One Man’s Treasure is Another Man’s Junk

 Like everything else in life, when considering turkey hunting equipment - one man’s treasure is another man’s junk. As a matter of pride, two key pieces of hunting equipment held in very high regard for a young hunter is your truck and your gun. In the spring of 1979 it never occurred to me that our old ’71 Ford 2-wheel drive truck was anything but a piece of superior hunting equipment. Likewise, at ten years old I considered my H&R Topper 12 gauge, 3 inch magnum mouth-buster to be cutting edge & big medicine for gobblers! I never thought I’d see the day when hunting season would become a fashion show of sorts where our old equipment would be looked down on as “hillbilly.”



You reckon a fine truck like this could grow grass in the floorboards?  No matter - if'n it gets you to the huntin' woods its a treasure!

  Dad had bought our old Ford pick-up (ol’ Bessie) sometime in the mid-70’s. The truck was a 3-speed on-the-column with an AM radio and no power steering, no power brakes, and no a/c. She didn’t have any seat-belts because we had taken them out to use in our hand-made hanging tree-stands. Back then we didn’t worry too much about having a wreck but we sure weren’t gonna take any chances on falling out of a tree! You could see plum to the ground through the passenger side floorboard and grass was growing in the dirt in the floorboards just under the front edge of the seat. She had a solenoid with connections that would not stay tight so you always had to keep a pair of piers handy in order to jump across the solenoid to get the starter to engage. Seemed like every time it rained this would happen and dad would grin real big and tell me to jump out and use the pliers. He really thought that was funny. I didn’t care a bit – I was proud of ol’ Bessie. By today’s standards ol’ Bessie was not much but at least we had a truck to take turkey hunting. She’s long since headed to the scrap yard but she is a treasure in my turkey hunting memory that money couldn’t buy. If we rode in her today to the turkey woods I’m sure we’d be called “hillbilly.”

Priceless to me - $15.00 at the pawn shop.

As for my gun, Dad had received a Topper H&R shotgun as a safety award from AMAX Lead Company in the summer of 1976 and I had received it for Christmas that winter. It had been hidden in my sister’s closet for several months leading up to Christmas and I had bribed her to show me my “Big” gift she had been telling me about. By the time Christmas came around I had taken the shotgun out of the box and petted it several times. It was the proudest I had ever been of a Christmas present to that point of time in my life - prior to that I had used Grandpa Stephens’ old pump shotgun that was as long as I was tall & too heavy for me to hold up.

I remember getting a box of 3 inch magnum #2 loads from Wal-Mart (box of 20 for $5.00!) and heading to the back yard. The first time I pulled the trigger I thought I had broken my jaw and knocked my glass eye clean out of my head! WOW! She sure must be powerful, I reckoned. Every time I pulled the trigger it brought tears to my eyes but I wasn’t about to admit it hurt. She patterned low and right at 25 steps. She was a treasure I’ll never forget.

While I was in college in the mid ‘80’s some low-life stole my H&R shotgun from my apartment. I’m sure the thief thought they would take it to the pawn shop and get rich. I figure as they walked out of the pawn shop sorely disappointed because they got only $15.00 for a pawned single shot shotgun, the pawn shop owner was thinkin' the thieves must be hillbillies to think they were gonna get a load of money for that old gun!  It wasn't even worth the gas and time to drive to the pawn shop! That was the first gun my dad ever gave me and I wouldn’t have sold it at any price… instead some jerk sold it for $15.00.

Kinda funny how a fella’s perspective changes as they get older about the value of certain things. Just like the title of “Hillbilly” – 35 years ago how dare someone say I was a hillbilly (although I was), I thought that I was just as up-and-coming as the big-city folks. Now days they can keep their up-and-coming - I’m proud to be a hillbilly. One man’s treasure is another man’s junk. 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.

Learnin’ Responsibility from the Squirrels



I reckon society could take a few lessons from a bushytail.



I was sittin’ in my tree stand a while back being entertained by squirrels. Good thing they were movin’ because the deer sure weren’t. I was amazed by the action as they chased each other through the leaves, up the sides of trees, and even right up the tree in which I was sittin’. One gray squirrel was hot after another and the first one ran right up my tree and slammed on the brakes just below the deck of my stand. He was frozen like a furry statue as he stared up at me through the deck of the stand. Those big dark googling eyes were saying, “Wow-a, Hooold it!...What in the world is that thing?!”

Just then his comrade came screaming around the tree, passed his partner, passed the deck and right up beside my legs before slamming on the brakes. He too stood motionless. He had that startled “what the heck have I got myself into now” look about him. Now, if you’ve ever sat up in a tree with 2 squirrels within inches of you and tried to keep your 1 eye on both of them you would understand why my head moved…it’s impossible to watch’em both and keep your head still. Anyway, I moved and they tore out like their tails were on fire! As soon as they hit the ground they were off again.

A few minutes later as I scanned the woods I heard a commotion of squirrels barking, leaves crunching, wings beating, and a distressed critter squawking in agony. I soon spotted a hawk that had swooped down and apparently nailed a squirrel about 70 yards from my stand. Now all the squirrels were barking and headed for higher ground. It was an awesome and fierce sight for sure. I had to take pause and wonder about the event that I had just witnessed. A squirrel had just become dinner for a hawk.

As I pondered the whole episode I was listening to the squirrels barking up a storm and I had an epiphany. Squirrels don’t believe that they are entitled to life – they simply make the best of an opportunity for an individually self responsible existence within the higher laws of Mother Nature. They gather food for themselves, they find hollow trees or build their own nests, and they live life to their full potential. Squirrels have fun, even under the specter of predators that are everywhere.

To me this was a very interesting proposition - adult squirrels don’t depend on others to gather their food. Adult squirrels don’t think that others should have to provide them with shelter. Adult squirrels are pretty much on their own when it comes to self preservation. Yet squirrels still manage to live life to the fullest.

Now here’s a rub. I started wondering... why doesn’t that also pertain to humans? As adult humans, we seem to have adopted an entitlement perspective on life as opposed to an opportunity of an individually self responsible life. Boy now, you reckon that idea will toss a cherry bomb into the hornet’s nest in some circles?! I thought about it for a long time. How would our society be different if we believed that only children had a right to life while adults had the right to the opportunity of an individually self responsible life? As parents, our job would be to raise kids to a point that they were ready, as adults, to embrace their opportunity to an individually self responsible life – no more handouts.

The more time I spend in the woods the more I come to believe that the Creator’s design is perfect in every way. It is completely fair to all. It is beautiful, warm, fun, and loving and it is brutal, cold, and unforgiving. Ultimately, it is indifferent toward individuals. It is the process that prevails – the cycle of life. I reckon the further this society gets from the Creator’s design the more convoluted our lives become. But hey, don’t pay no mind to me – when you study squirrels you’re bound to be a little nuts! 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.

Coleman & the “Freak Show”



If'n ya don't want to hear the raw and blunt truth of the matter then ya better not get to chewin' the fat around the campfire with this little hillbilly.  Coleman Stephens in the turkey woods - Missouri spring youth turkey season 2012.

 My 7-year-old son, Coleman, and I went turkey hunting last weekend. We were in the Piney Creek Wilderness in southwestern Missouri, near Table Rock Lake. This wasn’t the first time we had hunted the Piney Creek Wilderness; last fall we hunted the wilderness with one of Coleman’s older brothers, Alex. As we sat on a saddle above Table Rock Lake with a nice 9 point buck quartering toward us, Coleman was unable to make the necessary adjustments in time to take a shot and, instead, Alex shot the buck. Coleman has let everyone within earshot know that Alex stole his first deer. Not wanting a repeat during turkey season, we didn’t invite Alex along on this trip– it was just Coleman and me for some exciting spring turkey hunting and some father-son campfire bonding.

We got to the wilderness after dark and began setting up the camp under the headlights of the truck. After finally lighting a lantern we began preparations for our campfire. Of course, Coleman was immediately hungry. We roasted hotdogs and ate potato chips. We drank soda pop and ate cookies. We told stories, asked questions, and laughed around the campfire. It was a great evening of father-son campfire bonding.

During the course of our evening our conversation drifted to a place where I would venture to guess most father & sons never visit during father-son campfire bonding. Out of the wild blue Coleman wanted to quiz me about my one eye. He said, “So dad, do you have a plastic eye to wear when you don’t wear your patch?”

I told Coleman that I did have a glass (plastic) eye but that I hadn’t worn it much in the past several years. He asked why I hadn’t worn it, to which I explained it really didn’t fit and it was miserable during the cold part of the year. During trapping season in the late winter it is truly miserable when your eye-lid freezes to your plastic eye. You don’t know it’s frozen until you try to blink and then the pain will bring you to your knees! It’s beyond aggravating when it happens several times during the course of a single day in the woods. On more than one occasion it happened while I was in a bow stand in the late winter and I thought I would fall out of my deer stand! Ouch!

Coleman seemed intrigued. He continued to question me about the extra hole in my head. I love children of his age. They are brutally honest and ask blunt questions that aren’t in any way intended offensively. They are just looking for answers and you can’t help but laugh out loud. Coleman asked, “So dad, when you have your glass eye in your head, does it work?”

“Does it work?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, can you see with it?” he explained.

“Oh, oh, I see what you are asking.” I said. “No, unfortunately it is only to cover the extra hole where my eye used to be.”

He sat there quietly for a few moments contemplating my answers and then, his face lit up with a great revelation and he said, “Oh, so it’s just so that you don’t look like a freak show!”

I had to laugh out loud! Yes Coleman, my innocent and brutally honest young son, it is just so I don’t look like a freak show! You gotta love those kids.

Coleman and I didn’t get a turkey on opening weekend but we explored new and heart-warming territory in our father-son relationship while talking around the campfire. He slept on my side of the air mattress. This combined with the fact that we only brought sheets and not any covers and the temperature dropped into the upper 40’s made for a particularly sleepless night. The next morning we didn’t have time to make coffee. Coleman didn’t mind – he had chocolate donuts. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even seem to mind that we didn’t see any turkeys. He was just happy to eat donuts and turkey hunt with his “freak show” dad. And “freak show” dad will never forget our first solo turkey camping trip. So says the One-Eyed…Freak Show 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.

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.