00:00:05 Speaker 1: Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From coon hunting to trotlining and just in general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the store More Studio on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share, the one that got away and the one that kind of didn't. And we're back. It's time for the second half of my Mississippi Turkey count with my friends Lake Pickle, Jordan Blissed, and Keith Polk. I treasure that hunting trip every year, but the relationships I built with those guys and their families, and that's this is everything. I'm gonna tell you all about it. But first I'm going to tell you this story. Twenty something years ago, I was riding around rural Missouri with my longtime friend Toby Nemi. I've talked about Toby on here plenty of times, but for those that don't remember, I've been hunting at his place for the better part of twenty five years. Last year. I finally talked him into going with me and we doubled up on two whoppers. But this story was back then, as my daughter Bailey says, and Toby's interests were only in finding me places to hunt. We drove by a small farm and they're feeding out in the open pasture, along with a group of yearland cavs. Was a big old Missouri long beer. He wasn't paying any attention to them, and they walked around him like he wasn't even there. Toby said he knew that man that owned that property, and after a quick phone called to the man. Once we got back home, I had permission to hunt it. The next morning, I made the ire or drive from Toby's to the new place, stepped across the fence and waited for daylight. As Missouri woke up, I was greeted by a gobble at the opposite end of that pasture along the tree line. It was still plenty dark and I had a lot of time to pick out a spot to set. Unfortunately, this didn't have a lot of choices. That spot was at the top of a rolling hill that ran the length and air property, with the top of the ridge in the middle of the pasture and the terrain sloping down toward the fence rows on each side. Thickets dominated both sides of the field outside the barbed wire, so it was just a matter of finding a spot that would work, making a little makeshift blind and jobbing a hen decoy in the ground, and getting comfortable until he flew down, spotted my decoy and slid on over to socialize. The songbirds were letting it rip, and it was past what I thought was fly down time. When I clucked a couple of times, he answered me, and he just pitched off the limb and went into full strut two hundred yards away. I was in complete radar lock. I had to beat to that shotgun on him as soon as his feet hit the ground. Sitting on the edge of that field like I was, wasn't going to offer me much wiggling room once he got closer. I was counting on him looking at that decoy walking into range. Let me set the stage for you. My back was to the west fence, but I was aiming south, and that turkey was strutting at the south end of the pasture, and I had the decoy sitting northeast of me. About thirty yards. Now he would have to walk past me to get to that decoy, but I wasn't about to let that happened. I was going to monkey flip him with an expresso cup full of number fives long before he got there. I yeped at him and I saw him gobble back. He looked down where I was sitting, and he locked onto that decoy, and here he come. He wanted to stop and strut, but he also wanted to run, so as he was running, he did his dead level best to look cool while he did it. This was happening fast, so fast I didn't notice the thundering herd of calves that had walked up to the decoy behind me. I'm not sure how I knew what the sound was, but when I heard it, I could tell there was a bovine chewing on my Pham turkey decoy. It's seventy five yards That gobbler slammed on the brakes, did in about face, and left quicker than he was running to me. I looked back to where that decoy was, and there stood a herfred calf holding my decoy in his mouth like a labrador holding duck. Now I didn't understand everything I knew about what I was looking at, but I knew that turkey hunt was as done as corn bread. I picked up a rock and I tried to throw it through that calf, but all I did was caused him to drop my decoy and stampede off while his pals followed him, literally grinding that decoy into oblivion in the Missouri dirt well. That was crazy. I was sitting back at the truck, getting ready to leave and sing the blues when the farmer drove by. I told him what happened. He promptly opened the gate and pushed the calves across the road into another pasture, and I thanked him, and I offered him some money, but he refused. The next morning, I was right back in that same spot before daylight, and when goblin time came, that turkey was on the same limb as far as I could tell, and I washed him drop off that limb and go into the full strut, just like he had the morning before. I clucked twice at him, and here he came. He didn't even pause to see if there was a hen down there. I guess he'd forgotten seeing her yesterday in the deadly jaws of that killer calf. For whatever reason, he wasn't slowing down, and I didn't care. He was on a mission, and unbeknownst to him, I was in. He'd made it to the edge of my monkey stomping range, but he'd walked behind a group of cedars, and as soon as he stepped out from the other side, he'd be less than thirty yards, and I was fixing to poke both his eyeballs out when he did. That's when I heard the horse running towards just from the opposite direction. I glanced left and coming at full gallop with someone's trusty steed tracking toward my turkey like a missile. I heard the turkey putt from behind the ceater and run for his life back the way he came. That horse skidded to his top just past the cedars, dropped a pile of pasture apples, and started grazing like nothing had happened. I didn't even know there was a horse there. Where was he yesterday? Walking back to the truck, I slipped next to a munth hole and dropped my shotgun right in the middle of it. It went plumb out of sight. I went back to Toby's and while I was taking my shotgun apart, he called the farmer about the horse. Apparently he dropped that horse off after he moved those calves and I left the day before. He said he'd go over and move him too. When Toby hung up the phone, he said, you'll have that whole place to yourself in the morning, no calves and no horses. Finally, I thought to myself, how much bad luck could one fella have and not kill a turkey that had run to him two days in a row. Felt good about it, and my shotgun had never been cleaner. That was my last night. I had to go home the next morning that hunt, and we set up a little later than usual, talking and visiting with neighbors who'd come over to eat. The next morning, I was running about fifteen minutes late, but had it figured in my head on the iro drive over that as soon as I got out of the truck, I just grabbed my shotgun, hopped the fence, and go sit in my spot. The sky was glowing when I parked my truck at the north end of that property, and I opened the door and I heard him gobble on the roost. Had to be in the same tree, if not on the same limb once again. I got you now, buddy. I put my vest home before I left the house. I had a call in my mouth that I had been warming up for the last twenty minutes. All I needed to do now was grab my shotgun and jump across that fence. That turkey gobbled again, and I just stood there, staring at the muddy spot in the back seat where I had laid my shotgun the day before after dropping it in that mud hole. The shotgun that was an hour away leaned up in the corner Toby's kitchen, where I'd spent all afternoon cleaning it the day before. And that's just how that happened. Last week. I left y'all in the lurch, right in the middle of a Mississippi turkey hunt. The work was the blue, and we had to call it today, right in the middle of me here in a second turkey. Remember, the first turkey from the day before was doing everything he could to find the source of those calls. I was dishing out like a pears dispenser, only to get roughed up and run off by a squad of hooligan jakes. So on the second day, my partner and crime and host for the Magnolia State Turkey Tour twenty twenty six, Lake Backwoods University pickle He and I were standing on the front porch of where that joker had been rooted for dang near a week now. If for some reason you missed last week's episode number four thirty nine, stop what you're doing right now and go back and listen, or this ain't gonna make a lot of sense. We'll wait for you right here. Take your time, but hurry up every chance you get for all you over achievers, We're moving on. We traced ourselves back towards the truck, and as we got in the general sentitive where we'd heard him, Lake punched him in the ear with a bar our hoot that almost made me gobble, and he answered. We guessed him about three hundred and fifty yards. We needed to close the distance and pick out a good spot to aul at him again. We moved quietly but with a purpose, for about one hundred yards, doing the math in my nogging that miss Brendan McDougall lovingly beat into my brain and literally beat into my behind. That would put us on the same ten acres as him, with any of cover between us to conceal our approach, giving us plenty of time to pick out a spot and set down. Now, he answered us every time we hooted at him, and we had yet to make any racket resembling a turkey. You ort to be right where he was the last time he gobbled at us. We stopped after crossing a little water filled drained about three inches deep and three feet wide. It would be our final spot to hoot for a response to find him. I felt like Sean Connery in the Hunt for the Red October when I turned to Lake, and instead of giving the order one ping only please, I said, send him on Lake. I estimated Lake's owl imitation to have been almost out of his head when that turkey gobbled less than one hundred yards away. Owls up. He was close. Now look it back. Now we may have overestimated how far he was by about fifty or sixty yards, which brings up a fair question that I get asked pretty often, and that's how do you estimate how far a turkey is when you hear it? Well? The answer takes a lot of variables, with experience and spooking turkeys being the two best teachers by far. But a goblin turkey three hundred yards away from you while on the roost is going to sound different than the three hundred yards away from you on the ground, even if he dropped off the limb and is standing at the base of the tree, If he's facing towards you as opposed to turned away from you, it'll make a big difference. Wind direction, the stage of spring leaf growth on the trees and bushes, rolling hills, flat ground humidity, environmental noise. There's so many things that go into the equation of guessing the distance of a turkey. Turkey gobling from the same limb two weeks apart during the spring green up can sound like they're not even in the same zip code, much less the same tree. All the things you have to take into account when you're moving on a turkey, But out of all of them, there's two things that are almost always true on every one of them, regardless of where you hunt them. They're usually closer than you think, and you probably didn't get nearly as close to them as you thought you did, not always mind you, Like this time, for instance, me and Lake were standing beside one another after crossing that little drain, and he rebbed himself back up and let loose a low key hoot and baw eighty yards away. Had that standard pie has not been there, he'd have been close enough to see without any trouble. And if we were close enough to see him, he was close enough to cure us. Think you, his gobble hadn't got plumb past both of my ears. When we started conquering down and tipped to him to a red oak, I spied in front of him. Lake followed suit, with the camera just behind me against some gum trees. The length of time between setting down in that first call was only a few seconds. Lake and I had never turkey hunting together before this trip, but we were both veterans of filming hunts in the South, so there really wasn't a whole lot to go over. We knew to be still, communicate only wasn't necessary, and until someone said he's gone, we would operate as if he could see us. Whether we could see him or not. The length of time between me calling him answering was even less. I waited a bit and called again, and he gobbled loud and started getting closer. I heard him drum, and Lake did, but I couldn't tell exactly where the drumming was coming from. That sound is unmistakable and sometimes difficult the course. It's like I can feel it, like it consumes me at times, and it overwhelms my sense of direction. The gobble he followed it up with was clearly out in front of where we were staring into that small patch of material pines, trying to catch the slightest glimpse of movement. Then, like so many times before, he just materialized, as if by magic, right out in front of us. Lake could seen, but I couldn't. Strange as hard as I could, moving only my eyes as I stared through and passed the privet and hardwood saplings that dotted that area between me and the edge of the pirentes. I should be able to sing, but I can't. He wasn't there, And then then he was there. He is, I got you now, buddy. My eyes locked on to him, and I dared not blink. His head was red, white and blue against the contrasting darkness of that patch of pines where he stood unmoving in full strut, sixty yards away. I knew he was too far, but I asked anyway, how far. At least sixty was what I heard sneaking through the tension that held us both in a state of alertness that for me is only surpassed when an element of danger or an imminent threat is present. I could hear every puff of wind, every rustle leaves, every bird, and every breath I took. My heart pounded in my chest. But all my thoughts and movements were delivered and planned well in advance of the time I was currently in. I was seeing not where he was, but every possible place he could go from where he stood. I targeted the forty yard mark, the limit I placed on myself to shoot it. I need him to close the gap between us by a third, just a third where he was. He just stood there and strut and creeped his way to my left, coming an inch closer. But he just stood there and strut creeped his way to my left without coming an inch closer. Sixty yards isn't much when you're shooting turkeys these days, and I'd further limited myself by using a weather be a rying side by side in four ten. But it wouldn't have mattered if I'd been toting to thirty o six. I don't shoot turkeys at sixty yards killing him. It ain't my deal. Triggering him into coming close, that's my game. Eventually he drifted back the way he came, and then he eased off toward the neighboring property. We moved up to where he had been, well inside our property line, and when he gobbled again he was deep on someone else's land. Disappointed, not really. It was an exciting hunt start to finish. I didn't actually count that as a missed opportunity because I wouldn't have pulled the trigger on him with anything at that distance. But we had him pretty well patterned now, so we backed out. We didn't want to put too much pressure on him. It was the middle of the week. I had two more days to hunt. There would be no need to get all worked up over this turkey and pushing him from their way, So we little shuck and started prospecting. Six miles later, we got back to the truck, having not heard another turkey, but taking great solace and not bumping one. Either tomorrow we'd come soon or nothing. When it did, we'd already made plans to be standing beside that little drain when we first sat down on that turkey this morning. According to our buddy Jordan Blissed, he'd been roosting for the last week about three hundred and fifty to four hundred yards southwest of where we'd planned to be standing the next morning. We'd also heard him in the area of that spot this morning before he flew down, and we encountered him over on our property. We finished the day. I was nothing of great significance to report, other than having supper in Brandon, Mississippi, at a pizza place called The Cleaners. We met Keith Polk and his family, and Jordan and his daughter Brin, Josh Thrash and his son Read, and we wrecked two tables full of pizza and told one turkey story after another. It was a grand time. Fellowship is critical in maintaining what's really important as the days click off the calendar like sand through an hourglass. It's good times, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Next morning, when it was barely light enough to see Lakey and I had already been at that little drain for fifteen minutes, we slipped in without making a sound or turning on a light or saying a word. It was a short walk of less than three hundred yards from the truck. One of Jordan's cleaned out woods roads that doubled as a food plot allowed us a direct approach from the truck to our listening spot. My favorite time of the morning is right after the first redbirds starts singing, partly because redbirds are my favorite songbird, and partly because I know if the redbirds they're awake, the redheads are awake too. And I whispered to Lak she roosted that way. It was in a voice so faint he was more reading my lips than hearing my words, and he nodded yeah. We waited another three or four minutes, and then, as if he'd been reading the script, I turned to prompting him to send a hoot through the woods. When I saw him take in a belly full of air to do just that. Gobler answered back, and he was so close it nearly scared the last night's pizza out of me. We were too close to him. We had to sit down, and we had to do it right now. Now. We didn't move ten feet from where we were standing. It wasn't ideal, but we were hid. We hadn't spooped him and had a great chance of shooting him before he got his feet dirty if he pitched down between us and him. Less than a minute after we sat down, we were ready for action. Blake pushed the record button and I saw that gobbler as he pitched off the limb glide out in front of us and landing out of sight on the old dim road that he walked away from us on the morning before. Now, as far as I know, he landed in a well. He didn't make a peak when he'd lit or when I called to it. Nothing not. It was like I'd only had a vision of seeing a turkey that morning. We stayed out there for plenty of time and eventually heard him gobble way off the property. He'd been on a mission that morning, and we'd only been privileged to see where it started. So we left and we made a dash over to Keith Polk's place and had to go at two goblers over there that were toring with my emotions to the point that I was starting to second guess all my major life decisions up to that point. It was just not going to happen on this trip. So Lake and I both had work stuff to do. I saddled up and mushed the dogies back towards Arkansas, and on the way I talked to Jordan and he said, Brent, just come on back when you get a chance. I know you got a score to settle with that joker, and you're the only person that's hunting that spot. Perfect old. I had two days of office work and podcast stuff to get done before Eva Hansom flew down from Bozeman and beat me up. I'd be able to get that done, spend time with Bailey and Alexis, and then beat feet back to Jordan's place to hunt. Monday morning. I got it all done, had a great weekend with the girls, and was an hour south of my house Sunday afternoon, headed to Mississippi as fast as the law allows when I got a call from Jordan. He said, I talked to a friend at church this morning and told me that the camp next to us killed your turkey, just over the line from where you and Lake called him up two days ago. I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror as I looked for a spot to pull over and cry. I'm sure the expression on my face was similar to mother Hugh's one day, told her that he was moving west to become a mountain man. Now, if you haven't seen the movie Jeremiah Johnson, I'm not sure that we can still be friends. But on the off chance you didn't get that veiled reference to my condition, I looked like I'd been gutshot. The ride back to Cassa, Dave Reeves was quiet as I parted. All the decisions we'd made chasing the turkey and the others, and I wouldn't have done anything different. We made good moves and set ups, and we'd been on turkeys on every hunt while I was there. Sometimes it's just what it is. The struggle is real, But is it really a struggle if you love everything about it? I really you can go to the Baseball Hall of Fame by getting a hit three out of every ten times you go to bat. Killing a turkey three out of every ten hunts won't get you anything but prison. I've never killed a turkey that I wouldn't a little sad that he wouldn't be there for me to hunt. The next morning, Lake and I were sitting in the woods and talking about how turkey hunting was such a passion, and I told him some folks compared to drugs, they say it's an addiction, but I disagree. The person that does drugs enjoys whatever that substance is the most on the first try, and they spend the rest of the time trying to recapture how that initial dose made him feel. That's addiction. Turkey hunting is nothing like that. It gets better every time and has for the last forty one years I've done it. And not after every kill, I mean every trip to the woods, whether I even hear one, I get frustrated like anyone does, because the ultimate reward, along with the sights and sounds, is to fry him up and share him with the family. If there was something I could take that would make me feel that way, I'd be on it right now with both hands. God love it. Thank y'all so much for listening. I appreciate it very much. Now by the time you're hearing this, I should be in Alabama turkey hunting with my good friend Reed Bargaineer. So wish us love. If you want to send us a story, send it to my tcl story at the meadeater dot com. Until next week. This is Brent Red sign it off. Y'all be curing