News from the North Country

I’m a cold weather hillbilly. I like a temperature range anywhere from -20°F to 65°F. Anything over that becomes too warm. Anything above 80°F and I get downright miserable and cranky. There’s nothing more exhilarating than being able to see your breath as you build a raging fire to boil traps under the moonlight of a crisp, cold Ozark winter night. Shaking off the cold chill as you rub your gloves together waiting for the fire to heat up is invigorating food for the outdoor soul. This year that cold weather has been a tall order in the unusually warm spell we’ve had. It’s hard to get in the outdoor mood when it feels more like early fall or spring. I guess it’s a good thing I get daily reports from friends in the great North Country. I’m not jealous.



It's definitely not 70 degrees in the Wrangell-St. Elias!  Gene's son and grandson with a marten on Christmas Day 2011.  What a great adventure on Christmas Day!



As I write this the forecast for the Ozarks is temperatures possibly approaching 70°F through New Year’s Eve (too hot!) with a cold snap that will give us lows in the 30’s for only a few nights before warming back up at the end of next week. If you caught a good bundle of fur you couldn’t even let it set out in the January weather without it spoiling – that’s too warm! Of course, I can live vicariously through the daily reports of my friend Gene Newman, who spent Christmas in a log cabin in the Wrangell – St. Elias Wilderness in Alaska trapping with his son and grandson. Low’s were in the negative teens. They’ve been catching marten. I don’t envy Gene.

As I write this the temperature on Kodiak Island is 13°F with highs expected in the mid 20’s for the next week. My long-time hunting and trapping partner, Steve Neff is caretaking at a lodge on Raspberry Island, Alaska. I get daily emails with pictures of red, silver, and red-silver cross fox that he’s caught. I get stories and pictures of huge otter. I hear about the white ermine running around all the outbuildings at the lodge. Earlier in the fall he sent pictures of a musk ox that could quite possibly turn out to be a new world record handgun harvest after the mandatory drying period. Then, a week later he sent pictures of the Kodiak brown bear that he took on the mainland. You don’t reckon they would send those pictures and stories just to torment a fella do you? No, I don’t think so.

I mean, tormenting a cold weather hillbilly with adventures from the great North Country could almost be characterized as sadistic when all the hillbilly wants is some good, cold hunting and trapping weather. That’s not too much to ask, right?



Steve Neff on Raspberry Island, AK with a cross fox. I think he's still laughing about those 330's on my hands!
And I'm beginning to think he sends these pictures to torment me.



You know, the more I think about it, I think Steve might be doing this on purpose. I recollect that he likes to see me in pain. When last we beaver trapped together on Pigeon Creek in southern Dent County I got caught on not once or twice, but three different occasions in a 330 conibear trap. Now, when you get your hand in a 330 with good springs there’s no gettin’ out of it in a hurry without help. Each time he took his sweet time getting to me with the trap spring setters to release me. Best I remember he had a BIG grin on his face as he meandered over to me while I cringed in pain. Why, now that I’m remembering back, the last time I got hung he was across the creek and he stood there laughing and shaking his head while I bit my bottom lip in painful disgust. I think he enjoyed it! Now, he’s 4000 miles away and he’s still trying to do it! But it’s not going to work because I’m not jealous.... I don’t envy those guys. …whew, it sure is hot. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.



Trapping is like Christmas

Last Friday night we made it home to the northern Ozarks for Christmas in time to pay a visit to our good friends Kenny and Mary Lou Wells. My son Alex and I showed up around 6:00 pm and sat at the kitchen table for 2 hours catching up. As is our typical habit, Kenny and I discussed and solved the problems of the world as they pertain to government. Over the years I have come to trust, appreciate and believe in the common sense solutions of Ozark hills mountain folk to most any problem and Kenny and I share common ground in that regard. Generally, there’s not pretty Christmas gift wrapping on mountain folk solutions – they tend to be quite raw and mimic nature. The hill folk solution to the problem will always be well thought out and fair to any fella that wants to help himself… and pretty dismal for the fella that waits for a handout.

 

Of course we eventually got around to our favorite subject – trapping. We caught up on the latest news from the Missouri Trappers Association as well as the results from the National Trappers Association rendezvous and convention that took place in Columbia, MO this past summer. I listened while Kenny told me about how water trapping had been this year down on the Current. Our conversation ended up on land trapping and the most recent sets Kenny had put out earlier that day. Before we left for the night I had arrangements to meet him the next morning and to run the six new sets that he had made. Alex and I then said our good nights and headed to town.

On the way to town Alex and I remarked on how badly we wanted to boil and wax our traps in order to get some steel in the ground this year, however, it was going to be difficult with the work schedule that I have before me this winter. As we discussed our trapping possibilities we drove through the small community of Doss, MO, and the overpowering smell of skunk poured in to the truck. Apparently someone had got a little too close for Pepe’ Le Pew’s liking and he sprayed all over the highway. Now, not only were we wanting to trap but, to make matters worse, we were smellin’ the old familiar smells of trappin’ season too!

Christmas Eve morning I met Kenny and we headed for the trap line. Now for me the first night of having traps in the ground is generally not my most successful run. And apparently my luck rubbed off on Kenny because he only had one trap that had received any action and it was empty just the same! No fur. We did manage to set out 4 more great looking land sets and we told old stories about days gone by. At the end of the morning we wished each other Merry Christmas and headed home. Christmas Eve night I knew that I would be having visions of coyotes and bobcats dancing in my head while the kids were seeing those sugar-plumbs.

That evening as I considered my trapping adventure with Kenny and how it related to the Christmas season I couldn’t help but remember a funny Christmas past. Kenny and I had seen empty traps - kind of like empty Christmas gift boxes. Alex and I had smelled the overpowering scent of skunk – just like the skunk essence used in trapping scents. But, unfortunately we had no presents – there were no furbearers in any traps. Similarly, during Christmas time 14 years ago when my niece Haley Hill was 4 years old we were at my in-laws house for Christmas and Haley was crying. She had just come from her Grandpa and Grandma Hill’s house. Her uncle and my good friend, Mike Hill, had given her a Christmas present and she just couldn’t see the humor in it. When I asked what was wrong she replied while crying and rubbing her eyes, “My Uncle Mike got me a fart in a box for Christmas!” The box was there, the smell was there, but – no present! Now that’s funny! Yep, Christmas can be like trapping. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

 

Brothers and Bucks on the Big Water

Uncle Scott hits a Grand Slam with this hunting experience!  Alex Stephens and Uncle Scott Bollinger with Alex's 2011 youth season buck.

My boys’ Uncle Scott and Aunt Sherri had been coming up to hunt with us on opening weekend of deer season for the past several years. However, this year they had a different plan. They called and asked us to come down and hunt with them in Stone County instead. And, this was to be no ordinary youth season deer hunt; this one was special. We would be base camping out of their lake house and we would be heading to the woods not in a 4x4 pickup but instead in their bass boat by way of the big water of Table Rock Lake. Now that was intriguing. And it was an adventure in the making that my two youngest boys and I will never forget.

We arrived at the lake house on Friday evening. It was a gorgeous evening in the lower 60’s that was perfect for being outside. So, after making all the sleeping arrangements in the house we headed out the back door to the lake shore for an evening on the water. We built a great campfire and Uncle Scott had 3 poles rigged for some catfish fishing. Now how often do you get to do that - catfish fishing the night before an exciting day of youth season deer hunting?! While we were fishing under the black light, Aunt Sherri, my wife, my daughter and Coleman were cooking s'mores at the campfire…ya, Coleman liked the s'mores more than the fishing. At the end of the evening the fishin’ had been great even though the catchin’ was a little slow, but hey, we’re not complaining. How often is it nice enough to fish in your shirt sleeves the night before deer season? It was great!



We called it a night around 10:00 p.m. and headed to bed. At 5:30 a.m. we were up making coffee and rousing the boys for the 20 minute ride in the dark down the lake. After unloading the boat and pulling the truck up on the parking lot I headed to the water’s edge to jump on board. While walking down the parking lot I fondly remembered 30 years back taking that exact path to our bass boat while fishing with my dad out of Cape Fair. However, this time was a little different. All the boat riders were dressed in hunter orange and the young’uns were packin’ deer rifles! I’ve never seen a crew like that at a Bassmasters Tournament!

As soon as we headed out from the boat ramp Coleman was asking for soda and doughnuts. Nothing like trying to keep a kid quiet and still in the hunting woods when he’s hyped up on a sugar overload that would put most mortal folks into a diabetic coma! Anyway, as soon as we hit the wake buoys the sugar had already kicked in because he told Uncle Scott to “Go Fast!” And away we went down the lake. I have a feeling this kid is going to be an adrenaline junkie.



Dad and Alex posing with Alex's first "Wall Hanger"



We got to our hunting cove and exited the boat just before 6:45 am. Our initial spot had good deer sign but lacked any deer activity for the first few hours so we jumped in the boat and headed to our next location. Upon arriving we headed out of the boat and up the ridge from the shoreline settling into a nice low saddle that dissected the steep ridge rising up from the lake. This was a natural travel route that game animals would follow and a great spot to wait for a good buck. The boys were sitting with Scott and me about 10 yards apart looking over opposite sides of the ridge just above the saddle. We hadn’t been there over 30 minutes when Alex whispered, “I see one…I think it’s a doe. Let Coleman shoot it.” How kind and benevolent a big-brother gesture this was to offer an opportunity for his younger brother to harvest the first deer we encountered I thought to myself. I could feel the love.

I had not yet seen the deer and was peering through the woods while taking glances at Coleman has he struggled to get into position. Alex tried to point it out as it quartered toward us about 125 yards out. I finally made out the movement at 100 yards but I was paying more attention to Coleman as he tried to get ready to shoot. Alex was whispering to us the play-by-play as the deer approached. I finally caught a glimpse of the side of the deer as it quarter toward us with its head down at about 75 yards and I thought to myself that it was a good sized doe. It kept coming and Coleman kept struggling and Alex kept up the whispered play-by-play.



Then came the long pause in the play-by-play that always seems to occur just prior to a Eureka moment as a person is evaluating the levity of some new great discovery. All of a sudden all that brotherly love was sucked right out of the tender moment that we had just witnessed seconds earlier. In a half hiss and half urgent whisper Alex blurted, “It’s a Big Buck! It’s a Big Buck! I want to shoot! Can I shoot?!”




You can feel the love between the brothers after the buck is tagged…beforehand is a different story!  Alex and Coleman Stephens with Alex’s 2011 Big Water 9-point buck.

 

Now we were in a pickle! Alex was already aiming his gun at the deer, Coleman was still trying to get set up, and the deer was getting too close. I finally whispered to Alex to go ahead and shoot and, "BANG!" the gun went off before I could even get the whole sentence out of my mouth! I don’t think he was gonna hold up even if I had instructed otherwise! Moments later we were standing over a beautiful 9-point, 18 inch spread, Stone County buck. Coleman took it all in stride…turns out after he watched his brother clean the buck and learned he would've had to do the same thing, he no longer wanted any part of it! I learned a valuable lesson that day in the woods - In the hills blood is always thicker than water but big bucks will dissolve that blood between siblings faster than a flea will jump on a coon hound! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

 

 

He Got the Turkey (I Got the Truck Bumper)

He definitely got the Turkey and I got the truck bumper!  The One-Eyed Hillbilly and Kelly Parker spring turkey hunting the Ozark Hills in the early 1990's.

As I look back over 35 years of hunting, trapping, and fishing, it occurs to me that sometimes you get the proverbial gold mine and sometimes you get the shaft. In the hills the folks that venture out in the wilds in search of meat, fish, and fur, need thick skin ‘cause when you get the ‘shaft’ your friends will always be watching – it’s a law of nature. And, being the nature of a hillbilly, they will never pass up an opportunity to rehash the old tales while around the campfire with friends. This past week while anxiously thinking about the upcoming 2011 fall hunting, trapping, and fishing season I recollected seasons past and it just hit me – if country singer Jerry Reed was still alive to sing the Great Outdoor version of his hit song “She got the goldmine (I got the shaft)” it would be called, “He got the turkey (I got the truck bumper!)”

Case in point – Missouri spring turkey season about 20 years ago. It had been a very wet season and the hunting was tough. Every morning it seemed that the wind was blowing and a drenching rain was always coming down. The last day of season I was hunting with my friend Kelly Parker at the farm at Lake Spring. That morning we were late getting to the woods and at the creek, instead of crossing and parking on the far side, I swung the Bronco over in a low spot beside the tractor trail and we headed to the woods. About 11:00 am I decided to walk back toward the truck and I met Kelly on the way. He had seen a few turkeys in the back field earlier and he was going to take one last dig at them. I was soaked and decided to head to the Bronco. When I got there I noticed that the Bronco’s fenders were now on the ground. Hmmm, I hadn’t left it like that. Seems I had parked right over a seep spring in the tall grass and, with all the recent rain, the ground was so soft my Bronco had sunk! Of course it wouldn’t budge an inch with both axles sitting on top of the ground. Back to the house I trudged to get Uncle Boone’s truck and chain.

When Boone and I got back to the Bronco, Kelly was still not back from hunting. We hooked up the chain and the ¾ ton gave a mighty tug. It was so mighty, in fact, that the Bronco launched out of the seep spring like it had been shot from a sling-shot. At that same moment the front bumper popped and launched from the front of my truck! Wet and disgusted I got out of the truck and walked over to the bumper, picking it up just in time to see Kelly walking off the creek bank with a turkey! As I sat there holding my truck bumper Kelly walked beside me, held up his turkey, and Boone flashed a picture….he got the turkey (I got the truck bumper!).

Some years later I was elk hunting in Colorado and, after scouting and hunting hard the first day I managed to find good sign about 5 miles from camp in a remote canyon. I came back to camp and told my buddy, Ellis Floyd, where I had found the sign and I told him to keep it a secret. It was alright if he came but I didn’t want a crowd the next day in the canyon. The next morning nobody got up but me. I headed out and began my climb from the canyon to the high meadows hoping to catch a bull making his way back up the mountain in the early morning. As I sat half way up the mountain eating a sandwich at about 10:30 am I looked down to see a wagon train of vehicles travelling up the canyon. It was Ellis and he had brought the whole camp! No sooner had I watched them exit the trucks and head into the low meadows below than a shot rang out. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and the sandwich almost came up! I immediately headed down the side of the mountain. After the mile walk to the low meadow I met the whole crew with Ellis standing there smiling as big as the world. He had walked out into the meadow and saw a 5x5 bull walk out from the other side. He shot it with a rifle that he had borrowed from,…you guessed it,… ME! My spot, my scouting, my elk, and he killed it…with my gun. He got the turkey (I got the truck bumper!).

While hunting in the hills you might as well laugh because you can’t cry every time it happens – you’d never have a happy season. I feel your pain Jerry Reed, I feel your pain. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

Our Forefathers Story in the Cherry Grove Cemetery

From the Ozark Plateau in Dent County, Missouri to the far reaches of the Ozark Mountains in Newton County, Arkansas, Ozark mountain folks’ heritage runs deep and is easily found in the seldom visited final resting places of our ancestors. This past weekend for our anniversary my wife and I took a hike back in time. We were exploring the Buffalo National River in Newton County, Arkansas. We were in search of wisdom, solitude, history, nature, and peace. We found it all at the long-forgotten Cherry Grove Cemetery, 2 miles above the historic Parker-Hickman Farm on the Buffalo River.

After exploring the Parker-Hickman log cabin, the oldest homestead on the Buffalo National River, we headed up and out of the river valley on the old mountain trail behind the house as it switch-backed and snaked its way up meandering wooded mountain edges to the top of the ridge above the Buffalo River. As we made our way up the trail, in our mind’s eye, we could see our mountain folk ancestors in late 1848 making their way back into the hills on their horses, travelling up the valley to deliver exciting news to the neighbors of the California gold strike. Newspapers seldom made it this deep into the mountains and by the time they did make it, the news was several weeks or months old. Of course, back then the mountain folks were subsistence farming. They were a part of nature, living off the land and accepting what it would yield. As we stood there surrounded by the beautiful simplicity of an earlier Ozark way of life the voices from the hills were asking me, “Have we really made improvements to our quality of life in our society today?” I often wonder the same thing.

Further up the mountain it was intense and sobering to imagine in 1863 confederate soldiers slipping stealthily through the densely forested mountain paths, heading to Missouri to join up with the likes of Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson. Down in the river valley, the Thomas Rains & William P. Love families, who were occupying the Parker-Hickman farm during the Civil War, were percolating coffee and cooking breakfast on the wood-fired cooking stove in the kitchen. The old flew is still there just in front of the back window where Thomas, William and their families could watch the soldiers emerge from the trail back behind the chicken house making their way toward the river. This fight over states rights sharply divided families in the southern Missouri and northern Arkansas region. This fact was made painfully clear on a tombstone in the old cemetery that read:

‘In memory of Joseph Buchanan. Born April the 9, 1827. Was killed by Confederates March the 5, 1861 whilst in the service of the National Army as a Recruiting Officer.’

It was a sobering reminder of a sad and difficult era in the hills. In light of the struggles we are faced with today concerning our rights as free citizens I sense the spirits of our mountain folk ancestors shaking their heads in sad disappointment as they ponder if we have learned a thing from their trials and tribulations. I often wonder the same thing.

In the light rain, as we finally made our way to the front gate of the cemetery atop the mountain above the Parker-Hickman farm we were greeted with columns of mist that sprang up from distant mountain knobs along the top of the ridge. These misty grey columns danced and drifted like young mountain children excited to see unexpected company. As we settled into the cemetery we began to hear their story of life in the hills. We felt the heart-wrenching pain and concern of many a mother who was laid to rest during child-bearing years. We heard the sad silence of infants still-born in the mountains. We heard the innocent laughter of children who passed from disease or from accidents many miles from the nearest medical attention. We sensed the solemn resolve of men who died in farming accidents and during the war. And, finally, we heard the wisdom of the few men and women who lived to old age. These folks had robust character and appreciation for life. I wonder if, deep inside, we still possess that same robust character and appreciation for life.

In the cemetery the story told by the Parkers, Hickmans, Buchanans, and several others representing this bygone mountain community of close-knit, tough country folks was plain as the patch over my eye. They knew real life – the great pains and sorrows as well as the great joys and triumphs of living close to the land within the fabric of Mother Nature. In my mind as I pictured the first Model T pick-ups laboriously slipping and sliding their way up the old mountain horse paths in the midst of a new January snow and under the amazed gazes of the mountain folks seeing their first horseless carriages, I wonder if they thought of this contraption as progress. I figure there was probably some old coot that was disapprovingly shaking his head wondering what this world had come to, while there was some young man who worked the farm with horses that was jumping for joy. Makes me wonder who was right. I think I’m probably an old coot. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

Cookin’ Deer Pellet Stew

Last week I heard a big load of deer pellet stew come over the radio air waves. As I cruised down the road dreaming about the upcoming hunting and trapping season I punched the search button on the radio. The dial stopped on NPR (National Socialist Radio). I was getting ready to hit search again when I struck on what obviously was a horror spoof designed to elicit the same reaction as that received by the 1938 radio adaptation of H.G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds.” It was shocking - not because of the primary subject matter but because of the slant the story took. And the scariest part is that it took a few minutes of listening before I realized that this was not a spoof at all (my old hunting buddy Troy Frizzell used to tell me that I was as simple as a pet coon).

The story centered on scientists who are currently attempting to grow meat in the lab from stem cells for human consumption. Not real shocking on the surface other than it just sounded kinda gross – “Waitress, give me a medium rare Petri dish filet cut fresh from the pulsating blob.” However the slant the story used to justify the effort was a personal affront for all independent minded citizens, hunters, fishermen, trappers, and livestock producers. It seems they were justifying the effort in the name of cruelty to animals and global warming! Are you kidding me?! I was then questioning whether this was a horror program or the comedy hour. It was a perfect concoction of deer pellet stew.

The radio reporter was interviewing an “expert” in the field and proclaimed the great benefit of this effort being that we could eat “meat” without having to “cruelly” kill animals for food. Hmmm, is that what hunters have been doing since the beginning of human existence – cruelly killing animals so that we can eat. Heck, I thought we were just playing our role as designed by the Creator. Man, I think this deer pellet stew is tainted beyond the norm.

Next the reporter went on to profess another potential benefit of stem cell steak was the eradication of livestock operations that are apparently one of the main players responsible for global warming. Man, I didn’t know that we folks from the hills were such cruel environmental bulldozers. I’m going to have to reconsider my entire interaction within the fabric of Mother Nature. And to think that stem cell steak could provide the answer to my dysfunctional relationship with the natural world! What a load of deer pellet stew!

Call me paranoid but I’m kinda uneasy with corporations attempting to grow meat in the name of global warming and animal cruelty. Wouldn’t it be convenient to have the patent on the production of “laboratory liver” much like the corporations that own the rights to genetically altered grains that are raised for food. There is actually court precedence in favor of corporations that sued farmers who did not use the corporations genetically altered grains but inadvertently got their genetic strains through cross pollination from natural processes under no control of the farmer. If stem cell steak or laboratory liver takes blossom in corporate Petri dishes and you are a believer in independently producing your own food through family cattle farming, crop farming, hunting, trapping, or fishing you might find yourself labeled a cruel environmental pirate.

Man this world gets stranger with every turn. Who would’ve dreamed that outdoor folks from the hills who just want to feed themselves and participate in nature through hunting, fishing, and trapping could be in the forefront of the global warming and animal cruelty debate? I think we’re getting drug into the deer pellet stew. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

Hillbilly Table of Contents in the Truck Bed



Disgraceful and embarrassing?  My wife is s-o-o-o wrong.  This is a living history book of outdoor memories.  So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

 My wife and I don’t see eye-to-eye. They say opposites attract and I guess it’s true. She can look at something and see a completely different picture than what’s actually there. Case in point – my pickup bed. She says it is a disgrace and embarrassing. I, on the other hand, see a storybook Table of Contents of the past several years in the Great Outdoors. I’ve determined LaDonna (my wife) just lacks proper perspective.

There’s a little motorcycle back there. Each time I look at it I think of my past ventures in Alaska. You see, that motorcycle is owned by my Alaskan hunting and trapping compadre, Steve Neff. For the past 3 years I have been to Kodiak Island, Alaska taking Steve the last contents from his house in Dent County, Missouri. The first trip in ’08 my wife and I drove a UHaul truck 4,500 miles while seeing the Inside Passage, British Columbia, the Yukon Territory, and the Wrangle St. Elias National Park. We camped in a tent for two nights on a ferryboat the size of a cruise ship. We walked the spit and boardwalk at Homer, AK. We camped on the beach on the Pacific Ocean. We pinned a dollar bill on the ceiling at the Salty Dawg Saloon for our kids to find many years from now. We fished the salmon run on Kodiak Island. It was the adventure of a lifetime. LaDonna sees a little motorcycle cluttering up the pickup bed; a total lack to imagination.

There’s a tackle box, a fishin’ vest, three fishin’ poles, and a trolling motor. Each time I see them I remember all the fishin’ trips this spring with Ladonna and the kids. Alex and I got caught out on the lake during a storm and we liked to never got back to the dock because the trolling motor battery went dead and the wind and lightening was treacherous. On one trip LaDonna, Coleman, and Ashley cooked dinner on the grill on the lake dam while Alex and I fished around the lake. On another trip Ashley gave us a lesson (a very funny lesson) on casting an open-faced reel. It was casting pot-luck; you never knew whether the spinner was going to land in the boat, in a tree, on your hat, or in the lake. We looked like a bunch of campers ducking for cover in a hail storm while trying to avoid getting hooked by her spinner! On yet another trip Ashley got her first lesson in driving as she drove the Tahoe down the mile-long driveway back to the road. After that trip I’m not sure if I can afford the insurance of teenagers driving! The trolling motor belonged to my dad and it brings back more fishing memories than I have space to write about. LaDonna just can’t understand the whole nostalgia thing of the truck bed.

There are several 330 conibear traps, a kneeling pad, and a trapper’s trowel. When I see those items I remember trapping a nice otter and beaver at Moose Head Lake. My son Alex and I had dug the beaver dam-building debris away from the spill way on several occasions and it was getting a little old. The beaver seemed to be thumbing his nose at me. My trapping mentor, Kenny Wells, probably would have been disappointed at how long it took to catch that big flat-tail! Anyway, we finally caught him – about a 50 pounder. In the process we had caught a nice otter as well. Those two critters can really take a toll on a lake. LaDonna just can’t appreciate the story in all the stuff sitting there.

Finally, there’s a chainsaw, log chain, shovel, and come-along. Each time I look at those 4 things I remember this past spring’s opening day squirrel hunt with my son Alex and our family friends, Camron and Zach Erway. What started out as a quick squirrel hunting trip turned into an overnight muddy episode stuck in the foot-deep mud of an old ridge road. We finally abandon the vehicles on the ridge after dark in order to get a better perspective the next morning in the light of day. The kids will never forget it. And there was a moral to the story – my old Ford 4x4 pulled out 2 dodge 4x4’s. You make your own conclusions… Again, LaDonna is not buying it.

I guess it really is a good thing opposites attract. If they didn’t I’m not sure she would tolerate the story in the pickup bed. And that’s not even to mention the garage, shed, back yard, and mud room. Ain’t she lucky to be married to a hillbilly with a vivid memory of the Great Outdoors? Maybe she’ll finally see it and thank me by our 50th wedding anniversary. What do you think? So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

Exercising Our Rights at the Range

Learning to not be a victim. Taking responsibility for your own well being is an important inherent right that folks from the hills take seriously. LaDonna Stephens practicing with a Taurus .357 Tracker pistol.

If there’s one thing I admire about hillbillies it’s that you won’t see too many of us volunteer to be a victim.  We’re an independent and bull-headed lot that actually believe all the hype about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…heavy on the liberty. It’s not unusual for folks from the hills to have a gun in every truck and several more in the house.  And not only are we not afraid to use’em but we actually enjoy burnin’ powder at every opportunity.  In the hills if a fella has bad judgment enough to show up uninvited on private property in the middle of the night he can count his lucky stars if’n he actually gets to explain himself after hearing the words, “What’s your business?”  If that same fella comes in the house uninvited in the night, well, he better want what he’s after awful bad.  There’s a good chance it will cost more than he’s willin’ to pay. 

Either she's a natural or she had an awfully good teacher...
The Taurus .357 loaded with .38's was a very accurate combination for LaDonna's shooting style.

 Now, with that kind of attitude there’s a certain amount of responsibility that goes along with it.  If you’re going to have the hillbilly attitude you better know your way around a gun.  And, in the hills it isn’t just the men who shoot – most of the ladies are very capable and many are down right scary in a scrape.  I’d say there’s only one thing worse than bumbling in-between a grizzly sow and her cubs, and that’s breaking into a house of a shotgun-packin’ hillbilly woman with her kids while her husband is away.  You can bet with a husband that hunts, fishes, and traps, it won’t be the first mess she’s cleaned up!  

FBI statistics will bear out that the average gun fight is at a distance of less than 7 yards, lasts 3-5 seconds, and 4 or fewer rounds are expended. The One-Eyed Hillbilly practicing up close and personal.

 This past weekend my wife and I decided to burn a little powder at the shooting range at Indian Trail State Park in rural Dent County.  LaDonna had shot rifles and shotguns with me several times but she had never shot a handgun.  I wanted to put a few rounds through my Kimber 1911 .45 Ultra Carry and my Taurus .357 Tracker pistol.  I had several cases of .38 ammo that would be great (and much cheaper than .357 rounds) for target practice.  I thought this would be a good opportunity to start LaDonna shooting handguns. 

For several years I had been talking with my wife about learning to shoot handguns and eventually getting her conceal-carry license.  She always said that she was interested but after working with me in our business for several years she said I was not patient enough to be a good teacher so she wanted to learn from someone else!  Can you believe that?!  “I’ll show her,” I thought to myself, as we were on our way to the range.  I told myself over and over again to be patient and nice while teaching her.  And then it happened - seems I always have a way of taking two steps back because I promptly started a bickering argument about a house in which she was interested.  I finally had the good sense to shut up.  Probably not a good idea to be teaching her to shoot a .357 in the midst of a heated argument about her house (there’s a time and place for being hard-headed – this wasn’t one of ‘em!).  

John M. Browning's crowning achievement - the Colt 1911 pistol. It is recognized the world over but it proved too big with too much recoil for LaDonna's taste.

 After getting to the range we set our ammo and firearms out on the shooting table and I loaded the .357 revolver.  I ran one cylinder while she watched.  I then reloaded and patiently went over with her the safety guidelines, revolver function as compared to semi-auto pistol function, proper aiming and proper shooting stance.  I then stood back and let her send a cylinder of rounds down range.  Now, either I’m a real good teacher (better than she gave me credit) or she was a natural.  I can tell you that you wouldn’t want her shooting at you with the .357 revolver loaded with .38’s.  The only issue for her was pulling back the hammer.  In a pinch that would not be an issue with which you would want to contend.  

"What was it that you were saying about the house?...and tell me again the difference between single and double action." This is not the opportune time to start an argument with your wife about her house! LaDonna Stephens asking a few questions about the pistol's double action characteristics.

 Next we loaded up the Kimber 1911.  I figured after cocking the gun for the first round it would be much easier for her since the 1911 would automatically cycle with each trigger pull – WRONG!  We learned that the .45 ACP with a 3½ barrel was too much recoil for her to handle.  In 7 shots she missed the whole target every time!  In a pinch you want to be able to hold on your target and not be afraid of the recoil.  With this new found information we are now thinking a smaller semi-auto .380 or .40 caliber will be the right choice for her to shoot comfortably and confidently.  

Talk about a mixed up mess - how about a right handed pistol shooter that only has his left eye! God definitely has a sense of humor! Greg with his conceal-carry firearm of choice - a 1911 .45 ACP Ultra Carry. Always bring enough gun to a gunfight.

 In closing, I would caution those who would be lulled to indifference concerning the need of firearms in today’s modern society.  While we do have some of the most dedicated, skilled, and well-intentioned public servants in the country in these hills to provide protection for us, they are not able to be in all places at all times.  And, as determined by the courts, they are under no obligation-


‘... a government and its agents are under no general duty to provide public services, such as police protection, to any particular individual citizen...’
      -- Warren v. District of Columbia, 444 A.2d 1 (D.C. App.181).
 
When one reads the details of this well documented and often cited court decision and the circumstances surrounding the case, it brings to light the importance of taking responsibility for your own well-being.  So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

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A Florida Character in the Ozark Hills!

The sights and surprises in the Great Outdoors never cease to amaze me.  Just when you think you have seen it all out in the woods, something comes along that reminds you that you haven’t even popped the cork of the moonshine jug of outdoors sights.  And some of the sights will make you wonder if someone hasn’t spiked your water pail with some of the ‘shine!  Case in point was this weekend in the turkey woods.

The weekend started normal enough on the water – we went out to a private lake to check some traps set for some nuisance beavers.  At the spillway where I had set a 330 conibear under a dive pole we had caught a big one.  By the feel of him I’d guess him to way 50 pounds.  He was definitely the construction leader at the spillway site.  For the past several weeks he and his compadres had been building a dam at the spillway only to have it deconstructed by us when we found it.  This, however, was not a discouragement for the beavers.  They went on about there construction like ‘busy beavers’ as the saying goes.  With all the rain for the past few weeks the trapping efforts were foiled again and again by high water leaving the traps many inches to a few feet below the surface of the water.  Finally, this weekend it got back down to a normal range long enough to snag our saw-toothed dam builder.

The weekend started off normal enough on the water. The One-Eyed Hillbilly with the saw-toothed dam builder.

While we were at the lake checking the traps I figured we might as well fish for a spell while circling the lake in the boat.  Much to our surprise when we got to the boat we discovered that all the rain had partially filled the hollow plastic hull with water and it was listing pretty heavily to port!  I talked my wife into helping me heave the partially foundered vessel up on the dock and hold it there as the water drained from a hole in the hull.  It was quite a struggle but we finally managed to drain it out enough to make the trip around the lake.  Coleman and I threw cranks, spinners, and jigs, and we managed to catch a few short fish but nothing of any size.  As I watched Coleman, my 7 year old son, I remembered a fishing trip with my dad and our friend Jackie Lough at the Sinks in Shannon County over 35 years ago.  I was about 7 at the time and I distinctly remember out-fishing both dad and Jackie, just as Coleman swore he was out-fishing me.  35 years ago…where’d the time go?

Building a foundation for a child's memories in the Great Outdoors. Coleman and mom, LaDonna Stephens on the boat.

After 35 years you start to think you’ve seen it all in the woods…but you haven’t.  Sunday morning, my son Alex and I were sitting in the corner of Uncle Boone’s farm with our turkey decoys out in front of us when Alex said, “Dad, there’s a guy over here in the field.” 

I looked to my left and could just make out a strange form crouched behind a bush about 30 yards from us.  We were just inside the woods line sitting under a large oak with scrub brush all around so he couldn’t see us but he could see our decoys.  About that time I heard him call…I think.  I wasn’t quite sure whether I heard a turkey call or the Aflac duck.  It was then that I figured out that he was stalking our decoys so I decided to whistle at him before he decided to take a dig at the rubber turkeys.  After he discovered the source of the whistling he stood up and came walking toward us.  That is when I discovered that I definitely had not even begun to see all that there is to see in the turkey woods.  

The boys acting goofy! Dad and Coleman posing with a "Monster" that Coleman caught while 'out-fishing' dad.

He was a friendly fella…just a little odd looking for the turkey woods.  He had bright blond hair that was so kinky it appeared to be an afro and he wore no hat to cover the hair.  He had a blonde Colonel Sanders beard and mustache.  He had a silver stud piercing protruding from his lower lip.  He wore a camouflage shirt with plaid,…yes, plaid shorts, and a pair of polished black cowboy boots.  He was packing a single-shot 28 gauge H&R shotgun.  He was a sight for sore turkey hunting eyes.  If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’ and my son Alex can verify it all. 

During the conversation he told me he was from Florida.  Now, I’ve never hunted Osceola turkeys in Florida but this puts a new twist on what my perceptions were about hunting Osceolas!  He was a unique turkey hunting artist marching to the beat of his own drum.  Anyway, different strokes for different folks I guess.  I really don’t care how you dress.  I figure as long as you are in the woods chasing game you are on the right track.    

His style will definitely go down in my memory as unique in all the turkey hunting world.  He jogged my mind back 35 years as I searched my memory wondering if I had ever seen anything like him, just as watching Coleman had jogged my fishing memories back.  It’s hard to believe 35 years have flown by in the outdoors.  35 years, where’d they go?  One of my all time favorite musical artists, Bob Seager, wrote some lyrics that say,

“Twenty years now, where’d they go?

Twenty years, I don’t know. 

I sit and I wonder sometimes where they’ve gone.  

...And sometimes late at night,

oh when I’m bathed in the firelight,

the moon comes calling a ghostly white,

and I recall, I recall…”  

There is nothing more peacefully satisfying than being bathed in the campfire light as the moon shines bright over the wooded Ozark ridges and recalling the memories of a life in the hills.  So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

God’s Sense of Humor on Easter Weekend

It just figures.  Both my younger boys harvested their turkeys on opening day of youth season and so, according to the rules, they aren’t able to hunt again with their 2^nd turkey tag until the 2^nd week of regular season.  That gave dad a great opportunity to hunt in the turkey woods in total peace the first weekend of regular season.  No more worrying about getting to the woods while the kid’s gun, shells, or turkey tag is still at home on the table.  No more listening to wining because we are out of snacks.  No more listening to complaining because the Gameboy video player ran out of batteries.  Just dad and the great outdoors….and then God went and showed his sense of humor.  You see, it was supposed to be Easter but oh no,… instead of flowers, sunshine, Easter eggs, and turkey hunting we had a return of Noah and the Ark (and apparently all the turkeys were already on board the boat at Lake Spring, Missouri!) 

Eight of the twelve Anti-Sleep Monsters. Turkey hunting was a drowsy undertaking after a night with this rowdy bunch!

After finally getting to bed around midnight I awoke at 4:30 am to the sound of video games in the family room and Niagara Falls running off the gutters as the rain pounded on the roof.  Neither are encouraging sounds when looking for a good nights rest before turkey hunting.  After gathering all my hunting equipment and wading through the family room that smelled of wet mules from all the soaked teenagers sleeping on the floor, chairs, and couches, I got out the door heading for the farm.  By the time I got in the truck I smelled like a wet mule as well from the soaking I took running from the house.  “It will stop by the time I get to the farm,” I thought, wishfully thinking to myself.  But, by the time I got to Lake Spring it was raining even harder!  The trip from the truck to the ground blind was more of a swim than a hike…and those wet mules were in the ground blind with me all morning.  That was the prophetic beginning to my 3 days of turkey hunting bliss!

Taking their direction from the older boys, the 7 year old bunch put on ornery grins knowing that one day soon they too will be terrorizing the neighborhood at 11:00 pm during turkey season.
 

Saturday morning the wind had joined the rain as God’s sense of humor added insult to injury.  And while I did manage to hear a few gobbles, I’m still not convinced that they weren’t just ducks impersonating turkeys.  For 4 hours I sat in the ground blind calling every 20 minutes as the rain beat down so hard and loud that I could hardly hear my own calling let alone a gobbler answering my calls!  The wet mules were still in the ground blind too.

Even with wet-mule smelling anti-sleep monster teenagers controlling the home-front the weekend was not a total loss. There were morels waiting for me around the ground blind...I just had to get even more soaked to get them!

Finally, Easter Sunday morning arrived.  The night before the weather forecast had called for a brief intermission to the rain sometime Sunday morning.  Of course all the way to the farm and all the way to the ground blind it poured.  I promised my wife that I would leave by 9:30 am in order to get back to town for Easter Sunday family activities.  As I sat in the ground blind calling I was watching my watch and waiting for the rain to stop, as had been forecasted.  At 9:15 while it was still pouring rain I began packing up all the decoys and gathering all my equipment for the trip home.  At that time I had not heard a turkey all mourning long (I hadn’t heard anything but the sound or rain hitting the top of the blind!)  Now, this is no joke – at 9:25 am the rain stopped as I was exiting the ground blind. As I walked up the edge of the woods shaking my head in disgusted disbelief that the rain stopped just as I was leaving, I had walked about 30 yards from the blind and a turkey gobbled in the distance! Yes, God and Mother Nature have a sense of humor!  So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

Lessons from the Woods

This past weekend was a bit perplexing for us. Youth turkey season was over, regular turkey season hadn’t yet started, the fishing was getting in gear, and the morels were popping. My son, Coleman, and I were trying to decide what to do – hunt mushrooms or go fishing. I voted for mushrooms but Coleman quickly vetoed that idea – too much work. He wanted to boat around the lake and fish (no walking and no ticks!). Needless to say, we went fishing.

As we boated around the lake in the two-man boat, Coleman sat on my lap as I cast to the shore and reeled. Each time I hooked a fish he grabbed the pole and reeled it in. In between fish he played with the plastic worms in the worm tray of the tackle box. Now, instead of worms, grubs, tubes, etc., each occupying their own slot, I now have plastic potpourri in my tackle box. His grandfather would have held a court marshal if I had done such a thing! Disturbing the organization of dad’s tackle box was tantamount to shooting the TV screen with a bb gun during a St. Louis Cardinals World Series ball game – you better have your escape route planned! As we boated around the perimeter of the lake I started remembering back to some of the great laughs I’ve had in the Great Outdoors. The fun, excitement, lessons and laughs are what make the memories to be told around the campfire for a lifetime.


"Heck no I don't want to hunt mushrooms - too many ticks and chiggers!" Coleman Stephens proudly sporting another Missouri springtime largemouth.

With youth turkey season just over and regular turkey season just beginning I was remembering some gobblers that got away. One such true story was with a good friend and hunting partner, Scott Duncan. Scott and I were hunting together in the mid 1980’s at our farm at Lake Spring. It had been raining for 2 solid days and on the 3rd day of season the sun finally came out. As luck would have it the only turkeys we could find were out in the middle of a 30 acre field that had been disked for a foodplot the prior fall. There were 2 gobblers strutting in circles and several jakes and hens milling around.

After an hour long futile attempt to call the birds from the field we finally decided the split up and search for other birds. As we slipped off our separate ways I was thinking that I had no intention of leaving these gobblers in the field without having a go at them…and apparently, unbeknownst to me, Scott was thinking the same thing. I slipped off in the woods around the field calling occasionally and listening for other turkeys only to hear the strutters from the field answering my every call. Finally I could take it no longer – I was going to attempt an ambush. As I approached the field on all-fours I scanned the ground for any cover. It was so muddy that no one in their right mind would get on their belly and crawl through that muck so I was visualizing my route between the few clumps of grass and bushes tall enough to provide cover for me while on my hands and knees.

On all-fours I slowly made for the first leg of the route through the mud bog. I closed the distance to 150 yards as I arrived at the first clump of grass. The turkeys had not seen me. While keeping an eye on the hens I started on the 2nd leg, cutting the distance to 100 yards while crawling behind a multifloral rose bush. Now things were starting to get dicey because conditions were getting worse - the cover was getting smaller and humidity coming up from the wet ground was miserable. I had just started on the 3rd leg of the route when the commotion broke loose. It happened so fast that, at first, I couldn’t figure out what was happening. First, a hen that I had failed to see busted me from about 40 yards to my left. Just as she started putting the gobblers came out of strut and started running dead away from me.

"Uhh, Dad, there's no such thing as a half credit catch - whoever reels in the fish is the ONLY one who gets to count it!" Coleman Stephens setting dad straight on how to keep score when fishing.

This is where it started getting weird. To my right about 100 yards from me and 75 yards from the turkeys, a giant pile of mud jumped up and started shooting! I was so startled that I almost forgot to shoot myself. After all the commotion and shooting was over the turkeys were all in full retreat over the tree tops and we hadn’t cut a feather. The giant pile of mud started screaming and yelling, “You dumb *#!¢%$!” at the top of his lungs and it seemed to be directed at me! As I stood up I could see what appeared to be a giant mud slug trail from the edge of the woods out into the middle of the field…apparently I had been wrong - there was someone that would belly crawl in the muck! For the previous 30 minutes as he lay face down in the mud Scott had watched me crawl out across the field. He was trying to close the distance to shooting range when I spooked the hen. Now he was setting back on his knees in the mud and all you could see was a giant mud blob with two eyes holding a mud-caked shotgun and shaking his head back and forth in disgusted disbelief. I just started laughing. What a memory and what a lesson! Lesson to self - never think that it is too muddy to belly crawl across a field for a turkey – someone is willing to do it!

As Coleman and I road home in the truck that afternoon I learned another outdoor lesson. I mentioned to him that we had done pretty good fishing. He said, “Uh dad, you didn’t catch a thing. Only the person that reels in the fish gets to count it. Casting and hooking the fish don’t count for anything.” Lesson to self – you can never get one over on a 7 year old fisherman with an attitude. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.

Dad’s Best Hunting Day… EVER!

Forget big deer, pheasants in South Dakota, and even hunting in Alaska - it just doesn't get any better than this for a dad!

After hunting for 35 years from the coastal mountains of Kodiak Island, Alaska to the cornfields of South Dakota to the jagged peaks of the Colorado Rockies to the beautiful wooded ridges of the Ozark Mountains, how do you determine your best hunting day ever? As a young man in early 1990’s I thought it was the day that I harvested my biggest buck after calling him into an opening with a new-fangled noise maker called a grunt tube. I had spent $5.00 on the crazy thing and figured I had wasted my money. Dad laughed at me and said, “There’s a sucker born every day.” Later that season after seeing an 11 point bruiser slip into a densely wooded creek bed in front of me I figured I had nothing to loose and I pulled out the call and grunted. To my great surprise the buck grunted back and I heard the leaves crunching. As I crouched in the high blackberry briers and grass, he walked out of the woods and into the brushy field in search of the source of the grunt and the rest is history…and he’s on the wall. At that point in my life it was the most exciting day of hunting that I had ever experienced… and my dad went out and bought a grunt tube! But, that day is now far surpassed.

"Dad, are you kidding?! I can't carry this crazy bird and the gun all the way back to the truck by myself!" 1st time spring turkey hunter, Coleman Stephens with his first turkey at 6 years old.


I started taking my kids to the woods in 1996. Just taking the kids hunting and seeing the excitement in their eyes surpassed anything I had ever achieved in the woods. My oldest son, Jason killed his first turkey and deer in 1997 and my outdoor life was forever changed. Taking my next oldest son, Mitchell proved just as an exciting experience as we saw strutting gobblers around every turn. He and I joke and laugh to this day about all the near misses! My next son, Alex, found success early in his hunting career, harvesting his first deer at 5 years old and his first gobbler at 6 years old! Finally, my youngest son, Coleman, started his hunting career last fall at age 6 during turkey and deer season. I have been blessed with the good fortune of teaching my children to hunt. These experiences are each ranked equally at the top of the list of ‘best ever’. How could you possibly ever surpass a ‘best day hunting’ with anything better than spending it with an eager child? Well, how about two of the children harvesting their quarry on the same day – opening day, on two different hunts and while you are right there with them. For a dad that would rank as the best day hunting ever…and that is just what happened last weekend.

2-shot Coleman Stephens with Dad and Lucas Adey posing with Coleman's first score in the spring turkey woods.

Coleman and I had the extreme good fortune of having the greatly accomplished turkey caller and turkey call maker, Lucas Adey, of Bean Creek Outdoor Products, Licking, Missouri tag along with us. Lucas loves to take young folks to the woods to see them harvest their first turkey and he was coming along with Coleman and me to tag-team on the calling chore. After narrowly missing an opportunity on two gobblers just after fly-down we relocated to a spot where a woodlot, a brushy field, and a clean field all come together with a fence separating each habitat type.

Nothing like waking up from a good nap to find a big gobbler 35 steps in front of you! Alex Stephens with his 1st 2011 spring gobbler - still one to go!

As we sat to call we had gobblers in front of us in the clean field in full strut and we had jakes answering from behind in the woods. As Lucas and I teamed up cackling and cutting back and forth with each other the gobblers and jakes were working into a frenzy. The gobblers in the field were thundering with each call from the Bean Creek 3 reed v-cut that I was using and the 2.5 cutter Lucas was using. The jakes behind us were gobbling and squawking as they circled around into the bottom field below us.

As we watched 5 jakes at 75 yards down the fence file into the open and attempt to gobble and strut I was getting excited. I soon understood that Coleman was going to need more excitement as he yawned and whispered back to me, “Dad, can I have a snack?” I was as nervous as a pet coon during a high fur market year and he wanted a candy bar! Either this kid has nerves of steel and was going to be a great hunter or he’s going to need bungee chords and parachutes to get him excited. Anyway, the jakes finally made their way to our decoy set and as Coleman sat between my legs and aimed the H&R youth model .410 at the lead bird, at 15 steps he squeezed off a shot…and missed! The jakes immediately started putting and walking away when Lucas realized Coleman had missed and he started cutting and calking. Lucas’ calling relaxed the birds a little as I, over Coleman’s shoulder, broke open the single shot shotgun, reloaded it, cocked it, and whispered to shoot again. At 25 yards Coleman pulled down on the same jake that he had just missed and at the crack of the gun down went the young gobbler! My 6 year old had just bagged his first turkey with two shots from a single-shot shotgun! You don’t get that opportunity too often.

The proudest hunting daddy in the world! The One-Eyed Hillbilly with sons, Coleman and Alex and their opening day, 2011 gobblers.

As soon as we got back to the farm house my oldest son, Jason and my 13 year old, Alex came in from the woods. They had heard many gobblers and had some close to them but had not made the connection. I took Alex and went back to the same spot we had just left. We were met with utter silence as we sat down and called to the birds that I knew were still close by. After about an hour Alex started nodding off in the warm sun and I wasn’t far behind. I called every 15 minutes and scanned the field. After about 2 hours I had nodded off for a few minutes and lifted my head to call. Out of nowhere there he was, 40 yards out in front of us – a big gobbler! I whispered to Alex, “Wake up, there he is.” Alex opened his eyes wide in hazy disbelief! Without being told, he then displayed true turkey hunting maturity and waited for the gobbler to put his head behind a tree and he then lifted his gun into position. As the bird came out the other side the 20 gauge roared into action and at 35 steps down went the big tom. He weighed in at 23 pounds with a 9 inch beard and 3/4 inch spurs. This was the culmination of my best hunting day EVER.

Grandpa's only hope to best his current 'Best Hunting Day EVER'. Addison Jean Bass in her urban camo...she had a neon pink Cricket .22 rifle the day she was born - You go girlfriend!

That night I was almost in distress. As I lay in bed wondering about the next 40 or so years of hunting that I hope to do I couldn’t help but be disturbed about how I would ever top this day – two young sons harvesting turkeys on the same day and I was there calling for both of them. And one of them harvested his first bird ever. Then I remembered – I’ve got a grand daughter and another grand child on the way! Grandchildren trump children, right! And then great-grand children trump grandchildren. Man, I’ve got a lot of BEST EVER hunting days left! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a 35-year veteran & life-time student of the great outdoors. His column appears weekly in print & online publications. You can email him at gregstephens@one-eyedhillbilly.com. For more columns go to www.one-eyedhillbilly.blogspot.com.