Ep. 213: This Country Life - When it all Falls Apart

when it all falls apart. John Prine released a song in May of nineteen seventy eight titled That's the Way that the World goes Round. Here's the chorus. That's the way that the world goes round. You're up one day, the next you're down. It's a half a inch of water and you think you're going to drown. That's the way that the world goes around. Now, if you can find a better analogy for my turkey season, I want to hear it. You'll find out why in a minute.

But first I'm going to tell you a story. Two days before my birthday in twenty twenty, I brought home a coon. Now that's a whole story in itself, but all the context you need for this one is a new dog and taking up residents with us just a few days prior to the world coming unraveled. It was a very opportune time for my family to have something good to focus on while we navigated through the new place.

We all felt lost in not knowing what we were supposed to do about all the changes and restrictions we faced in our jobs and daily routines. We focused our energies on our faith, each other, and a clumsy, four legged tree and walker pup named Whalen. It was love at first sight from my youngest daughter Bailey and my wife Alexis as they each introduced themselves to that big ear joker, who instantly returned the affection. Unlike any other hound I'd ever owned, he had a lot to learn

if he was going to be a coon dog. I had a lot to learn if I was going to help train him, and the thought of him not making it really never cross my mind. I already knew he wouldn't be leaving because of how the girls felt about him. Hound hunters, my dad being a prime example, can go through dogs like grass goes through a goose. Get one keep him awhile find the fault or mannerism you don't like, and send him on down the road to the next guy. Then he'd get another one and start the whole process

over again. I remember many times when Dad and I'd be out at the dog pen. I'd ask, where's old so and so. He'd say, Oh, I sold him or I traded him for this one. Hounds came and went. It was the nature of the community and the process and developing a pack of running dogs that worked well together. Hounds. Many women have preferred styles of how dogs hunt, how

they sound, how they look, how they act. When you're feeding multiple dogs, like my dad did, you're always looking for the next one that'll give you the advantage in helping your pack outrun everyone else's. Now. I say all that to say this, When you have two other people in the house and they love dogs more than anything, and not this type of dog or that type of dog,

but dogs period. Getting rid of one that doesn't suit your fancy can be harder than it should be, as long as it is in biting the neighbors, chewing up the burkingstocks or the Lululemon. That Rascal will have two strong advocates in his corner when the conversation comes up that maybe he just didn't work it out hunting the way I want him to. I tried it out a month after we got him, and don't get me wrong, I had no intention whatsoever getting rid of my new

coon awn. When I said I don't think this dog is working out, Alexis and Bailey both looked at me and and I'm paraphrasing here, but the gist of their responses were so what he ain't leaving a month into it, and I knew this dog better work because it appeared that they would sanction my dismissal before they would His coon Dog School was in session five six and seven nights a week. I'd be in the woods with Whaling

after the girls had gone to bed. Sometimes Bailey would go with me, and that was back before getting muddy was a bad thing. She hunted a lot with me and was there from beginning in Whaling's progression from just a dog wandering around in the woods to hunting with a purpose. Now, whether Bailey win or not, Whaling than I were through the hot summer we win. I'm blessed to have friends who have land near where I live in.

The abundance of public landing available in Arkansas is huge, So for the first year I hunted like a man possessed. It was a routine. I worked during the day, came home, spent time with the family until the girls went to bed, and then me and Whalen went to work every night with few exceptions. It's the best way to do that.

I found. By exposing your dog to places where coons frequent, you're gonna find out pretty quick what you're dealing with and the natural ability of the hound, and what you'll have to work on to get him focused on how you want him to hunt. It's a process, and the best process is repetition. Doing everything the same over and

over again. The way you load him up at the house in your truck, the way you put his collar on him and unload him when you get there, the way you unsnap him off the lead, how you talk to him before you turn him blues and what you say is all important. If you do everything the same every time, you'll notice anything he does different, and that's how you see his tendencies. That's how you gather the data for how good or badd he's doing. When everything

is equal, the anomalies stand out. That's how it works. Now, I believe it or not, that dog is watching you too. They're creatures of habit, just like we are, and they're training us at the same time we're training them. Consistently doing the same thing over and over is comforting and soon I found wailing standing at the back door looking inside. Now, anytime around dark, if he saw me walk towards the garage door, he'd go stand by the backyard garage entrance.

If I stepped into the backyard with his lead in my hand, he'd stand motionless for me to snap it on him, and then he would pull me to the truck to load up. I let him get away with pulling me so often that I've had to retrain him on healing so he doesn't pull me down. Michael Roseman would tell you that I have done a terrible job be correcting that, and he'd be right. But the dog is smart and he'll do what I tell him, so

I really don't mind it. In fact, it kind of comes in handy Sometimes when I'm going up a creek banking, I need a little help from my four legged friend to get to the top. The first summer was like clockwork. We were a well old machine of routine. Kiss the girls goodbye, load my boots, light and vest in the truck, Walk to the back door with my lead, Snap it on the dog that was standing at attention. Load him

in the dog box. Drive fifteen minutes to the hunting spot, put my lighting boots on, put his collar on him while he stood on the tailgate. Walked to the release spot, standing straddle of him, holding his collar. I'm patting his ribs and releasing him while saying let's go. Every step of that was done exactly the same way every time,

old deviation whatsoever. He started catching on pretty quickly that dude possesses a lot of natural ability, and by repetitively keeping him in the woods, I was taking advantage of that and only having to correct a few minor issues I found undesirable. With all that was going on at the time, I'd become concerned about a jillion things that was going on around us just in life. Alexis was working remotely most of the time, Bailey was doing the online school thing, and we were all three trying to

get used to the new abnormal being normal. The only constant. That was constant was mining Whalen's routine through all of that madehem. After months and months of repeating the step by step process of leaving the house just as as I detailed to you, and hunting the same spot over and over, I decided to go to a new spot. Now. This one was almost two hours away, and I decided that we both needed a new set of woods to look cat Whaling was treated on his own now, and

our routine had become more like a rut. Not in a bad way, but just in the mindless autopilot of day after day of the same thing at the same place. I was spicing it up. Now it was going to be good for both of us. I was going to see how he did out of his comfort zone, and I was looking forward to adding that day to what he'd been doing on familiar ground. We were going to a big expanse of public ground, and I had been

struggling over where to cut him loose. I had four or five places in mind to cast from, and my first choices already had someone hunting there. I'd been all over the map of the area, picking out spots to go, downloading the offline maps to my trackers so i'd know where I was and where whaling was in relation to me. I'd have to leave earlier and to get there right

at dark. There was a lot of water in that area, so I took some dry clothes in case I got wet from wading to him shitty tree across the slough that was over my boots. I didn't want to drive home with a wet pair of breeches all the way to the spot. For nearly two hours, I thought about where to go first, and changed my mind several times in a route until I got there, and then I just went to the closest place I could find it that wasn't even on my list. I was excited to

look at some new country. I was excited to see what my dog would do, and a spot he had never been to and how he react to the new area was the focus of my mission. I thought about it all day that and all the other things that were going on at that time, and the two hour drive seemed to take forever. Time usually passes quickly when I'm preoccupied with something, but when the preoccupation is with getting to the starting point, the road there seems to

go on forever, But finally I was there. I stepped out of my truck and I put on my light, I changed it to my boots, and I I tired up the track and collar. All of that was the same as always. It was my pregame routine at the parking spot before getting Whaling ready to cut loose. I've already told you that there's a routine inside this story about routines. The only difference this time was the time it took to travel to the new spot, and Whaling didn't bark from the inside of the dog box when

the collar beefed after I turned it on. He always did that every time, like it was ingrained in him. I attributed it to his excitement for the upcoming hunt, after all, every time he'd heard it beep over the last few months. He was turned loose to chase Bandido shortly afterwards, Except this time, now many questions were running through my mind. Was the ride too far? Did he get carsick and puke everywhere? Oh Lord, did I make a mistake and take it him to a different spot

too soon? When I dropped the tailgate and looked inside the dog box, I knew immediately what it had happened. The ride wasn't too long for him, he didn't get carsick, and I hadn't made a mistake by taking him to a new spot. I hadn't done any of that. The mistake I made was not loading him up at the house before I left. He was still at home. I was coon hunting without a coon dog. And that's just

how that happened. For two episodes, I talked about how twenty four hours in Missouri all fell into place this spring. I was zigging when I should have been zigging, and I was zagging when I should have been zagging. At every turn, I was guessing right and making the right moves or not moving, and it was all paying off and flopping turkeys. But I don't want you to get the wrong impression about my luck or how the majority

of my adventures play out. No chance, So that if you listen to more than the last two episodes of this show, my life is a highlight reel of calamity, a literal step by step storyboard of lessons on things you shouldn't do. And you folks that have been here a while, slide over, let the newbies have a seat. Follies to follow here's one that's so fresh that if this door was a gallon of milk, it wouldn't have had time to go bad. Since it happened, guess where

it occurred, Yep, Missouri. Remember the three stories I told you about three turkeys that met their fate on the opening week this year. Remember me beating the feathers off of that dead turkey. See where I substituted a dead horse with a dead turkey and still continue to beat the dead horse by continuing to talk about the opening day turkey hunt by using a different dead animal. I'm out of control. Well, I went back to Missouri the following Monday, a scant seven day from the zenith of

my personal best twenty four hours a turkey smashing. I owned the Missouri turkeys. I was in the zone. I had something to prove. I'd recently placed third in the Meat Eater online turkey calling contest behind the show Nuff Deer Killer, Mark Kenyon of our very own Wired to Hunt podcast, and some other bozo named clud Clay Mud or some other soap opera name that I can't think of right now that has a podcast on this very feed. If I ever get bored enough I was listening to

it doubtful. But anyway, after that rig contest, I had some bonds to pick with goblin turkeys. Those are the votes that really count, and I count those one beard at a time, not like Clud does with a sweatshop full of mule skinners, rubbing blisters on the thumbs, voting online like the room and board depended on it, which

I'm sure it did. Who cares. I'm a turkey killer, and I had two days to run back up there and show Clud and Mark the deer Guy and everyone else that in the Turkey woods, I'm as dangerous as a drunk monkey with a box cutter. I couldn't wait to get there. Now, these things that usually have a way of evening out or really ending up in Nature's favor. Mother Nature is like a casino. She'll let you win a little, and you may even win a lot, but in the end the house always comes out on top.

Neither one of them are in the business to let you win for long. They used like to love you into a false sense of security, then whammo, you lose. I would be reminded of that very soon. I don't know why it surprised men in the end. I don't think it really did. I was just on a roll and I had time for one more throw of the dice because Daddy was feeling lucky and baby needed a new pair of shoes. I hunted all day where I called up the two turkeys on the opening Monday, one

for me, one for my post daughter. The turkey I was on a daylight answering every call I made to him, had a hen with him. He walked away, no problem, Go find another one, and I did. I found him strutting in a field. I made a big loop. After making the perfect plan to get in there and set up on it, I miscalculated where I thought he'd be and I spooked him on to another property. With the afternoon hunt run, I decided to pack it in early so I didn't do any further damage. Actually, come to

find out, I didn't spook him at all. I spooked a turkey that I didn't even know was there where I'd planned to set that afternoon and jump that gobbler. Before getting there, there was another gobbler gobling in that spot the next morning. I wouldn't learn that until I decided to go to a different spot and my host texted me with the good news he heard him from the back porch. Oh well, it didn't matter. The next morning, I was on a different piece of property and listening

to several turkeys goblin. It would only be a matter of time. Remember I'm a turkey killer. The first turkey I set up on that morning was doing his best to gobble the world awake until he hit the ground. After that he shut his yap and didn't say a word. I called the hen in, expecting to have her boyfriend rolling behind her, but alas she was sad. No problem,

Go fight another one, I did. He's back to where another one had been gobling that morning, and there he stood, almost half a mile away, blowed up like a big black trash bag in the edge of an open field field. Turkeys they're tough nuts to crack. Sometimes sometimes they're really easy, or so I've heard from me. There was a long tree lined fence road that ran along the south end of that field for nearly half a mile, and I was at the east corner. He was at the west.

There was a lot of ground between us, and I had a drop dead time of twelve pm to get out of there, to make the long trip back home to catch a plane the next afternoon in a little rock a good, bad, or indifferent. Come twelve o'clock, I had to be making tracks for the Casa day reefs. I watched him strutting and walking, strutting and walking, and realized, hey, he was making his way toward me, and he was

following a hen. Now at the time, they were moving pretty good, So I just sat down where I was at at the east corner of the field. Last time I saw him, he was about fifty yards north of the edge, making his way straight toward me. A slight rising in the elevation of the field kept me from seeing him when I sat down. I just had to be patient and trust the science of what I was doing. I'd killed a sack full of turkeys just a week ago. One I literally pulled the trigger on the other two

died of the trickery of my calling. This dude was more or less given up by walking straight towards me. I guess he'd heard about me. It figured it'd be easier just to come on in and get it over with. Forty minutes later, I started to think he wasn't coming. Dad gun, I could have pedded the tricycle down there and back in that length of time. Well, I slowly stood up, shot gun at the ready, and there he was, back in the original place I'd seen him over seven

hundred yards away. This was only going to prolong his life for a few more minutes. As I crossed the fence on the opposite side of the woodline and made my way west. Just inside I headed out wheatfield. If he stayed where he was right now, he was a dead man walking. The timber at that end of the field was bigger and would allow me to slip in there close enough to bust a cap if he decided

to retrace his steps. I was close enough to the edge of the field that all I had to do was standing in the shadows and send him one when he got close enough. Either way, he might as well been at Martha White's getting custom fitted with the battered bathing suit he was going to be wearing while swimming in my deep frier. The wind had picked up pretty good now and it was blowing from north to south. Any noise I made would be pushed away from him, and the leaves had come on a lot since the

week before. That was going to hide my movement when I got down to where he was, or allow me to slip unseen up to the fence row. I cut the distance in half and peeked down to where I could see him. He'd have that distance himself then was walking back toward me. This was going to be easy. He'd already walked this route and felt safe while doing it. Turkey potpire, just plain old fried turkey. I couldn't decide which one I was gonna cook first. I sat down on the fence row. He didn't know I was on

the planet. He was walking towards me. It was now at one hundred and fifty yards, But this time there was no strutting, no hesitation, no follow on the hen. He was on a bee line for the hen he'd heard earlier. That sounded good and looked a whole lot like me. I raised my double barrel up to my shoulder and rested my thumb on the safety, waiting to slide it forward, my index finger just outside the trigger guard, Waiting patiently. I glanced down at my phone screen. Eleven

forty four am. I had sixteen minutes left at a little over one hundred yards. I slid the safety off and began sighting his red, white and blue head down the barrel, the bead over and less and less of his head and neck as he got closer with each purposeful step. I picked out a spot at thirty yards to send him a smoking tea spoon full of nastiness. He's at eighty yards now, and he's showing no signs

of slowing down. This cat only has a few more seconds to live, and in the blink of an eye he ducked his head, flying and running back the way he came as fast as his wings and feet would toad him. I put my shotgun on safe and raised my cheek from the stock, wondering what in the world had just happened. When a crop duster nearly drug his wheels through the top of the tree I was sitting under as he made a big, loud pass right above me. Had I had wings, I believe I'd have picked up

and flew with him. It scared me as bad as he did a turkey. I found it humorous eventually, and I watched that pilot making pass after as I walked back towards my truck, shot gun broken down and resting across my shoulder. I was nearly back when he passed right over the top of me while banking back toward the wheat field he was spreading. He was low and I could see him clearly in the cockpit looking at me. He was closer to me than the turkey ever got. I gave him my thumbs up, and he puffed a

ball of marker smoke back at me. They do this by squirt and shot aill onto the exhaust, and the white smoke is easy for me to see it and helps them determine which way the wind is blowing. But that day, I think it was more of a sorry friend. I've been humbled by mother nature more times than I can remember. My own ineptitude had sent me back to the house singing the blues even more. But getting my ego put in checked by a crop duster man, that's a new one even for me. I thank y'all for listening.

If you are the pilot that was flying that day, if you can prove it of you by telling me where this happened, I'll send you a meat eater T shirt. I was just playing that day you were working, and I ain't mad at you. Send your stories into me and Reva at MYTCL story at the medeater dot com. Check out Mark Kenyon over and Wired to Hunt and Old Clud over at the Bear Grigs until next week. This is Brent Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful.