One-Eyed Hillbilly Outdoors

Exercising to be an Old Outdoor Grump

2012-08-12T09:20:00.000-05:00

Just imagine this fella with gray hair & an eye patch - That's gonna be me
in a few years...ain't grandma gonna be proud she's hitched to me !

By some folks way of thinkin’ I’m not right in the head…boy I hope my wife doesn’t read this article ‘cause, with an opening remark like that, I’ve really thrown open the door for comments that I might not want to hear! My ultimate goal in life is to become an old Grump. What I mean is - to my way of thinkin’ I don’t have any intention of slowing down as I grow into my old age. I don’t particularly like watching any TV or sports (we don’t even have it at our house). I don’t care for sittin’ around doing much of anything unless it’s around a campfire with trapping, hunting, or fishing planned for the next morning.

A great personal goal - Continually workin' on being
old enough & deserving of this coffee cup.

You see, with my boys I plan on hunting, fishing & trapping in the Ozarks, Rockies, Alaska and in all the wild places of this great continent well into my 80’s & 90’s. So, I’m trying to eat right, work out, and keep myself in shape so that I can become that crusty, grumpy old codger that lives on borrowed time 25 years longer than most folks expected (…or wanted! HA!). That’s my whole reason for exercising – I want to live in the Great Outdoors until I keel over at 91 (or 101…fingers crossed) years old in the Wrangell-St. Elias in Alaska while pulling traps after a great season on the trap line with my boys. What a great ending to a great life in the Great Outdoors!

You go brother - wear it like a badge of honor!

I’ve both known & read about the type of folks this description portrays. The old grump that is set in his ways, easily abrasive with his opinion, unyielding with his children with his throw-back principles, a constant trial for his wife’s patience, and an outspoken dissident toward government…man, am I going to be pleasant when I get old or what! To make sure I reach my goals I’ve started working out and eating right. My son, Alex and I get up each morning and walk 2 miles and run 1 mile. I’ve cut out soda completely and I’m working on cutting sugar out of my diet…that’s kinda tough these days. I’m consuming more vegetables and fruit – mostly from our garden. It sure is easier to eat all those nutritious staples when you planted and grew it yourself. Also, the garden is a great source of exercise (mostly for my wife…but I’ll never admit it to her that she does more in the garden than I do!)

The older I get the more I realize that
this is definitely my flag!

My wife and kids think I’ve already made it to my ultimate goal. I’ve been accused of being crazy in my thoughts about speeding into old age. This morning as Alex and I were walking down a country road I told him when I’m an old man, if I’m lucky enough to pass while we’re in the woods, leave me there. I was never meant for a box in the ground. As a matter of fact I despise the thought. The way I figure it, I’m of this world and I want to go back to being a productive part of nature as soon as possible…according to my wife a multiflora rose bush or thistle will probably be the only plant the dirt from my old bones will grow! Man, if I wasn’t well on my way to being a crusty old Grump without feelings that kind of a comment might wound my inner child!

Multiflora rose bush…hmmm, I kinda like that. As long as you leave it alone, from a distance it’s kinda nice, but try to walk over it or through it and you’ll soon discover you’ve got into a scrape with a nasty old critter! In the eternal words of our founding father revolutionaries - Don't Tread On Me! Well, that’s my goal…and I must be well on my way because at 44 years old my wife says I’m definitely already acting the part! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

Greg Stephens is a life-time student & 35-year veteran 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.

Vittles from the Hills

2012-08-11T09:55:00.000-05:00

Peppercorn Crusted Deer Tenderloin with Wild Blackberry Glaze

We hunt to eat. Don’t get me wrong – we love chasing wall-hanger bucks and waddling, beard-dragging gobblers as much as anybody but when it comes down to it, we’re in it for the food. We’ll wait for a chance to harvest a monarch buck but if Mr. Big doesn’t show himself by mid-season we’re gonna cut down on Junior every time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over 36 years of hunting and fishing, it’s that pride makes thin soup. And, while it is still a form of recreation, in today’s economy when hunting or fishing season comes around its also serious business because both our freezer and pocket book need all the help they can get. Fun, food, exercise, and life lessons all at the same time – it just doesn’t get any better than that!

In the land of Hillbillies the best grilling, like the best cooking in the kitchen, is done on cast-iron. Deer tenderloin cooked 10 minutes on both sides on the Hillbilly Hibachi is a delicacy fit for even our ‘Flatlander’ city cousins. Don’t tell’em its deer meat and they will swear its a choice filet from the butcher shop.

Food in the form of wild game and produce make for the best tasting and healthiest sustenance available to mankind. When you harvest from the bounty of Mother Nature, not only are you participating in the cycle of life, but you are also enhancing your health by avoiding the pitfalls of industrialized processed food – no antibiotics, steroids, hormones, pesticides, preservatives, etc., to worry about. And, knowingly or unknowingly, you become an environmentalist of sorts by reducing environmental pollution due to reduced plastic and cardboard packaging. It’s true - I haven’t seen too many Styrofoam and cellophane wrapped deer chops come from the skinning shed. Likewise, I haven’t seen too many crappie filets from the lake hit the freezer in brightly colored cardboard packaging.

Now here's a challenge for a hillbilly - you have to multi-task when preparing this recipe! (Or get Maw to do it for you!) Maw preparing the wild blackberry glaze.

Isn’t it ironic that in society today when it has become fashionable to be ‘green’ and environmentally conscience, the media does not mention the obvious fact that harvesters of nature are the original conservationists and environmentalists? In the hills we never got away from being ‘green’ and environmentally conscience in the first place. It’s been passed down to us for generations as a matter of necessity – we just call it surviving on the land.

The high heat will char-crust the cut of meat but the center will be pink and delicious. Maw cutting the tenderloin into medallions.

Our parents and grandparents pass down to us how to process game, forage in the woods, can from the garden, and finally, cook what we harvest. All natural and organic vittles from the hills are amazing when prepared with a good recipe. And, in the information age, with Google only a click away, recipes that can substitute wild meat are virtually at your fingertips. Deer tenderloin is a delicacy that rates second to none in fine meat cuts and when grilled and combined with other natural ingredients, such as wild blackberries in a red wine glaze, it is spectacular.

Now those are some great Vittles from the Hills! Char-crusted Tenderloin in Wild Blackberry Glaze with bacon-fried greenbeans and mashed 'taters...Ummmm, I'm hungry.

My wife and I have come up with a new way of extending our outdoor experience by spending time together in the kitchen preparing wild game in new and tasty ways. One recent adaptation from an old recipe was peppercorn crusted deer tenderloin with wild blackberry glaze. You start off by rubbing down a generous piece of tenderloin with olive oil. Next, in a bowl mix together 2 table spoons of cracked peppercorns with two teaspoons of salt. Rub this mixture over the entire cut of meat. Over high heat on a charcoal-fired cast-iron hibachi grill cook the tenderloin for 7-9 minutes per side or until char-crusted on the outside and pink in the middle.

While the meat is being prepared start the glaze by combining in a sauce pan over medium heat 1 cup of port wine, ½ cup red wine vinegar, ½ cup sugar, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 teaspoon cracked peppercorns, ¾ cup crushed wild blackberries, and 1 teaspoon flour. Cook this mixture down to a medium thick consistency (Note – for a sweet onion glaze you can substitute 1 cup of diced onions in place of the blackberries). Layer medallion size cuts of meat on a plate then drizzle the glaze over the cuts. Paired with fresh garden green beans fried with bacon and onions these vittles will please even the most discriminating flatlander palates of our city-folk cousins. Give it a try. 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.

A Good Death

2012-07-18T21:44:00.001-05:00

In ancient American Indian Culture
not only was a good & honorable
death achievable, it was sought after.

Is there such thing as good death? According to ancient American Indian culture once all of an individual’s biological, ecological, and spiritual mandates from the Creator were satisfied, a good death was achieved in a passing in which the individual’s honor and integrity were preserved. The moment of death was considered as intimate a moment between the dying and Mother Earth as that of the mother-child relationship at birth.

For the human species, emotionally speaking, if not sudden, the departing soul is certainly subject to many emotions and the survivors are certainly subject to much grief. For many the subject is so uncomfortable that it proves too difficult and painful to contemplate. However, lives led close to Mother Nature tend to lead to a vastly different point of view. My grandfather, a devoutly religious man, used to say, “death is a change in range and nothing strange.” I suppose contemplating those words in conjunction with my ever-evolving experiences in the outdoors lead to my seemingly indifferent emotional views regarding my own eventual demise.

Ironically, when considering the aversion held by many today in our society, in the perfect system of the circle of life, death is one of the two fundamental ingredients - birth and death. And, no matter what megalomaniacal reasoning we employ to convince ourselves otherwise, we are all subject to the rules of nature and we will all eventually pass from this physical world. For man, a good death is the all encompassing worthy end for which a human soul responsibly strives and humbly prays. In nature a good death occurs by default for all Nature’s creatures as they expire while playing their respective roles in the circle of life.

Four participants in the circle of life.

Today in our society there are those who would suggest that there is something inherently wrong with participating in the circle of life. The modern animal rights movement suggests that it is somehow wrong, inhumane, or cruel to harvest from Nature’s bounty for our own sustenance. While all moral and ethical beings would subscribe to the basic underlying principle of the animal rights movement’s premise of respectful treatment of all life, it is flawed reasoning to suggest that causing an animal's death is inhumane and/or disrespectful in and of itself.

First of all, Nature does not subscribe to the parameters of human emotional reasoning. A hunter and/or trapper who spends their allotted time during the harvest season in Nature understands above all others that the modern animal rights movement would surely consider Nature itself the most inhumane perpetrator in existence.

There are no hospitals, hospice care, or pain and maintenance medications to provide comfort for a diseased or dying animal. There is no policing authority to prevent unfair or premature death. There is no peaceful passing in the night. There is only death from the harsh elements, disease, accident, and/or being consumed. The old and weak are caught and consumed by the strong - a gazelle being disemboweled by lions while still conscious, a squirrel having it’s skin ripped apart by the razor sharp talons and beak of a red-tailed hawk, or a whitetail deer slowly and agonizingly succumbing to the long and drawn-out ravages of blue-tongue disease, these are just a few of the many brutal alternatives wildlife have as opposed to death at the hands of a hunter, trapper, or fisherman. Even though Nature does not ask for or understand human ethics and morals, if one is comforted by human precepts, then it is an undeniable truth that, for those of us who frequently witness true life and death in Nature, death at the hands of man is exponentially more desirable than the end that awaits those creatures who perish by other natural means.

Without question predators are unapologetic purveyors of death.
As such are predators in Mother Nature somehow inhumane
in their methods of death...and are we as human beings somehow
beyond the bounds of Mother Nature?

In Nature’s Economy, just like any other predator, as outdoorsmen, we are all active participants, or unapologetic purveyors of death. Just as the coyote, bobcat, and mountain lion play their roles, so do we, as wild men, in a sense, do the same. As each of these creatures go about their daily routine of sustaining themselves, they dispatch and consume numerous and various creatures in the wild. Death in Nature, while savagely beautiful, is neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. Rather, it is viewed by the whole of Nature with stoic indifference and as just another integral part of the continuum of life.

One of the most brilliant minds in the
history of the human race...and yet he still
accepted our true station within the fabric
of life

The creatures of Nature ask for no quarter from death, for there is none. They inherently understand that there are no promises of fairness in life, there is only natural indifference regarding their survival or death. It is as if they are inborn with the same nurtured reasoning that our own species’ super-genius Albert Einstein took many years to develop regarding his own death, ‘The end comes sometime; does it matter when?’ This does not suggest that an individual does not struggle to survive. Quite the contrary, all creatures in Nature are programmed to survive at all costs and have an inherent right to do so, if they can. Ultimately, however, death will touch us all and, physically speaking, once in its embrace, there is no escape.

So, is there such thing as good death? Absolutely. In the animal kingdom, wildlife harvested and consumed by humans have completed their ecological mandate just as sufficiently as those consumed by any other predator, thus resulting in a good death in Nature. We, as humans, are not outside the scope of Nature. No matter how grandiose our ideals and beliefs, we are simply consumers of Mother Nature's bounty, regardless of our chosen level of consumptive participation within the cycle of life.

It is our responsibility to participate in the circle of life and to teach others to understand and accept the indifferent yet perfect and beautiful design provided in Nature. When a soul is regularly exposed to the true life and death cycle in Nature it becomes exponentially easier to confront our own mortality. Understanding Nature’s Economy makes for easier discussion, understanding, and acceptance of death in the animal kingdom as well as the human kingdom. Physically speaking, they are one in the same. Setting a personal goal of an eventual good death is not a taboo subject but rather an honorable pathway through life. 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.

Guns & Groceries – They Go Hand-in-Hand

2012-06-01T20:11:00.001-05:00

Who knew? The outdoor marketing break-through of the 21st Century happened in Hardy, AR at the Price Chopper Grocery Store.

Biscuits & gravy, bacon & eggs, vacations & huntin’ season – there are just some things in life that go hand-in-hand. But did you realize that gun stores & grocery stores went together too? Ya, me either until a few weeks back when I had the opportunity to spend a few days just south of Thayer, MO in a little town called Hardy, AR. I was scouring the countryside looking for turkeys and checking out the Spring River for possible fishing opportunities. Hardy proved to have both outdoor adventures in ample supply. But the real discovery of the trip was not the huntin’ and fishin’. Rather, it was an outdoor marketing stroke of brilliance that I found in the Price Chopper Grocery Store!

Hardy, Arkansas is a quaint little river & railroad town located just south of Mammoth Spring on the Spring River. Mammoth Spring is a gorgeous natural wonder that gushes out water at a rate of 344 cubic feet per second toward the Spring River. The river cuts a beautiful emerald green swath barely 200 yards from downtown Hardy. The trout, small mouth, and large mouth fishing is great. Old downtown Hardy screams early 20th Century river town with the train tracks running on a narrow strip between downtown and the river. And, over the years the town has mastered the art of marketing the appeal of the good ole’ days. But, again, the town’s marketing plan wasn’t the highlight.

When you walk through the front doors you run smack dab

into an entrance to a man-cave shrine...inside the grocery store of all places!

I needed a drink so I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store and headed inside. When I entered the front door and turned left I stopped dead in my tracks. What I saw made me reconsider my opinions of grocery shopping. I had never been one to grocery shop much at all – you go to the store knowing exactly what you want, you buy it, and then you leave - no bargain shopping, no brousing, just get it and go. But just in front of me was a large sign above a door that opened into a 1000 sq. ft. room that read “Gun and Bow Rack”. Lo-and-behold there was a gun shop in the grocery store!

Let’s consider this a moment. Everyone knows it’s important to spend quality time with your spouse and she likes company when she grocery shops. Even more, how often have you heard, “Why do I have to do all the grocery shopping?” Problem solved! This grocery store has heard the call of wives everywhere, or mountain men, depending on your perspective, and provided the answer. After work on Monday evening when milk is needed at the house I’m volunteerin’ to go to the store. On Saturday morning when there’s no syrup for the pancakes I’m going to the store…I sense some potential problems with how long it’s gonna take to get home with the syrup (it might be lunchtime). From my perspective this was a marketing stroke of brilliance!

Guns, food & drink - for what more could a one-eyed hillbilly ask?
Throw in naked protesters in the parking lot and we'd be
pitchin' tents!

As I left the store and walked into the parking lot I had a thought that brought a smile to my face. Not only has this grocery store struck marketing gold, but they have righteously taken a stand against gun control advocates and anti-hunting groups. I mean, think about it, they have stood on their principals and boldly dared animal rights folks to team up with the gun control folks and picket grocery stores in a combined effort to fight the 2nd Amendment and meat consumption all at the same time. Imagine the naked PETA protestors packin’ their signs & protesting hand-in-hand with the Brady Bunch (a gun-control outfit)…not only would there be fruit & nut salad in the store but it would be in the parking lot too! And, if we hillbillies find out about the protest, the store will cash in ‘cause just think how hard it will be for wives to get their husbands to go home. There will be a crowd of guys that’ll stay there all day travelin’ back and forth between watching the naked PETA girls in the parking lot and grocery shoppin’ in the gun shop!

Ok, I'm speechless...Really?

Animal rights & gun control teamed up as a protesting powerhouse at the grocery store...hmmm..huh,...nope, on second thought, it won't work. At first thought it sounds like a bullet-proof alliance made in fruitcake heaven, but now that I think about it I'm sure it wouldn’t work. Why? Because I recalled a recently internet-publicized classified ad that had come out a few hunting seasons back in a newspaper (somewhere far from Dent County, Missouri I’m sure) that read, “To all you hunters who kill animals for food, shame on you; you ought to go to the store and buy meat that was made there, where no animals were harmed.”

…Really? According to the genius that submitted that classified ad, the grocery store produces meat without harming any critters in the process so I guess the animal rights folks must love grocery stores. This anti-intellectual irony kind of reminds me of one of my favorite quotes, “Never argue with a fool. He’ll only drag you down to his level and then beat you with experience.”

In any event, in a manner of speakin’ I guess that I can agree with the fella that wrote the classified ad on one thing– we both have a new found respect for grocery stores! Grocery stores and gun shops – in my world they go hand-in hand! 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.

Listening to Song Dogs in the Spring

2012-05-21T23:38:00.001-05:00

Caught in the bottle-neck - this pretty song dog let down his guard while slipping through a bottle-neck between an old fence and a large pile of rocks that led into an old field. The One-Eyed Hillbilly strikes again.

A young'un caught at the corner of the old collapsed barn

Last night I sat on the back porch looking out at the garden as the sun went down. In the distance down along the Arkansas River & Lake Dardanelle I heard the familiar call of the first evening coal train coming from out west and heading toward the east coast. As the piercing air horn screamed into the early evening darkness the coyotes, or song dogs, launched into a yipping and howling frenzy just across the road south of our house. It sounded as if there were 50 or more of the elusive critters all running together. Soon thereafter another gang of them tore loose to the north of the house. The house seemed to be nestled right between two competing coyote choirs and it was amazing. The two groups fed off the building frenzy of the train whistle and the competing ruckus of each pack. Between the two packs it sounded as if there were hundreds of them and yet you seldom see a coyote during daylight unless you catch one while trapping, call one up while spring turkey hunting or varmint hunting, or chase them with hounds. The critters are an amazing triumph of nature in my eyes…eye…and there are many similarities between the species and folks from the Ozark hills.

A Dent's Pasture Song Dog - notice he's rubbed bad above the shoulders
with no guard hairs showing

Ancient Native American Indian folk lore told that the coyote would be the last living animal on earth. This idea is not by accident. Like folks from the hills, song dogs are resourceful, tough, and smart. They can make a living where others can’t. They are survivors. In one of his trapping DVD’s, noted wildlife biologist and trapper, Mark June, made the observation that humans would have to trap 70% of the coyote population for 50 years consecutively in order to detrimentally impact the population of the critters. This interesting piece of trivia was derived from a government study that concluded that reproduction rates for coyotes naturally vary according to hunting pressure. That fact is a testament to the natural adaptability of the cunning creature. I can’t conclusively say that particular characteristic is shared with us folks from the hills – it’s never been tested. I’d certainly hate to have to head into the hills to hunt hillbillies to test the comparison! I’m afraid whoever was huntin’ hillbillies might see a detrimental impact on their population!

Teaching the kids how to cut for sign, set steel, and catch fur.
A Lake Spring, MO coyote.

‘Tough as a Pine Knot’ is a term used throughout the Ozarks to describe anything that has grit. That term certainly applies to coyotes & hillbillies alike. Case in point, a few years back while trapping in Dent’s Pasture I caught a coyote with a case of mange that was so severe the poor animal looked like a cartoon character – the critter reminded me of Wiley Coyote after the Roadrunner had ran him through a thrashing machine. When I first pulled up to my trap set I thought I had caught an alien! It only had fur on its snout, down the middle of its back, and on the tops of its paws. The rest of its body was pink and blotched-brown bare skin exposed to the elements. And this was in late January after a week of sub-zero nightly temperatures! I don’t know how it managed to keep from freezing to death but it had outwitted Mother Nature’s raw indifference for several weeks. Maybe it was a smart enough critter to build a fire! Years ago my trapping mentor, Kenny Wells, told me when you can out-smart a coyote with a steel trap you can catch anything and after years of trapping I now know he is right. Once you can master the nose, eyes, and cunning mind of a coyote in your trapping pursuits you can catch anything.

This young male song dog got a little too interested in the dirt hole set on the pond dam. Notice both front paws in the trap!

As I set here writing this article I am once again hearing the train whistle in the distance and the song dogs are howling across the road. If it were only 30° instead of 85° I’d certainly be in the mood to catch a few of the critters. However, I guess I’m gonna have to get used to trapping in the warm air because I recently discovered that coyote trapping in Arkansas begins August 1st! That means I can trap for 7 months out of the year! Wow, my wife is going to be s-o-o-o tickled to hear about that! 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.

Mother’s Day at the Lake

2012-05-21T00:11:00.001-05:00

The whining kid gets his way - it's a good thing it isn't Father's Day! Coleman in the lake ruining the fishing trip!

Ok, how many of you guys have asked your wife what they wanted to do for Mother’s Day and heard, “Well, all I really want for Mother’s Day is to go to the lake and go fishing.” Ya, I didn’t hear that either. But, we did get to go to the lake. The plan was for the guys to fish and the girls to head to Branson, but Coleman, being one of the guys, had different ideas. Coleman’s idea of being in the boat is jumping in the lake and swimming in between eating cookies & chips and chain-chugging every soda in the cooler. And, when Coleman doesn’t get to do as Coleman has planned, he can grate on you like fingernails on a chalk board. It’s hard to fish with fingernails running down a chalk board.

As soon as the girls left the house Coleman wanted to know if we were going swimming. Sensing the fit that he would throw if I told him anything except what he wanted to hear I said, “…Uh, maybe,…just get in the boat.”

That wasn’t the answer Coleman was looking for. He wanted a black and white answer and he wanted to make sure we weren’t going to starve to death while out on the lake, “Dad, did you get the snacks? Did you get the soda? Can I go swimming while you fish?”

I said, “Sure Coleman, just get in the boat.” So, Alex, Coleman, and my brother-in-law, Scott Bollinger, and me piled in the boat and headed up Table Rock Lake from Cape Fair. There was very little wind, good cloud cover, and temps in the upper 60’s – it was perfect.

We pulled up on the first crappie beds and Coleman immediately wanted to know if he could jump in the water. “Not right now Coleman, eat some cookies.” I told him, as Scott, Alex, and I started casting our rods. When the crappie fishing proved slower than expected, I decided to switch to largemouth bass fishing with a top-water buzz bait. When you are lucky enough to time it just right, top water lures provide more fun and excitement than any other type of lures and I figured, taking into consideration the temperature, cloud cover, and wind conditions, that the planets were lined up just right for great top-water action. As soon as we started throwing the buzz baits the fish came alive. And, of course, just as the excitement grew, Coleman ran out of cookies…he had eaten the whole bag and was ready to swim.

A nice bass Alex landed with his top-water Devil's Horse. The fishing was getting good but Coleman wasn't impressed.

“Dad, can I swim now?” he asked as I cranked a buzz bait across a bush growing 5 feet out from the shore. I replied, “Coleman everybody knows you can’t swim after you’ve been eating – you’ll get cramps. Sit down and let your food settle and play a game or something.” I had reverted back to the old reliable excuse every parent has given their kid in order to keep them out of the water and I was hopeful this would buy me a little more time to fish. Coleman grumbled something and flopped down in the seat.

Just moments later Alex cranked his top-water Devil’s Horse across an old submerged fence line extending out into the lake from the bank and the water boiled around his lure as a very nice largemouth took a swipe at the plug. He gave a mighty jerk and the lure flew out of the water and across the boat – he missed the fish! It looked to be a nice one in the 4 to 5 pound range. Scott and I were excited now. The old fence line ran for 100 yards and there were old snags extending up out of the water the entire stretch. I was sure we would catch a monster but casting proved difficult as Coleman stood at my back the entire time wanting to know if he could get in the water. I couldn’t reach back and really throw my lure the way I wanted for fear of hooking him as I cast. I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be popular if I brought our youngest son back to my wife with a buzz bait hung in his head!

Finally, at the end of the old fence row we were about 100 yards out in the lake and Coleman’s Uncle Scott had heard the whining and crying as long as he could take it. He said, “Coleman, jump in the water.” And that was all it took – Coleman was in the lake and the fishing had come to a halt. It reminded me of the old saying about a squeaky wheel gets the grease but instead an incessant whining kid gets to swim to the detriment of our fishing trip. I tried to mention lake sharks, I tried to mention catfish big enough to eat an 8 year old boy in order to get him back in the boat, but Colman wasn’t having any of it. Oh well, at least I was on a boat in the middle of the lake instead of fighting the traffic on 76 Highway in downtown Branson. And, it was Mother’s Day after all so it wasn’t supposed to be about Dad. On Father’s Day Coleman doesn’t get to swim in the lake…I get my way! 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.

One Man’s Treasure is Another Man’s Junk

2012-04-17T22:29:00.006-05:00

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

2012-04-12T08:49:00.001-05:00

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”

2012-04-09T11:17:00.002-05:00

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

2011-12-30T18:15:00.003-06:00

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

2011-12-28T10:57:00.000-06:00

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

2011-11-08T01:38:00.007-06:00

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)

2011-10-31T10:31:00.001-05:00

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

2011-09-25T18:44:00.001-05:00

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

2011-09-12T23:07:00.002-05:00

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

2011-07-04T20:03:00.001-05:00

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

2011-05-17T13:53:00.003-05:00

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.

ShoMeOutdoors.com

2011-05-16T16:06:00.000-05:00

Check out One-Eyed Hillbilly Outdoors on ShoMeOutdoors.com

http://www.shomeoutdoors.com/forums/viewthread.php?tid=13910&page=2

A Florida Character in the Ozark Hills!

2011-05-07T08:28:00.001-05:00

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.

God’s Sense of Humor on Easter Weekend

2011-04-27T16:28:00.002-05:00

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.

Lessons from the Woods

2011-04-22T20:41:00.000-05:00

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.

Dad’s Best Hunting Day… EVER!

2011-04-13T22:55:00.005-05:00

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.

Youth Turkey Season a Political Statement?

2011-04-10T11:17:00.007-05:00

You ever get concerned about our society? This past weekend in spite of the cold weather my son, Alex and I tried to fish. While fighting the cold north wind as we casted into the shore from the boat I had a rather profound thought (1st time for everything!) that forced me to take pause and if you are an outdoors person in the Ozark hills you might take pause too. Did you ever consider that your very life in the outdoors is a political statement to someone? It’s true!

Political just for fishing? Angler Alex Stephens jerking the lips off a largemouth bass.

You probably never considered it but this spring while you are jerking the lips off a largemouth bass with a buzz bait there’s someone in Los Angeles parading around naked as a jay bird in front the a federal courthouse holding up a picture of that poor bass with fat lips from all those hooks. Can you imagine how much time this naked person has spent demonstrating in order to direct attention to the plight of the homeless, the starving, the sick, and endless other needy folks all over the world before they got down to demonstrating for lowly fish lips? I mean, I’m sure these folks aren’t quacks who would devote time to fish lips exclusively instead of addressing the truly urgent needs of mankind first, right? Of course not – they have their priorities right. But, they don’t believe in your right to fish so, believe it or not, when you are fishing, hunting, trapping, camping, mushrooming, horseback riding, or anything else we associate with rural life in the Ozarks, you are making a political statement to someone.

Refreshing your daughter's gun safety knowledge prior to turkey season - a political statement or a way of living in the hills? There's nothing political about this lesson for Ellis and Natalie Floyd - it's all business.

It’s funny but I never really considered my 6 and 13 year old sons as politically active. But, I guess this April as they throw their .410 and 20 gauge shotguns over their shoulders and head for the turkey blind they are making a statement of their own. I reckon there’s a fella in Washington D.C. in front of the Capitol building dressed up as the Grim Reaper waving a sign with a turkey drum stick painted on it and with words that read, “Tofu not Turkey.” I’ll wager the Thanksgiving meals at his house are ones to remember.

"What's politics?" 5 yr old Remington Floyd practices with his BB gun preparing for his first turkey season next year as dad, Ellis Floyd, watches closely.

The precious picture I take of my two young sons in their camouflage with their shotguns prominently displayed at their sides as we return from our first morning hunt will be a political statement to someone too. As I look over our pictures of years past in the Great Outdoors I see the simple and natural Ozark life in the Great Outdoors. I see a snapshot of my children that will hold them forever young for an ever-aging parent. I see my boys learning a heritage and outdoor activity that will provide lessons, food, and exercise for a lifetime. This is not political, rather, just life in the hills. However, to the lady in front of City Hall in San Francisco dressed in a Halloween corpse costume with a red stained tee shirt, holding a sign of a camouflage hunting shotgun with words that read, “No Assault Rifles”, she sees my boys as future Hannibal Lecters. I wonder if the boys sister doesn’t sometimes think the same thing…I know my sister did!

A precious picture indeed! Family friends Ellis, Natalie, and Remington Floyd with their turkey hunting 'assault rifles' just before turkey season 2011.

It was hard to get in the turkey hunting mode last weekend with the turn of bad weather but we will be at the farm patterning our shotguns this weekend. We will have on our camouflage garb in true hillbilly redneck fashion while somewhere on the streets of Paris a fashion industry student will be wearing camo and fake fur with a sign that reads, “No redneck fur killers allowed.” Of course he’s got a leather belt, purse, and shoes to go along with his neon-pink hair.

A redneck hillbilly fur killer? No, an educated and informed participant in Mother Nature (oh, and yes, a hillbilly!). The One-Eyed Hillbilly with an otter at Moose Head Lake.

It is strange to think that just living our lives has become the source of political efforts by people who think they have the right to take away how we live! I find that amazing and alarming. So this year in order to be more politically correct I’m going to keep a low profile with my meat-eating, fur and camo wearing little Hannibal Lecters – I’m not going to let them color their hair pink. We need to keep a low profile.

A camo wearing little Hannibal Lecter? No a beautiful little boy, Coleman Stephens, spending time with his dad learning the ways of the Great Outdoors (and no pink hair!).

Finally, in closing this fun foray into the silly yet very serious world of our way of life in the hills intertwined in politics I would like to leave you with this interesting email that I received that demonstrates how we are part of political thought just by being hunters in the hills:

There were over 600,000 hunters this season in the state of Wisconsin.

Allow me to restate that number.

Over the last several months, Wisconsin 's hunters became the eighth largest
army in the world.

More men under arms than in Iran .

More than in France and Germany combined.

These men deployed to the woods of a single American state to hunt with
firearms, and no one was killed.

That number pales in comparison to the 750,000 who hunted the woods of
Pennsylvania and Michigan 's 700,000 hunters, all of whom have now returned
home.

Toss in a quarter million hunters in West Virginia and it literally
establishes the fact that the hunters of those four states alone would
comprise the largest army in the world.
The point?

America will forever be safe from foreign invasion with that kind of
home-grown firepower.

Hunting -- it's not just a way to fill the freezer. It's a matter of
national security.

That's why all enemies, foreign and domestic, want to see us disarmed.

Food for thought when next we consider gun control.

So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

A Boy and His First Shotgun

2011-04-10T10:10:00.006-05:00

I still have the first gun my dad ever gave me. It hasn’t been used in over 30 years but I remember it well. It’s a Montgomery Ward bolt action 16 gauge modified choke shotgun. Man what a prize! As a kid I missed more turkeys with that darn thing than a hound has fleas. The first few years I used it, it was longer than I was tall and it felt like it weighed as much as I did. Truthfully, it’s little more than a boat anchor, but I would never trade or sell it for anything. It and I stood together in front of my dad as he gave it to me when he said, “You can have this one.” It and I grumbled and cried together in the woods when my dad asked incredulously, “How did you miss that one?” As far as shooting is concerned it’s like that old flea-bitten hound on the porch – it’s bark is definitely worse than it’s bite. But, it and I have history. It’s part of the family’s outdoor story.

Passing on the heritage with a shotgun that fits a kid a little better than an old 'boat anchor' 16 gauge bolt action - the One-Eyed Hillbilly, Greg Stephens and his 6 yr old son, Coleman getting ready for spring turkey season.

Things have changed a little over the years. Way back then we got hand-me-down guns that dad didn’t figure he would ever need again. It was always the wrong length, action, gauge, and choke to be of any use. These days the gun manufacturers have figured out that those old boat anchors don’t fit the kids and now they make little guns sized just perfect! You would think that aspect alone would break down many barriers to getting kids into the woods but with the improvement in youth sized hunting guns there is also vastly increased competition for the attention of a child. I have to compete with something called an Xbox 360 and it’s not a .36 caliber rifle of any sort! I just can’t understand playing a video game over going shooting or hunting. Of course the kids say, “Dad, we can play hunting games on the console!” There’s another term I don’t understand. To me, a console is in a car. Anyway, it’s hard to eat a digital turkey…makes real thin soup.

If Dad can call in a turkey then Coleman can put it in the freezer! Coleman Stephens puts plenty of shot in the target down range to harvest a big gobbler.

This past weekend my 6 year old son, Coleman, and I set out to pattern his .410 H&R shotgun for the upcoming youth turkey season. Coleman is pretty easy to convince when you anti up a chocolate shake for the ride to the shotgun range. We went to Uncle Mike’s house out towards the Meramec River. We set up the target and Coleman sat on an old galvanized bucket and used a saw horse for a rest. His little H&R .410 youth model is chambered for 3” shells and we were shooting #6 shot. The first shot was at 15 yards and Coleman poured it on thick! We shot three more times to make sure he was on target. We now know that if dad can do his part and call a turkey into our set, then Coleman can shoot good enough to bring home the meat! No digital soup for us.

A proud and excited young man with his first shotgun - Coleman Stephens patterning his .410 for turkey season.

Youth turkey season is April 9th and 10th and regular season is April 18th through May 8th. This is a great time of the year to get in the woods and hunt turkeys with the kids. During the youth portion of the spring turkey season a properly licensed child can legally hunt with a properly licensed and hunter education certified adult. Hunting hours are extended to all day during youth season. In order to keep a young and fidgety hunter concealed I suggest using a ground blind. The blind provides for maximum concealment along with comfortable chairs and places to store snacks for the hunters (you can even bring in video games…much to my protests).

Now that’s how you pepper a target! Coleman standing beside the target with his .410.

This past weekend as I watched my youngest son practicing with his first shotgun I was reminded of H. Jackson Brown’s book – Life’s Little Instruction Book, Vol. II. One of his quotes is: “Life will sometimes hand you a magical moment. Savour it.” As I watched this little boy bare down on his little .410 and fire I knew I was witnessing a rite of passage for a future outdoorsman. It was a magical moment - a young man, my little boy, with his first shotgun getting ready for turkey season. It just doesn’t get any better than this. And I am going to savour it! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly.

A Priceless Weekend Fishin’ with the Family

2011-03-23T21:10:00.007-05:00

Three motley fishermen in a two-man boat! Dad, with Coleman and Alex…and a dead trolling motor.

Search for morels or go fishin’? That was the question. Last week was St. Pats and historically a great time to start looking through the woods under the elms and big oaks for the tastiest mushroom ever to grace the woodlands. But if the weather hasn’t been right, mid-March is a little too early for mushrooms. This was one of those years when there was not a definitive answer about whether or not the weather conditions had been suitable enough for long enough to produce mushrooms – they might be up but it might be just a tad early. We had had about a week of nights in the 40’s and 50’s and days in the 60’s and low 70’s prior to St. Pat’s weekend so the decision was tough. The kids wanted to fish but I didn’t want to miss the first good mushroom bloom. When it came down to it my wife reminded me that I had promised my youngest son, Coleman that we would fish, so fishing it was. And I think I cut it just right because I heard only a few stories about mushrooms so the big bloom is hopefully yet to come!

Proud fisherman Coleman Stephens with a crappie caught on a crankbait!

Saturday evening we crammed the kids, fishing poles, grill, chicken breasts, and sliced potatoes in the truck and headed for Moose Head Lake for the 2^nd weekend in a row. I had to do some reconstructing of my beaver sets because the high water from last week had filled the traps with debris and washed out much of my trap bed work. Upon arriving, my son, Alex and I reset the traps and helped get the fire going. Mom, Ashley, and Coleman were on cooking detail. Alex and I jumped in the two-man boat and headed up the lake.

Just before the big lightening strike - angler Alex Stephens with one of the many small bass that really got active as the low pressure swept in from the northwest.

There was a low pressure area just west of us as we began fishing. I was hoping that the brewing storm would stir the big fish into activity. Alex was casting an open-faced reel with 10# test line, a medium-heavy 6’ rod and a #11 Rapala Fire Tiger. I was pitching a bait caster with a 6’ rod, 10# test line, and a white-headed single spinner with a chartreuse skirt. No sooner had we started up the north bank than we started catching fish. The water temperature was still a little low so the hits were light and sluggish. You could say that they were more of a drag than a hit.

The old man even got into the fishing groove. One-Eyed Hillbilly, Greg Stephens with a an Ozark lake largemouth bass. Not a big one but better than a poke in the eye...trust me on that!

As the evening’s light began to fade the flashes of lightening could be seen in the distance and the fish activity increased. Just as we started hooking fish consistently the wind picked up, blowing from the north. One big bolt of lightening later Alex looked at me and we both decided it was time to ‘bug out’. Of course we were two hundred yards from the dock and the battery went dead on the trolling motor and we only had one paddle. Each time you made a stroke with the paddle the whole boat shift left or right. It was a ridiculous spectacle as I paddled for all I was worth fighting the north wind all the way and zigzagging back and forth like an over-active stick bait! By the time we made it to the dock I was soaked and out of breath. But it was worth it because we had been on an exciting springtime Ozark fishing adventure and caught several small bass in the process.

If that isn't the grin of a proud fisherman full of orneriness then I don't know what is! Coleman Stephens with a large mouth bass.

The next day turned out to be beautiful and we decided to go again. This time Coleman and Ashley got into the fishing groove as well. After having slower luck with the lures from the day before we switched to a green and blue deep running crank bait and immediately began getting hits. Alex and Coleman caught several bass as we drifted in the wind down the south shore. Ashley on the other hand had a little bit of a challenge casting the open faced reel. You never knew whether the lure was going to land in the boat, behind the boat, or five feet in front of the boat. She didn’t manage to catch a fish but she had fun trying and we had fun watching her! Next time she will hook one I’m sure.

After the storm and a good grilled chicken dinner - the family poses with the dock and lake in the background. A priceless weekend!

As we packed up to leave mom asked me if we might let Ashley drive the Tahoe down the ½ mile driveway to the road since she didn’t get to fish as much as the boys. She is now almost 15 and anxious to learn to drive. So, I put her between my legs with the seat all the way back and off we went. The drive to the road was about as ridiculous as the boat ride back to the dock the evening before – zigzagging all the way! I’m worried about my insurance rates in the next few years… How do you put a price tag on a weekend like that? I’d call it priceless. 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.

One-Eyed Hillbilly Outdoors

Exercising to be an Old Outdoor Grump

Greg Stephens is a life-time student & 35-year veteran 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.

Vittles from the Hills

A Good Death

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.

Guns & Groceries – They Go Hand-in-Hand

﻿﻿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.

Listening to Song Dogs in the Spring

﻿﻿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.

Mother’s Day at the Lake

﻿﻿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.

One Man’s Treasure is Another Man’s Junk

﻿﻿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

﻿﻿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”

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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.

ShoMeOutdoors.com

A Florida Character in the Ozark Hills!

God’s Sense of Humor on Easter Weekend

Lessons from the Woods

Dad’s Best Hunting Day… EVER!

Youth Turkey Season a Political Statement?

A Boy and His First Shotgun

A Priceless Weekend Fishin’ with the Family

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.