Bear Grease - Ep. 495: This Country Life - Bullfrogs, Roebucks, and Long-Distance Calls

Episode Date: August 28, 2026

Brent’s writing his own rules again and making up an imaginary theme for this week’s show. This week’s theme is “It’s my show and I do what I want”. Regardless of his shenanigans the stories this week are great and we think you’ll really enjoy them. Sit back and relax. It’s time for 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 MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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 Eater's 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.

Bullfrogs, robucks, and long-distance calls. Before we get started, I want to invite you to go over to the Meat Eater YouTube channel and check out my Manitoba Moose 12 and 26 film. It just dropped, and man, I really like it. I hope you will too. It's a very special hunt with two very special friends in a very special place. So, check it out when you get the chance. Time to go to work now, so join me at the fire, and let's get started.

Got these stories sent in, and I've been waiting for the right time to come along to use them. So far, it hadn't happened, but I wanted to use them just the same. So I created my own theme. It's called It's My Show, and I do what I want. The first one was sent in by a game warden who wishes to remain anonymous, and I don't blame him with the way things are these days. I'm glad my time in the barrel and law enforcement is done, and I salute any and all who are still in the fight.

We talked on the phone, and he shared some pictures of his children and some more from the community that he'd taken for all gigging. Their smiles told me all I needed to know. And here's the first one from one of Ohio's finest. As a game warden, there are not a lot of opening days that aren't assigned, to work. Most of the time we are tasked with keeping those in pursuit at the first chance in check. However, on the second Friday of June at 6 p.m., Ohio's frog season opens up for anyone willing

to brave the mosquitoes and the ticks and fill a bag with bullfrogs. Opening day of frog season was either overlooked by administration or not deemed busy enough to require an assignment from the supervisor. Either way, my two boys weren't complaining. I have two sons, and growing up in the foothills of Appalachia, there is not much they enjoy more than poking holes and frogs. Usually starting around Valentine's Day, I'd get the questions once a week. Dad, is it frog season yet?

Not yet, boys, not till June. Now, the story I'm telling you now happened several years ago when they were seven and five, and they both started sticking frogs at a young age and were eagerly waiting for June the seventh that year. On Monday they asked, is it frog season yet? Not till Friday, boys, I told him. Friday morning, 7 a.m., I woke up to the oldest standing on my side of the bed with a headland. And no sooner than I finished opening my eyes, he said, Dad, it's Friday. Can we go frog gigging?

Not until six tonight, buddy. We can go this evening. That night, my wife and I loaded the boys, lights, gigs, and an old feed sack to head out to some private property that we had permission to gig. I'd been working a good bit lately and looking forward to an evening of frogging with the family. We headed out shortly after dawn. As we headed down to the first pond, I saw an old pickup truck parked along the levee on property that only my family are allowed on by the landowner. And this truck was not the landowners. No one else is supposed to be here, let alone taking frogs that these two little boys have been

waiting months to toss in a pan of piping hot bear grease. There wasn't anyone around the truck, and the straps piled on the tailgate told me there was a canoe or a kayak that had been hauled in that bed a short time ago. Dad, is that a poacher? One of them said in a voice of excitement, as if he was about to live. live one of the many stories I've told him on my patrols, which he was. Maybe, son, we about to find out. I slipped on my badge and pistol from my center console, and I called the sheriff's office

and told him, if I don't call you back in 15 minutes, send a deputy. My wife was a little nervous, as you might expect, what if this and what if that, and I told her I was just going to walk up along the bank and see what they were up to, although I had a pretty good idea. boys wanted to go with me. They wanted to slap the cuffs on the trespassers themselves. I was able to talk to him into staying in the truck and keeping Mom safe as boys should do. Slipped off into the darkness along the bank.

A couple hundred yards away, I could see headlamps dancing along the edge of the water, three of them. All in kayaks. Well, I kept my light off and I slipped along the bank to where they were heading, listening to their conversations. and confessions telling each other frogs that they'd gathered up ones they'd missed and wondered if anyone I'd see them from the road.

I waited until one of them got close enough that I could grab his gig and jump in his kayak if I had to before I turned my light on. And I shined my light on the closest one and I said, hey boys, having any luck? The closest fellow to me was so startle he almost rolled his kayak. You'd have thought

Bigfoot had just reached out and smacked him on the back at their head. Where'd you come from? And they all stared in fear as they were caught off guard and red-handed. Y'all had permission to be here, I asked. One of them said they weren't sure and didn't think it was such a big deal. Well, I explained that there was only one person that had permission to gig frogs in here, and that was me. And I also happened to be the game warden. I called all three of them over to the bank, had gathered each of their frog sacks and patted them down. told them that I would meet them back at their truck. I footed it back to my truck with their frogs and where my family was relieved to see me,

but Uber curious to see what had transpired up on the bank. I told them that I wasn't finished yet, and that three men on kayaks were going to be coming along soon, and they were to stay in the truck until I got them out of there. Soon the three men showed up, loaded their kayaks in the truck, and after giving me the proper identification, to follow up the next day they were headed home empty-handed. With the trespassers gone and their identities known,

I had to count the frogs they each had to see if they had exceeded the day of limit 15. Frogs don't always die right away when gigged, so handling three sacks of frogs wasn't going to be easy, at least not by myself. With the help of my two young deputy wardens, the boys and I counted each sack while my wife took notes on whose bag had how many frogs, how many were dead, and how many were apparently hand-caught with no wounds and to be released. All three of these men had well over their limit and were in the act of killing more if not interrupted by our family outing. I met up with the suspects the next day.

Issued their summons to appear in court for gigging without permission and taken more than the limit of frogs. They all played guilty and then took their legs. Our family night of out-collecting supper may have been soured by people trespassing and taken more than their fair share, but it created a story that my family has told many times and experienced my boys will never forget. They tell of the time they got to play game warden in real life and see their dad in action. It gave me an opportunity to explain conservation to my young sons, a real-life example of people taking more than their share, and the negative impacts it has on the resource and other people's enjoyment.

And according to Game Warden Nameless, it's just how that happened. Well, Officer Nameless, I appreciate your service to the state and your local community and its wildlife. You know, people sometimes forget these folks are members of the community with families just like the rest of us. Unfortunately, they have a stigma attached to their name by the job they hold. the number of times that I've heard them refer to as the part of my French, the damn game warden instead of just the game warden is proof positive that they have a reason to be a little cautious. Savior I was wronged by the game warden comments and stories for someone else.

I ain't interested in my inbox ain't the place to address it. They have a tough job and deserve respect for their mission at the very least. I know it's going to be hard to believe, but there's good and bad folks in every profession and a whole lot better system of dealing with an out-of-control officer than there are plumbers, truck drivers, or construction workers. So here's to you, Game Warden Nameless, and to all the others out there tasked with protecting our wildlife. It is an oath and a dedication that exceeds some understanding, but I, for one, am grateful that you're there. You've heard the chaos. Now you can see it. Hello.

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It's the same hosts and the same chemistry with all the hilarious moments you've been missing. Right on your screen. Cheers. Open the free IHRRA radio app. Search video podcasts. and tap watch. Before we get back into it,

I want to tell you about the new First Light Bear Grease Bibs. I have collaborated with First Light to build the perfect backcountry utility bib overall. And these might be new to the world, but they're not new to me. In 2019, almost seven years ago, I sketched out the first drawing

and I wanted these bibs to have a chapped front, to make them briar-proof. I wanted them to be breathable. I wanted them to be breathable. to have kind of an athletic fit. I wanted them to have a weatherproof pocket on the front for your cell phone if you fell in the river. They've got lots of big pockets, lots of ventilation.

They're tough. They're durable. They're made for small game hunting. They're made for working on the farm. And they're the bear grease bibs, man. They're now for sale at the meat eater.com slash bibbs. This next one came more in the form of a letter with a story attached, the way most of them come in.

but the origin of this one made me want to read the whole dang thing. And since the theme of this week's show is, it's my show and I do what I want, that's exactly what I'm going to do. This correspondence winged its way 4,6502 miles from Vila, Denmark to Cabot, Arkansas. I'm pretty sure that's like 6 million kilometers. Anyway, when Denmark is mentioned, I immediately think of cold and ice. I don't know how accurate that is, but when I think of cold and ice,

I think of how Canada has the second-best Olympic hockey team, which is something for them to be proud of. But we're talking about Denmark, not the silver medal country. And Denmark's hockey team, well, they fell victim to the team that won the gold there long before Tim Horton's people did. They all sell down up there, I'm only kidding. I love Canada and they're silver medal. Stop it, Brent.

I'm just kidding. Denmark. You're supposed to be talking about someone from Denmark. Oh, yeah, Denmark. Michael Edlifson sent me this letter and story from the aforementioned city of Vila. That's spelled V-E-J-L-E. And how they got Vyla out of Vigal is beyond me. But most words containing more than three letters are already stretching my understanding. But the municipality of Vala supports a population of WALA. 1203,250 folks. A pretty nice tally for a spot that had the census taker back in the Middle Ages, continually

mashing the minus button on his calculator as the black plague knocked the dent in Europe's populace. Another noteworthy fact is that hunting and fishing is just as important there as it is here where the gold medal hockey team lives. Brent, stop messing with our neighbors to the north. Okay. Outdoor sports are in Denmark's culture, and they take a lot of pride in their stewardship of wildlife and wild places. Let me get to Michael's letter before I get all my Canadian pals mad at me.

I'm only kidding. Dear Mr. Reeves, I wanted to send you a note to thank you for your entertaining podcast. Not only do I enjoy listening, but I also learn a great deal about the customs and traditions and the way of life in another. country. Hearing about different hunting methods and traditions is especially interesting to me. Much of it is familiar, while some aspects are very different from what I know here in Denmark. I particularly appreciate your efforts on your family and faith, and faith always plays a much more visible role in everyday life than I am accustomed to in my own country, and I find that perspective both interesting and refreshing. Your hunting stories often keep me entertained.

And while I cannot contribute a story about chasing some of the game you typically hunt, though I would love the opportunity to try my luck at turkey and bear hunting one day, I can't offer a story about hunting a rope buck with a rifle. It is my favorite type of hunt and my favorite game animal. I do not expect the story to be relevant to your listeners, but I hope it might at least give you a smile. Here's the story. Quite a few years ago, when I was 19 years old, a friend asked me if I wanted to join him into older acquaintances on a rowback hunt in Germany.

I immediately said yes. The price was more than reasonable, and as a 19-year-old apprentice carpenter, I had a very flexible schedule. After many hours on the road, we arrived at a hunting property of roughly 500 acres, which we had entirely to ourselves. The leaseholder showed us around the area during the tour we passed a meta in the middle of the forest. My first thought was that place looked like a great place to find a buck. Since we had no opportunity to scout the area beforehand, instinct was all that we had to go on. That evening I managed to claim that stand overlooking that meta. To my surprise, none of the others had chosen that location.

To understand what happened next, I should describe the meadow a little better. It was approximately 55 yards wide and 140 yards long, covered in a beautiful green grass. One long side and both ends were bordered by low deciduous trees and brush. The opposite side consisted of a stretch of tall spruce trees. Behind them, the forest floor was completely brown, and visibility through the trees was excellent. Near one corner of the meadow, tucked into a spruce edge, stood an enclosed hunting blind about six or seven feet off the ground. Access was through a hatch in the floor, and from inside, three small windows provided a perfect view of the meadow. There was also a rear window, overlooking to open and rather barren sprucewoods behind me.

I opened the two hinged windows facing the meadow, naturally tried to open the rear window as well, but no matter how hard I pulled, it wouldn't budge. I assumed previous hunters had concluded that nothing ever came from that direction and had left it shut for so long that it just become stuck. Since I could not get it open, I eventually gave up. After some time, I do not remember how long I had drifted into a half-asleep state when I was suddenly startled by the sharp bark of a roed deer. It was not the alarm,

bark that says I'm leaving right now, but more the curious bark that seems to ask who's there. I scanned that matter carefully, but I couldn't see a deer anywhere. Then it barked again, and the thought suddenly struck me. I turned around. About 20 yards behind the blind stood a handsome six-point buck. Now what? The rear window would not open. Leaning out a side window was impossible and unsafe.

Climbing down through the floor, well, that was out of the question. The rear window had to open. It is amazing how much strength the hunter can suddenly find when the buck is standing right in front of him. And with one determined pull, the window flew open with a tremendous bang. The buck looked at me in complete astonishment. I looked at him in complete astonishment. Then he barked once more, but this time the message was unmistakable. Goodbye.

I never saw him again. I have taken quite a few bucks since then, but oddly enough, that is still the one that I think about most often. And according to Michael Edlinson, a vial of Denmark, that's just how that happened. I know you're probably wondering how that very typical tale of a spook buck that got away, how that story made it into the podcast. There was no surprise ending, no hilarious, calamity or dangerous note worthy of it. It was just a hunter who had a buck slip up behind him that got away.

Something that's happened to all of us at one time or another and me more times than I like to remember. But something stood out about it to me. Michael attached his phone number to the email and on my third attempt at a surprise call after Googling the current time in Denmark, I kept getting the ghost response from my would-be friend and violent. I sent him a text and said Michael, this is Brent Reeves. We've got time for a call? He did have time and he called me and for the next 20 minutes two hunters from more or less opposite sides of the planet

talked about deer hunting and their families. He works for the municipality and supervises nearly 40 Danes whose primary objectives are school construction and maintenance. He's a lifelong hunter in the third generation of outdoor. on both sides of his family. He likes to eat deer meat, along with other game species, including ducks, rabbits, pheasants,

and snipe, all of which constitute the large majority of his diet. Sound familiar? Well, it ought to. Michael sounds like a large portion of the folks I speak to on the regular who sound more like me than they do him. That's the only difference.

As our conversation was winding down, I asked him if there was anything he'd like to say or for y'all to hear that I hadn't asked him. And his unprompted answer was the whole reason I think I'd felt the urge to call him in the first place. Oh yes, he said. In times like these, I think it's more important than ever to realize we are all more alike than different.

And I wish every American hunter a good fall season for bucks. Now, how do you like that? I try to say it in one form or another each week and at every opportunity afforded me that we are indeed more alike than different. It is very refreshing to hear it spoken back to me in an unfamiliar accent from an unfamiliar place but with very familiar and similar sentiment. I think there's a way out of all this division and the first step is to look around near and far for the folks that we'd like to share a fire with. I found a new one today with very little effort in Denmark.

Thank you so much for listening to Claibault. Lake Alicia. I just made that up. And myself here on the Bear Grays Channel. If you get a chance, check out the 12 and 26 film Manitoba Moose about my moose hunt last October. It's live now on the Meat Eater Channel. Until next week, this is Brent. Reeves. Signing all. Y'all be careful.