It got loud, y'all. I saw that coon turn upside down in that fork and told Bear John, here he comes. He started easing down the tree and a steady but leisurely pace on the opposite side from us.

And just as Bear knocked another arrow and started for the other side of the tree, that Joker bailed out like a flying squirrel about 30 feet off the ground. He hit the ground with a thud and Bear took off after. They both made it to the creek. With no arrows even close in that direction,

I cut waiting loose to hopefully put his Fandy back up a tree or at least keep him bade for Bear to get a shot. And that's what happened. Whalen bade him in a cut bank on the opposite side of the creek. I chunked him my lead and Bear tied Whelan back and then he ran the air through that Coon's brain bucket, successfully accomplishing his goal. Well, sort of.

He'd requested to shoot a coon to Whelan at Tree, and technically he'd done that. Just not in the way we wanted. But could it be done? Most assuredly, do I know anyone else who'd want to try it? Probably not. Is there anyone else I think could have done it any better? Definitely not.

It was fun to watch Bear navigate his way through the task he decided himself, and I was glad to offer him all the help I could give as little as it turned out to be. He's working hard, and a great example to his generation and a breath of fresh air to mine. He likes the woods and challenges himself to do things that may be new to him but considered archaic by others. But that's how the old thing stay alive and live forever by someone in each generation seeing the value of what has been. Now, if I could just talk him into getting a haircut. Thank y'all so much for listening about mine whaling and bears' kum kebab adventure. If you have a chance, please share it.

of this country life with other folks you think might enjoy it. And if you've really got a lot of time on your hands, leave us a review on iTunes. The nerds back at the lab tell me it's the best way to get the word out to like-minded folks like this wondrous amalgamation of humans who listen. Until next week, this is Brent Reeve. Signing off. Y'all be careful.

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.