00:00:05 Speaker 1: Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Rieves from coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my stories and the country skills that will help you beat the system. This Country Life is proudly presented as part of Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airways have to offer. All right, friends, pull you up a chair or drop that tailgate. I think I got a thing or two to teach you. Hunting and fishing, food, taking groceries with you to get you through the day. Out of nature can literally be anything you can ok in your pockets. Now we're going to talk about some of my favorites and how I've done it over the years. But first I'm going to tell you a story during the same time period of getting bitten by the Copperhead. I talked about that on episode one forty seven. You hadn't heard it, nobody want to take a listen, but me and my running partner Wayne Parnell, decided to go fishing at Lake Chico, near the small town of Lake Village in the southeast corner of the state. Lake Chico is an old Ox Bowl Lake off the Mighty Mississippi River. It's the largest natural lake in Arkansas. And get this, at three quarters of a mile wide and twenty two miles long, that's five thousand acres of surface water, and it makes it the largest ox bowl lake in North America. The name Chico comes from the French word for stumps, which is what those early explorers called the cypress needs that grow along the bank. Now, I've been tripping over cypress needs my whole life as I poorly navigate and stumble my way through existence. Them a lot of things, and I've heard them called others, and yet none of them were sheicos, which makes me wonder if that's a real French word, because lots of times when others have tripped on them and called them names, they'd follow that up with excuse my French, and none of those remotely rhymed with Chico. But speaking of Sico, it's spelled c hict. And here's a pro tip for you, if you ever find yourself working undercover in Arkansas, the quickest way to let folks know you ain't from the natural state is to pronounce Siko as chicot el dareda as El Dorado and Nevada as Nevada. You're welcome. Now, want some more interesting facts about Lake Chico, Of course you do. Charles Lindbergh took his first night flight over the lake in nineteen twenty three. Now, if you're asking yourself who Charles Lindbergh is, punch yourself from the jaw, then go look up your history teacher and do the same. Now, three hundred and eighty one years before Old Chuck was buzzing around the lake in his airplane. Hernando de Soto, the famed Spanish explorer who was credited with being the first European to cross the Mississippi River, ceased to function as a living Spaniard and was buried near the lake, which was still part of the river. Then, sometime after the internment, Is Paul bearers got together and dug him up and chunked Hernando into the river, hoping to keep up the rules of him being some kind of god, to whom native folks and started to grow suspicious of, especially since it was a little out of character for the great and powerfuls to get sick and die. Anyway, Lake Chico was where me and Wayne Parnell found ourselves at the butt crack of dawn, sliding an aluminum boat from the back of his truck into the water. We had an old and I mean an old nine nine Johnson outboard motor and two paddles that would probably run faster but also required more effort. We could fire that little Johnson up and cruise at top speed while almost creating awake as we cut across the surface and up connerly bow to the spot that reportedly held some big slab crappie that we'd recently heard about. I feel compelled to address this crappy versus crappy pronunciation debate, but do I really need to. They're also called white perch, the pinnacle panfish of old men who wear Dicky's jumpsuits like a uniform wheeled twelve foot jig poles with the dexterity of zoro and guard their favorite jig patterns and fishing spots like the formula for Coca cola. Now, these folks had a coat like falling where I grew up. It's someone going to stand up and say they'd rather catch and eat something crappy as opposed to crappy. I didn't think so, but Hey, if eating something crappy is your thing, I bet you like pecan pie as opposed to pecan. A peacn is what we kept under the bed at my great Grandpa's house. There was an outhouse off the back porch, but that's a different story. Wayne and I weren't crappie fishermen by any means, but we aspired to be. We were going crappie fishing after inadvertently receiving some intel from a couple of those jumpsuit whearing old men we'd heard talking at Carl's One Stop. Carls as everybody called it, was a bait shop that was located on the edge of town in Warren, Arkansas. Mister Carl Savage was the sole proprietor and had been as far as I knew it, right after the mud dried up on the keel of Noah's boat. But while we were in there buying various sundrys to further our outdoor exploits, most notably twenty two shelves and skulld two items we never seemed to have enough of. Back then we overheard some info loose lips, sink ship's papaul and all is fair in Love and War. When we overheard them describe the exact spot they'd caught an ice chest full of slab croppie two days ago, and the color combination of jigs they used. We each made a mental note as we stared bug out each other, like we just solved the mysteries of the Pyramids. I glanced towards where they were holding cord at that coffee table, and on the wall in the wide open for all to sea was a twelve inch by twelve inch card that was full of those colored jig paters. Sweet Jesus, this is going to be too easy. Not only had we overheard where they were fishing, but also what they were fishing with. We added a jigpole and a double handful of those jigs, along with a snuff and twenty two shells, and laughed all the way to the truck. The next morning we would light out before daylight for Lake Shiko and Connerly Bow. It was hot that summer, and in the South when it's hot, it seems like it's double hot on the lake unless you're running around in a bass boat at ninety miles prior or jumping into water every now and then to cool off, and we were doing neither. We were put putting up the bowl to the tune of a motor that sounded a little more like a Singer sewing machine, sweating like we were on a chain gang, and feeling no relief from the heat. I looked at the ice chest setting between us. I realized then that I hadn't thought to bring any water to drink, and we hadn't stopped for ice, and I rushed to get through the hour long drive it took to get to the lake that was no Wuano. I looked back at my pile from the front of the boat, his hand on the tiller, sweat soaking through his t shirt, and asking if he brought anything to drink. A frustrated look came across his face, and he said, man, I forgot the water jug That was also tally one more to the no Buno list. When I opened the sack of snacks that I brought from home, I've been carrying it several times on different oulands of the past few weeks, and thought I'd only eating sparingly from its contents. Staring sadly into that warn and wrinkled sack, I inventoried four cans of sardines, two sleeves of soda crackers. It looked like a saltine jigsaw puzzle. That was gonna be our victuals, along with whatever we bought at the store when we stopped for ice. But for some reason, that store was closed. When we drove by that morning in half a turb fashion, I kicked that ice chest and set before us and heard some cans roll around in it. Ah bingo. We had something to drink. After all, they might be hot sodi waters, but it was gonna be not having anything to drink. It was still early, but the heat was oppressive and I was ready to quench my thirst, and so was Waine. You ready for something to drink? Wayne nodded his head and held out his hand. I opened the ice chest and I saw five Budweiser beer cans that had been rolling around in that ice chest so long that the cans were almost solid silver. Now, if you're keeping score, it's time to chalk up another. That's no bueno. I looked at Wayne and said, whose ice chest is this? He said, I don't know. I got out of the back of your truck. Now that might sound strange to some, but believe me, at this juncture of my existence, I wasn't fully vaccinated against high jinks and poor decision making. I do not condone or promote these actions to adults, much less nineteen year old hooligans who may or may not have occasionally patronized one of the local bootleggers. But at of social gathering the night before our fishing trip, someone had traded ice chest with me. I must confess that mine also held a quantity of adult beverages. And while in the eyes of the law, I wasn't looked upon as being an adult, it seems I also went out of my way not to act like one. But the ice chests also had some cold drinks in it that weren't manufactured in Milwaukee, and that's what we've planned on having with us on the lake that day, along with the water jug that Waite forgot. So there we were hot, thirsty, and hungry, and the only remedy of being ninety four degree room temperature red rocket budweisers, fish from a can, and crackers that had been abused to the point of looking more like corn meal. Mister Leon, an old veteran i've talked about many times, told me about being so thirsty in World War Two that he drank from a mudhole on the island of Saipan that had wiggletail swimming around in it. Now, I've never experienced that kind of thirst, but right then I felt like I was as thirsty as I'd ever been in my life. It was horrible and delicious at the same time. Horrible that we were eating the sardines to wash the hot beer taste out of our mouths, and delicious in the sense that we at least felt like we were hydrating ourselves, when in reality we were doing the exact opposite. Doing the exact opposite of the correct thing to do would be a template I'd occasionally struggled with in the coming years, but I never went fishing again without making sure I had a water jug. Speaking of the fishing, we didn't catch a fish, not one. We suffered through the hot beer, sardines and cracker crumbs, and lost nearly every jig we'd bought it. Carls fishing in a submerged tree top that was stealing jigs from us faster than we could drop them in there, Wayne wound up breaking his jig pole. We'd suffered greatly and then never caught a fish. We went home defeated. Two or three years later, I was telling my dad that story while he and I were fishing one day. He started laughing and he said, out there, I'll never forget it, you big dummy. Those old men tricked y'all into buying all that stuff. How many folks do you know to talk out loud about where they're catching crappee down to the exact specific place they were, And if those jigs were so good, I come to mold men hadn't done bottlem all. I thought about what he was saying as he said it, and it became crystal clear that he was right. That was thirty eight years ago, and I'm sure those old fellows have passed on long ago. I'm also sure they got a big kick out of that, even though they didn't know the full measure of our folly. Now, had they known, they might have felt sorry for us and taking us with them one day. Probably not, but but they got us, and that's just how that happened. When I'm hunting and fishing, I'm usually hunting and fishing for something to eat. That's part of the drive that makes me want to leave the house before breakfast for just about everything I chase except coons. Now that's an endeavor that starts after supper and when it gets dark and the night creatures begin to stir. I also don't shoot every coon we tree, or eat every coon I do shoot. But you can bet, though, if I knock one out of that tree to get his hide, that someone will benefit from that neked coon. I know lots of folks that like to eat them, and I'm included in that group. And back in January, I was at an event where me and a gymnasium full of like minded souls did our best to erect nine hundred pounds of smoke bandidos. I even shot a small video on my Instagram of how I cooked one myself a couple of weeks ago, So check that out af you interested. Now, that's a cooking only video, not a meat cleaning video. There are four glands that had to be removed before cooking one, and I'm going to video that pretty soon. But unless you're toting to skillet and some grease with you, you're probably stowing some snackerls in your pocket for when the hunger panes hit later on there's always some go tos like jerky and fruit and granola and trail mix and such, but my experience has always been somewhat limited to either homemade ham and sausage, biscuits, blowny sandwiches, or what was a staple at our house when you didn't have time to make something better, and that was crackers and cans of beanie weenies, potted meat and veiny sausages. I know, I know, I didn't say Vienna. Well, long before I had any idea there was such a place as Austria, much less Vienna, those little round cans of meat and goodness were referenced as vain of sausages. I don't know what the problem is. It says it right there on the can in a Viena, and even with it so clearly defined and printed on the label, the folks in my circles have managed to further my line that pronunciation to Vaeni. Anyway, There's other things to consider as well when you pokeing some grub in your pockets before hitting the woods, like environmental factors hot and cold can have more than a preservative influence on what you plan to eat later. On a case in point references a can of Vaenis. Many moons ago, Me, my brother Tim, and Andy Johnson, the Pride of Dallas County, Arkansas, were duck hunting in the Saline River Botts. It was cold, and we'd had a pretty good born of shooting ducks in the flooded timber when the mid morning loll rolled in. Now you duck hunters know what I'm talking about. The initial early morning flights peter out and there's a break into action for a little bit, and that's when the folks start hitting the bushes and some coffee loose mess with the decoys or start scrounging around looking for something to eat. I asked Andy if he was hungry. He said he was about to starve slap to death. But also he didn't bring anything. No worries, mate, we got you covered. I hollered at him to check the grub box in the boat. The grub box was an old Army surplus fifty caliber AMMO can that had a locking waterproof lid. He walked over and dug around a minute or two, and then chunk me two kins of ayanies in rapid succession. I cracked one open with some cold hands, revealing the little nubs of meat, bathing tastefully and clear, gelatinous gobs of goo. And I hanted Andy the can, and he handed it right back. And I said I thought she was hungry. He said, I am. I said, you don't like vainies. He said, I ain't never been bad about eating anything? What had salve on it? Too bad? Andy more for me and Timmy. So was Andy really hungry? I dare say he wasn't. My buddy Michael Roseman turns his nose up at potted meat. He also won't eat coon or drink coffee, but he loves squirrels. There's just no accounting for tastes, as the saying goes, Speaking of taste, what about them veinies and potted meat? What is the flavor? Now? They're both made from chicken, pork, and beef, But to me, they don't taste like any of them specifically. The taste is uniquely their own. And if you eat a large portion of them over a long period of time, you'll get to see what anesthesia tastes like. When they do you hart bypass. Apparently the goodness found in those little meat sticks of clavered goodness is baked with more fat than protein, so you better off to partake only in moderation, and on those special occasions like tonight when Michael and I hit the woods with our four legged coon haters, I'm bringing the snacks. My baby girl, Bailey loves the snack when we're hunting, and I think one of her favorite parts of the hunt is planning and stocking up before we start. That's always her job. We were talking about the subject of this podcast on the way to school this morning and I asked her what her favorite hunt snack was EM and M's and doctor pepper was her immediate response, But before we'd gone a mile that had shifted to peanut butter crackers, before settling in on Cheeto puffs. The only constant was the Dr Pepper, probably because she's only allowed one of those a week. But you know, that's something else that can involve the little ones, especially if they're just going to observe and not actually pulling the trigger. And that's getting all the groceries ready for you to go. Sometimes the night before we'll make sandwiches or make some biscuits and sauces together, and I let her do most of the preparation. It gets them involved and includes them in the experience. When my son Hunter was big enough to go with me until he left home, sometimes we'd hunt all day, even if we were close to home, we'd get down and walk back to the spot where we parked and built a fire and cooked deer birger with potatoes and onions and luminou fold and the coals of the fire. It adds another element to the experience of sharing a meal or even just a snack. Remember the grub box that was an old army Ammo cane. Well, my brother Tim and I used to put sleeves and crackers and cans of goodies in them, several of them, everything that I've talked about here, including smoked oysters and sardines, and we'd bear them in various places before turkey season started while we scouted around through the bottoms. Then when we found ourselves in a particular place that had one of our food cashes weeks later and us in need of a little snack, we'd dig it up and eat. It was fun and on the hunch that we didn't kill a turkey, but got hungry enough to go find one of the grub boxes we'd hidden throughout the woods, and I remember those just as fondly as the ones were we did toe the turkey home. I can't count the times I've taken just a thermis of coffee in an apple and sat on the side of the Little Red River while fly fishing with Frenzen just enjoyed the conversation and the peace and quiet of the rolling river. Man, it'll feed your souls just as well as it'll feed your billy. It's not so much what you're eating that's imported, but who you're eating it with. And the best part, especially with kids, is you don't have to be hunting or fishing, just plenty of time to take a hike, riding a boat, whatever, pack some groceries of any kind, and go make an outing of it and eating the woods. It never ceases to amaze me how much better a hot dog taste cooked over a fire the further you are from home, not aught about do it. I hope you've enjoyed it, and I hope you'll get out with someone you don't mind sharing a can of by any with and add an additional element to your experience to be surprised as time goes by, how many of those times, Man, until next week. This is Brent Reeve signing off. Y'all be careful.