Ep. 171: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Ducks, Trees, and Danger

trees and danger. A journey can start at any moment, but a lifelong journey has to start pretty early in a person's life. It was ducks for me, and I took my first step on that trick at eleven. And I'm going to tell you a lot about what went on when I was chasing those critters around Arkansas. But first I'm going to tell you the I had all started. I had the pleasure of being invited to go on a duck hunt last weekend with a group of friends that I coon hunt with, and I have to say

I missed it more than I thought. After a twenty six year marathon grind of guiding duck hunters every available day, stressing about water, duck camp, maintenance, boat, motor, upkeep, leases, no rest, little sleep, downward trend and duck numbers and upward trend of duck shooters, and the collection of birthdays. My brother and I quit. I hung up my calls and did other things. A bowl hunted, a fly fished, a coon hunted. But the main thing I did was

enjoy myself during hunting season. Duck season used to be my reason for being. It was what I looked forward to most. When it wasn't duck season, I thought about it. I counted the days until it was now. My dad wasn't a duck hunter, but my older brother Tim just decided one day that he was. And if he was doing it, you could bet that I was going to try to do it too. For anyone that's new to the podcast, I grew up in the country, and I loved to hunt and fish and do just about anything

that's outside except for chores. Now being raised on a farm, there was always something to be done, Something needed doctored or stacked, split, loaded, unloaded, disked, raked, painted, planted, burned. Then on was ain't gonna burn themselves, you know, toaded, picked or a combination of any number of them. Now I didn't really care for it. None of that has changed. I got a four wheeler trailer sitting in my backyard right now that I begrudgingly filled with limbs two springs

ago before the moving started. Now, this was all under the direction of my workaholic wife Alexis, who lives by the proverb that idle hands are the devil's workshop. Well, that trailer is still sitting there full of limbs, and when I have time, I'm going to haul them off. But right now I'm busy being retired and thinking about duck hunting again. I was eleven on my first duck

hunt in nineteen seventy seven. My brother Tim and Joe Tyree took me to Star City, Arkansas, to a beaver pond that was located behind a mena farm on Cane Creek. The beavers had a large section of hardwoods flooded with backwater, and Star City is on the edge of the Arkansas River delta. With the river close and flooded rice fields closer, that beaver pond was a natural resting spot for Mallard ducks looking for a place to snag a few acrens, take a nap and hunt up a gall to roll

back north with. When the time came, I was sporting my first pair of uninsulated red ball waiters, an early Christmas present from Tim and my sister in law, Barbajean. The suspenders were green with several buckles, just like my brothers, with two layers of socks, a red Union suit you know the kind with the flap in the back for emergencies, a flannel shirt, a green Army filled jacket, and a brand new Ducks back canvas hat. I followed Tim and Joe for the half mile walk to the flooded timber.

I didn't have a light, so I stuck close to Tim, and when he pulled his foot out of a track, I stuck mine in there. And that would be the template that I would use for many years until he encouraged me to go ahead and do my own thing, and he even started following me some. That's a good thing.

That's how you evaluate the lessons getting passed down. Just like our father and all the adults and the more experienced folks that we looked up to had done for us, and the ones that came before Dad had done for him that's how it worked works, Tim said, be careful, Brent. There's a big beaver. Run right here. Step extra long so you hit the other side and don't fall in. And it's deep, and if you get wet, you gonna get cold because we ain't going back to the truck

until we're done hunting. Well, I stood in the spot where he'd more or less jumped from, and the muddy water was up to my behind, and I wondered, step extra long? How long is that? He's like twice as tall as me. I'm gonna fall in, but I don't care because I'm going duck. And before I could finish that thought, he reached and grabbed me by the hand and said jump, and I did, and he snatched me over that beaver built abyss and we waited on him telling me where the logs and the sticks were that

I had to step over. He taught me on that trip to slide my feet when I couldn't see the bottom, and not to put my weight forward when walking until I planted my foot firmly on solid ground. Now I can't even begin to estimate how many I passed that on to duck hutting clients. Some of them still dripping wet from learning the hard way. It was still dark when we got to the spot, and I could see the stars shining through the opening in the trees, and Tim let me help put the decoys out in the

water that was just above my knees. Me and you will stand right here by this tree, and Joe will be standing by that one. He pointed over to my right with his flashlight, and I could already see Joe propped up against that oak tree, shot gun hanging on a nail, his hands in his pockets, he just waiting on daylight. The wind was blowing from my right to the left, and the sky was starting to turn pink behind us. Tim poured some coffee out of his thermest bottle and gave me the cup while he dug out

a cigarette and lit it. And that coffee smelled good and the cup felt good in my cold hands. We shared that cup back and forth and warmed our enters as we talked about wearing when to shoot, and when I could look at the working ducks, and when I couldn't. Now I'm glad he's quit smoking many years ago, but I'll catch a whilf of a cigarette smoke occasionally, and it'll remind me of similar times. Coffee does the same thing. It's funny how smell and all that is connected with memories.

It seemed like forever, But eventually I could look over at Joe and I could see his outline. He hadn't moved an inch, and I could see the silhouettes of the decoys as they moved back and forth in the hole where we'd set them. We heard duck wings whistling overhead and ducks quacking out in the timber. I'm not sure I even blinked. I was about to pee in my breeches, and not just from excitement. I hadn't drink a lot of coffee up to that part of my life,

and it was making short work about dixie cup sized bladder. Tim, I got a pee right now? Yes, he said, Well, get over you uder and get it done, shooting irises in five minutes. Well I got it done. Once I was back by the tree, Tim gave me a handful of shells to put in my pocket, told me to load up. That's what I was waiting to hear. I checked the safety and I put three of them in that remyton eleven hundred checked the safety again, and I waited.

The ducks started flying in big groups and were bypassing our little spot. I was getting discouraged, but Tim told me to be patient. Soon the sun was high enough for the decoys to be seen, and the ducks started acting interested. Tim was calling to one group that was circling when four or five dropped in that we never saw coming, and Tim and Joe each shot one as they hovered over the decoys. Well, I was peeking at the group that was still circling when they shot, and

it scared the fire out of me. It's a good thing i'd gotten rid of that coffee earlier, but they might have scared the pee out of me too. Now, you got to be ready. I'm gonna tell you when to shoot, But sometimes they slip in on us, Tim told me. He said, so when they do, you gotta be quick. Well, I was listening intently and watching the sky when a big, old fat mall of drake started making tie eight circles and losing altitude as he burned

off speeding. Tim continued his lesson. I said, no matter how many come in, just pick out one and forget all the rest. Of them. Now. I guess he saw my eyes following that duck that was dropping in, and as he was looking up to see what I was saying, he continued his lecture with be sure to give him some lead, and then give him the lead. At that moment, that drake looked as big as a wing shehutling pony, and he was inside the trees in front of me,

about fifteen feet above the decoys. Went. To Tim's surprise, I showed her that eleven hundred punched off the safety and put him belly button up in the decoys. Tim calmly finished his lessons with just like that man alive, that was number one Numero uno and the match that lit my fuse. I handed in my shotgun and I waited out amongst the decoys to retrieve my prize. And I couldn't have been more proud, And Nita contemn. I hung onto those curly tail feathers for years and years

until they got lost. Like things like that do. My mama made a big batch of duck and rice out of that rascal and some others that we brought home that day. I can smell it cooking right now, and see how that whole hunt played out in my head like it like it happened this morning. That's the thing about memories. They're the little movies that played in your

head anytime you want them to. And that one, well, I was reminded of it a few days ago when I was watching ducks swinging around after we called to them and dropping into decoys, just like I'd seen a million times before. It was a tail. I thought I was done with. But me and duck hunting never officially broke up. We just took a three year vacation. And that's just how it happened and how it all started.

Now here's a duck story that happened twelve years after my duck hunting journey started, and believe it or not, it was within a half a mile of that very spot, in the same flooded timber, but under extremely different circumstances. This is the time my journey nearly came to an abrupt and violent halt. So gather the young'uns, and y'all listen up. The reeves boys are out doing dumb stuff again.

Remember Cane Creek, like from ten minutes ago, the creek that the beavers had dammed up and created the pond and the flooded timber where I shot my first mount of duck. Remember well, fast forward twelve years and it's now a one thousand, six hundred and seventy five acre lake within the two thousand and fifty three acre Cane

Creek State Park. It's a beautiful park in the lake in it so it's approving great fishery under the care of the Arkansas State Parks and the Arkansas Gaming Fish Commission, and it's all there for the public. When all the land was purchased, construction began and a big levee was built. It took a while, but the lake area flooded and as a result of the timber inside eventually died, leaving standing snags that would fall and be reclaimed by Mother

Earth and all her witness. Now, during that time, we took full advantage of the water and for several years we put a pretty good smashing on the ducks. Now, this was still a few years before we started our guiding business, and on this day it was me Tim and our good friend Andy Johnson. Andy and I had worked together at a forester consulting business, and he liked a duck hut as much as we did. By the time of this hunt, most of the timber had fallen down,

so just traveling around the lake was pretty risky. You had to go slow and pick your way around the boat lanes and watching for logs that had drifted into the routes that were cut out, and you had to make sure you didn't hit a stump if you had to go around one that did. The timber having nearly all fallen presented another challenge as well. Where you're going to hide? Now, none of us like hunting out of a boat, even though that was a very productive and

a safe way to shoot ducks in those conditions. No, we were purist, and you duck hunt standing beside a tree and knee deep water, just like folks in the Bible did. Well, we figured they did anyway, So we'd make the treacherous trek, dodging snags and blowdowns out to a spot that when the timber was alive, it was tailor made for duck hunting. It was a hole about

forty yards wide and ringed with material trees. The water was knee deep in there at that stage of the lake's progression, and the ground was mostly solid with a few old stump holes here there. The stump holes had silted in and looked solid from above the water. But if you stepped in one, you'd sink up to your straddle and you'd think you were headed to the other side of the planet. Because you'd rarely ever touch the bottom, you'd get wet, and someone would usually had to come

help you get out. That was what we worried about, stepping in a hole or snagging a limb causing you a leak in your waiters. While we walked around putting out decoys or picking up ducks, or just traveling from one spot to another. The thought of being driven in the ground like a tent peg never crossed our minds. And it was cold and crisp and a blue bird day. The only thing missing was when, which if it had been blowing, we wouldn't have been hunting in that spot

because of all the dead timber. We would have been on the bank somewhere and relatively safety hidden among the live trees on the edge of the lake, where there was no threat to our health and safety. But like hunting from a boat, that wasn't what real duck hunters did. Real duck hunters got out in the middle of the hardship and embraced the struggle. I'm glad, I'm over that foolishness, but on this day I was still very much in

that frame of mind. We got in that spot way before daylight, put out the decoys, and everyone picked out their place to stand. Tim and Andy were about fifteen yards apart, standing by medium size standing snags, and I was kind of quartered across the hole, not in the line of fire by any means, but standing by the

biggest oak snag in the whole area. Now, we set the decoys where the ducks had to land out away from where we were all stationed, and had a hard rule that no one shoots below the limb on a snag at the shooting end of the hole. Cripples were dispatched by who was closest and always in a direction away from everyone, and only after making sure where everyone was and that we all knew someone was about to shoot on the water safety something we took very seriously.

It's rule one, and it still is. We started scratching out a few ducks out of the groups that worked in that hole, and only liked one or two each for a limit. When the mid morning Love came around. Now, every duck hunter's familiar with that, and this one rolled in around ten am. If you're not familiar with it, it's when the ducks just all of a sudden quit flying before eventually starting to get up and stir around

a little bit more. Now we could have left with a good mess of ducks already, but that ain't what duck hunters do. Come on, man, you got to stay until you get all the law allows. Anyway, the mid morning Love, the conversation amongst all of us had died down to nothing. We were just all kind of just standing there, lost in our thoughts. No birds were singing, There was not one sound to anything. I looked up that tiring snag that I was standing beside, and I

marveled at how big and straight he was. It would have took all three of us to reach around it. There was three big limbs that had grown out from the trunk, and the lowest one was about I don't know, twenty five feet above my head. They were all on the opposite sides of each other and had broken off at about the same distance from where they sprouted. Back when that tree and the ground that grew on was claimed by those cats and friends. It was a big tree and it had been there a long long time.

I remember looking back over at Tim and Andy and they were looking at me. No one said a word, and then a loud pop broke the silence. That wasn't like a firecracker or a kid's cork gun going off. It didn't sound like Dracula opening up his coffin lid. No, it was quick, it was heavy, and it was a thick sound, like the sound of a humongous tree top breaking away from its base and plunging toward Earth at

terminal velocity. Now I knew exactly what it was, even though I had never heard that exact sound before my life. Now you want to talk about time standing still, it did. I was looking at Tim when it popped, and I saw his eyes get wide and his face loose all its color, his expression going from indifferent to absolute horror in an instant. Now, during that same instant, I took off, running as hard and fast as I could in the knee deep water, and I was instinctively running toward my brother.

He was my protector, just like always, and he'd save and protect me again. I just had to get to him, and I was running to him like my life depended on it, because it actually did. I taken four or five strides toward him, putting as much distance as I could between me and the base of that tree, solely

focused on him. Having never looked up. He started screaming wrong way, wrong way, wrong way, perfect three hundred and sixty degrees on the compass, and I choose the one direction that was going to get me pounded like one of John Henry's railroad spikes. I hadn't had kids yet, I hadn't ever bought a house or ridden a motorcycle. The motorcycle thing was really bothering me because I was wishing I was on one at that exact time and

riding it away from that tree. Well. I stopped, and I turned to go back the way I came when I heard the rush of wind that that tree top was making as it fell, and I felt the areas that went by my shoulder, landing flat in the water less than a foot from where I had turned to make my retreat. My shoulders were hunched up and my eyes were closed, and I turned away from that wooden buzz bomb that was about to hit me. When a

wall of water came crashing down on me. Tim and Andy said I completely disappeared behind the water, and they didn't know if I'd been hammered in the ground or not. But before that water had a chance to run off of me, Tim was standing beside me and checking to see if I was all there. I got my first look at that tree top. It was enormous, and it would have easily sent me to the happy hunting grounds that it hit me. Two hunts in the same area twelve years apart. One lit the candle and the other

one dang near blew it out. Contrasting stories, to be sure, but both very important in my continued growth as a human. We didn't hunt that place anymore. I remember going back after all the timber had fallen, but not many times before it all did. We found other places and other opportunities to maim and kill ourselves. But that's a story for another day. But I missed duck hunting more than

I thought, a whole lot more. And it's not the duck hunt so much as it is the fellowship, sharing the sights and the sounds of ducks as they respond to a call, and pitching the decoys after circling around and shining in the sun like feathered emeralds is a sight to behold. I sat on the bench in that blind the other day beside my host and we talked about old times and places we'd been to while our other friends were shooting ducks, and I was okay with that,

so was he. Thank y'all so much for listen. I really enjoy telling these stories, and from the responses we're getting, apparently you folks enjoy hearing there's more duck hunting to come along with the everyday common household buffoonery you've grown accustomed to, which reminds me of something my friend Michael Roseman told me the other day we were going coon hunting, and he said that when they're listening in and shopping

building lights that he hears that acoustic guitar music start playing, someone will say, brins fixing to do something dumb. Don't play cards with them, folks, they're pretty sharp. Until next week. This is Brent Reeves sign, and all y'all be careful