Hung up on and in the Great Outdoors

Trying to get off Elkhorn Mountain. Front row from left - Danny Dickman, Ellis Floyd, and Greg Stephens

There’s a rule at our house – no video games during weekdays. And, on the weekends, we try to do various family functions, outdoor activities, and chores. The idea is to limit exposure to the TV and video trap. The kids think we’re on some demented power trip designed to make their lives miserable. I mean gosh, according to them, all their friends are doing it. The way I see it, if a child is going to get hooked on something, they may as well develop a passion for something that can provide enjoyment, lessons, adventure, and even sustenance for a lifetime, and all while simultaneously participating within the fabric of Mother Nature and mankind’s society. I remember, before the days of video games, getting my first taste of freedom, being set loose to explore the creeks, fields, and woods of southern Missouri. I would leave the house with fishing pole or .22 rifle in hand, and as far as I could explore in half a day was my only boundary. I was definitely hung-up on anything in the Great Outdoors.

When my friends and I reached driving age, we discovered a euphoric rite of passage in our new found freedom out from under the watchful eyes of mom and dad. However, there were limitations from parents in our new found freedom - that is until it came to hunting and fishing. As long as our parents knew we were in the woods, at the farm, or on the river and not running around town, the scrutiny of our actions was less severe. So, as we were exercising our new freedoms, we were also discovering our great passion for all things outdoors. We were also discovering that for some of us getting hung-up in the outdoors was just as exciting as getting hung-up on the outdoors. Enter my outdoor companion, Ellis Floyd.

Together, Ellis and I have been stuck more times than I care to remember. And not just stuck but buried. You see, there are some folks that are just good at it. Ellis and I are two such people. When we were younger we actually enjoyed the adventure of getting hung-up in the outdoors. Dad used to shake his head and say, “You boys will grow out of that someday.” But it just seemed like every time we went hunting or fishing, the truck, dune buggy, or 544 John Deere, 4-wheel-drive forklift always got stuck. I mean, haven’t we all taken our parent’s 544 John Deere, 4-wheel-drive forklift from the family sawmill down through the field while rabbit hunting and buried it up to the axels in the soft mud? And you, like us, probably spent all night using a two hundred foot cable and chains tied to the forks to move the forklift a foot at a time across the field by raising the hydraulics up and down. And I’m sure in August when your dad discovered the 75-yard long, 5-foot deep dried up ruts in the middle of the field he wasn’t too happy either. I mean, we’ve all done that, right?

Preparing to dig out the Bronco. Danny Dickman standing on the Bronco in a Colorado mountain mud hole

And then there was the time we were out playing on the 3-wheeler and my dune buggy. I had been all over the farm with the dune buggy and that thing would go anywhere. It was so light it didn’t sink in the mud and the back tread would really get traction. I made the mistake of commenting to Ellis, “You can’t get this thing stuck.” I, of course, should have included the words, ‘within reason’, but when it came to getting stuck there was nothing about Ellis that was ‘within reason.’ We then traded, I took the three-wheeler and Ellis and Randy took the dune buggy and we went our separate ways. Hours later, it was getting dark and I was getting worried so I decided I should start looking for them. Just as I started looking I came upon them walking - a bad sign. When I pulled up beside them they were wet, muddy, and laughing hysterically…another bad sign. As Ellis stood there crying with laughter all I could make out were the words, “stuck,…..pond!” This was really a bad sign. I took off on the 3-wheeler straight for the pond. As I approached the dam I could see the tracks going up and over. As I topped the pond dam I thought to myself, “I stand corrected.” The dune buggy was definitely stuck…and sunk—in the middle of the pond! He was good.

Ellis got so good he took the show on the road. Twice while elk hunting in Colorado we managed to bury the rigs in unbelievable predicaments. Once, while out scouting the night before opening day, just before dark Ellis buried the Bronco in a mud hole heading down hill! To add insult to injury it was 5 miles from camp! Five of us walked the five miles out of the mountains back to camp in the pitch black of night. Another time we headed out for a pleasant evening drive over Elkhorn Mountain that turned into an all- night expedition on a road that had 18 inches of new snow and would have been a challenge for an army half-track without the snow, let alone 4 mostly stock 4-wheel drives! We left on the ride at 4 pm and got back to camp at 10 am the next morning. If we hadn’t taken a winch, we would still be there today! At this point in our lives I can look at Ellis and see in his face if we are going to get hung-up in the Great Outdoors before we even leave the house!

Its funny how many of our parent’s lessons aren’t understood until 25 years later. Twenty-five years later I now know dad was right, I have outgrown the enjoyment of getting hung-up in the Great Outdoors but I am still firmly hung up on the Great Outdoors. And we, like our parents, will give our kids freedom to explore and discover great adventure, getting hung-up on and in the Great Outdoors. Twenty-five years from now they will know that limiting their time on those video games wasn’t the end of the world. I’m just glad I don’t have a 544 John Deere forklift! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Camping – An Outdoorsman’s Home Away From Home

Camping is exciting in all seasons and for all ages. Natalie Floyd and Alex Stephens, Deer camp in the Ozarks

New Year’s Camp, spring turkey camp, fishing camp, Memorial weekend camp, 4th of July camp, Labor Day weekend camp, bow camp, trappers rendezvous camp, fall turkey camp, deer camp, whew, why do I even own a house? We camp almost as much as we are at home. I would rather sleep in a tent in the outdoors on a crisp, cool night than any house in which I’ve ever lived. There’s just something about lying down in the Great Outdoors that brings out the adventurer in an outdoorsman. It is also a great way to introduce the kids to the great outdoors. For a child camping is an adventure of the greatest degree. And for an adult, if you challenge yourself, camping in certain environments is still a true adventure for the wanderlust outdoor soul.

For our family the seasons and the environment dictate what sort of camping we do. If it’s above 65° F all night long, for me, it’s time for a camper with AC. It seems I am an oddity according to my wife. I want a camper in the summer and a tent the rest of the year. When I sleep I prefer it at least cool if not down right cold. The best sleeping I’ve ever done was in a tent with lots of warm covers where you could see your breath when you exhaled. Therefore, for our Memorial weekend camp through Labor Day weekend camp, we use a camper with AC. It is also nice to have a place for the family to play games and cook away from the bugs and heat. During these times of the year fishing is generally the activity of choice.

On the other hand, cool or cold, crisp nights – fall, winter, or spring, in my opinion, are the best times to tent camp. Stepping out of your army tent at 9,000 feet of elevation in Colorado and getting hit in the face with a 5 below zero breeze, now that’s camping! You walk around holding a tin cup of coffee to keep your hands warm. It is absolutely exhilarating. Then, at night, you get ready for bed and jump into your sleeping bag and vigorously rub your legs and arms to ease the goosebumps as you wait for the bag to warm up. After the edge of coldness has subsided, you watch the old barrel wood stove glow orange as it huffs along like a steam locomotive heading down the tracks. From the ground to a few feet high you lie there and can see your breath and then when you stand up its 75° F or more all the way to the top of the tent! Tent camping in the high country winter wilderness is an exciting and rewarding challenge for any outdoorsman. The lessons learned are of great value for anyone who wants to learn cold-weather camping like the mountain men of old.

I learned one such lesson back in the mid 1980’s while deer camping at Ft. Leonard Wood. Charlie Pace, my father, and me were camped in a borrowed tent with a borrowed catalytic heater. Before season Charlie had treated the tent several times with Thompson’s Water Sealer so if it rained we would stay dry. Opening day found us leaving camp before light and returning to camp after dark. As we drove up to camp I wheeled the truck to where I thought our camp had been and stopped the truck. Dad said, “Hey moron, where’s our tent? You’ve stopped at the wrong camp.”

I quickly surveyed the spot. All the same campers belonging to our camp cohorts were there. It was just our tent that was missing. Just about that time the military police pulled in behind us and I saw a large black spot on the ground with some aluminum poles scattered around half buried in ash. “Dad,” I said, “We’re in the right camp but our tent isn’t with us anymore.”

It was completely gone! During the day some of the hunters had come in for lunch and put their trash in the campfire. The trash had caught the grass on fire and it had burned over to the tent. The hunters camped beside our camp told us the tent was gone in 30 seconds! They had just barely had enough time to put out the fire under some of the camper trailers in our camp. Our hunting clothes, sleeping bags, extra boots, and the borrowed heater were all gone. An MP walked up and handed me a knife with a charred sheath my grandmother had given me for Christmas. “This was all we could salvage,” he said. “What did you guys have on that tent anyway?” I sure was glad it was Charlie that had borrowed that tent and heater and not me!

This year, if you’re looking for a great Memorial weekend with the kids or friends, try camping in the Great Outdoors. You never know, you might even learn a lesson or two that will stick with you for life. Lesson to self – don’t treat tents with commercial water sealer. If it catches fire you won’t put it out! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Rookies, Mentors, and Legends

Trapping mentor and Ozark trapping legend, Kenny Wells on the Current River.

They say a child’s attention span is equal in minutes to their age in years. After this past spring turkey season I would say that estimate is way too generous. As I sat under a tree turkey hunting with my 6 year old son Coleman sitting between my legs, I began to wonder about what his young life held in store for him. I thought of my own journey through life and who helped shape the course that has put me where I am today. Today on the subject of raising children apparently there is a book that advances the notion that it ‘takes the village’ to raise a child. Hogwash I say. It takes a good set of parents who have the good judgment to expose a child to the right influences. ‘The village’ of today’s pop culture is not any village that the folks from the hills would have raise their children! I thank God every day for the role models and mentors to whom I was introduced and from whom I took heed. For Coleman, as I watched him set there between my legs and begin to fidget after barely two minutes, I hoped that I was able to do as good a job for him as my parents had done for me.

As for a child and mentors and role models in the outdoors, Dad started me fishing around 4 to 5 years old. From that time on, every time he set out on a fishing trip I cried to go along. At 6 years old, having just learned to fish the year before, I felt I was entitled to go with him and the guys on the annual pilgrimage to Toledo Bend, Texas to bass fish on the legendary lake. I was sadly mistaken! I cried for the first two days they were gone. Today what strikes me as the important issue is the urgency with which I wanted to go along. And, it wasn’t just the fishing, rather, it was fishing with Dad that I wanted to do so desperately. He was my role model and I wanted to be just like him. Don’t get me wrong, he made mistakes, as we all do but now in my forties I understand he did a tremendous amount right. Just as my father had been for me, it was now time for me to be a mentor and role model in the outdoors for my six year old son Coleman, who was now stretching his arms straight up in the air and yawning as he sat between my legs. He said, “Dad, I’m tired and I can’t sleep here. I’m ready to go home.” It had been about three minutes since we sat down. It was beginning to look like Coleman was going to be a difficult case!

As Coleman settled down once again I again drifted off thinking of others who have had an effect on my outdoor life. I believe from the influences of your mother and father you also develop a keen sixth sense of judgment about people’s character and values. Some years after being firmly established in the Ozark ways of hunting and fishing by my father and his many friends, I became acquainted with a true Ozark trapping legend, Kenny Wells, who took me under his wing and taught me the ways of the Ozark mountain men free trappers of years gone by. In true Missouri mountain man form, his actions are a testament to his character and values. During the 1980’s in a hard fought federal court battle, through Kenny’s hard work on behalf of trappers statewide, on the Current River trapping was solidified as an original activity covered by the law establishing the Ozark National Scenic Riverways. Through his dedication to trapping, the 9th District of the Missouri Trappers Association was formed. Through his hope for the future of young people in the outdoors, he has volunteered and taught many the art of fur trapping. Just about the time Coleman started looking around and fidgeting again I remember thinking that these were the hard-nosed, ambitious, and forward thinking traits of an Ozark mountain man that I hoped to instill in my boys.

Rookies - Brothers Alex and Coleman Stephens. Kids who hunt, fish, and trap don’t mug little old ladies.

At that moment Colman’s body went rigid. He was staring at his arm and he exclaimed, “tick, Tick, TICK!” We had been there for five minutes. My son Alex was sitting about 15 feet away and he broke out laughing just about the time I was getting irritated and told Coleman that we don’t talk out loud and freak out over a tick in the turkey woods. Then, because of his brother laughing, Coleman started laughing, and as hard as I tried to put on a stern face, I finally burst out laughing too! After we finally calmed down Coleman let out a big sigh and said, “Dad, you sit here and call for the turkeys. I’m going to walk back in the woods and look for flowers. When the turkeys get close, call me and I’ll come back over here.” I now think mentoring Coleman might take longer than I had anticipated! However, it’s a task that a father looks forward to with great anticipation. I hope you decide to be a role model and mentor for a young person, you never know, it might be one of the greatest influences in their lives. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Ozarks Creek Fishin’

Young kids and fishing - the foundation for a lifetime of memories.

Some of my most exciting outdoor adventures were as a very young boy, Zebco 303 rod and reel in hand, being set free on Hyer Branch creek at Lake Spring, Missouri. Chiggers, ticks, and snakes were but a moment’s pause before advancing head on into the great fishing unknown. I imagined this unexplored creek surely held world record small-mouth bass and pan fish the size of a 16” cast iron skillet. For bait there were two jars – one filled with worms dug from the old garden spot and the other filled with grasshoppers caught in the hayfield. Six pound test line and a red and white bobber was just the ticket for great fishing action. An old perforated galvanized minnow bucket with a hinged round lid on top served as a live well. Man, I thought I was outfitted better than Marlin Perkins on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom during a fishing trip to the Amazon!

As I got older and had access to my own transportation, many other local creeks familiar to me held that same allure for fishing adventure. Spring Creek, Hutchins Creek, Ashley Creek and many more, it seemed that every valley held another potential hidden fishing bonanza. Smallmouth bass became the quarry of choice. Everyone to whom you talked told stories of the elusive 4 pound monster that hid in this pool and that pool. Each fisherman told how they had seen it or ‘had it on’ for a moment before the line snapped. Each story held a ‘treasure map’ of how to get there and every opportunity found my friends and me following the patchwork directions to the pool that held the big one that got away. Such was the life of a wanderlust-filled adolescent fishing fanatic of the 1970’s and 1980’s.

It’s amazing the things you learn about your buddies while fishing. About the age of 17, I was fishing for the first time with my friend Scott Duncan. Scott and I were fishing Dry Fork Creek in rural Dent County at the old iron bridge. We had been fishing for a while and had not yet caught any fish when Scott hooked a good one. After an exciting fight Scott finally landed a very respectable 3 to 3.5 pound smallmouth. I commented on how nice the fish was and Scott threw a little of the typical competitive fisherman trash talk my way. I didn’t think a thing about it and kept on fishing while hoping my luck would be so good as well. After what seemed like several minutes I noticed that I hadn’t heard Scott stringer the fish or cast his rod back in the water. I was also getting a strange feeling that something was watching me. Being the One-Eyed Hillbilly that I am, I turned my head toward my blind side and…WOW! There was his bass dangling there beside my head! I turned to investigate and Scott was holding his rod from behind me and allowing his fish to hang right beside my face. “I don’t touch those nasty things!” he told me. He was waiting patiently for me to take his fish off the hook! Now if that doesn’t beat all - a guy that catches a fish, trash talks you, and then expects you to take his fish off the hook!

Today I still love to walk the hundreds of creeks in rural Southern Missouri searching for trophy smallmouth bass. I have evolved my equipment and bait compared to years ago. I now use a spin cast reel with 6 pound test line, a medium-heavy rod, and a small jig-and-frog rig for bait (not sure it catches any more or bigger fish than the Zebco 303 with worms but it sure looks good!). This is effective for everything from large sunfish and goggle-eye to smallmouth and largemouth.

Smallmouth season in Missouri starts on Saturday, May 22 and extends through February 28, 2011. If you are looking to rekindle a little of the youthful fishing wanderlust of your younger days try heading up an old long-forgotten creek in Southern Missouri. More importantly, take a young child with you who hasn’t got to experience those same fishing adventures that you and I have experienced. As the old saying goes, “Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime.” That is true for both physical and mental nourishment. And who knows, you might stumble onto a hole that holds a hawg! So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

The Mysterious Morel

Few other secrets in nature bring out the territorial instincts of an outdoorsman as asking him about where his favorite mushroom hunting grounds are located. If he offers to take you with him mushroom hunting he is either taking you to unexplored territory and he wants to employ another set of eyes or you are in the inner circle of the tight-lipped and trusted hunting buddies who would never reveal the location of his secret mushroom beds. Either way, it is an exciting hunting trip that can produce some of the most delicious morsels that Mother Nature has to offer. For me personally, morels are the only things that can derail a spring turkey hunt right in the middle of the chase.

Many years ago my son Jason and I were quickly sneaking down an old fence-line while spring turkey hunting. We had heard some turkeys and Jason wanted me to call one in for him. As we slipped along the fence I was moving at a fairly quick pace trying to find a spot from which to call. As I slipped along I was glancing here and there. All of a sudden something subconsciously triggered in my mind. I was not looking at it but I realized I had walked right past a large morel mushroom. I stood straight up and stopped in my tracks. Jason said, “What’s wrong? Do you see a turkey?” I didn’t say a word but immediately backed up and started looking at all the places along the fence that I had just passed. Then I found it and man was it a nice one. As I zoned in on the area I realized there were several right there in front of us. I dropped everything and started picking mushrooms. Jason stared on in complete disbelief.

Jason said, “There are turkeys gobbling and you are picking mushrooms? You have got to be kidding me!” I didn’t say a word but just kept picking. He urgently kept on whispering some mumbo jumbo and I kept on ignoring him until he said something a little more urgently than before. “There are turkeys right in front of us!” Ok, now I started paying attention. Sure enough, about fifty yards in front of us a group of young gobblers had been coming to the calling we had done before finding the mushrooms. I had been in the mushroom zone and hadn’t been listening. With hands and pockets full of morels I dropped to the ground right under the fence and began calling. Jason sat down in his tracks. Within 5 minutes the turkeys were twenty steps out and Jason laid into one. Jackpot! Now that was a hunting trip to remember – mushrooms and turkeys, what a combination!

Morel appearance is influenced by weather more than any other factor. Ground temperature, air temperature, and ground moisture are the main factors. Warm spring days with highs in the 60’s to 70’s and ground temperatures in the 50’s to 60’s are ideal conditions. Morels are found in many areas but there are some places more productive than others. Under certain types of trees, such as elm, ash, sycamore, and apples trees, there are great opportunities. There is a ‘look’ that goes with ideal morel hotspots. After you learn the ‘look’, as you walk through the woods you instinctively lock-up and survey the area. As you get more adept to the experience you will spend much less time hunting and more time finding mushrooms. To help you identify the many different types of trees I suggest you visit a local Missouri Department of Conservation Office and pick up some the various publications available to the public. A personal favorite spot for me is a well drained but moist area containing dead and dying elm trees with bark slipping from the tree trunks and amassing on the ground around the base of the tree. If there are some clumps of green grass growing in the leaves or moss growing on surrounding rocks, all the better. This describes an area with the ‘look’ of a morel hotspot.

After mastering morel hunting, next comes morel cooking. My favorite two ways to fix morels are the old reliable egg and flour battered and fried in butter in a cast iron skillet and cooked in wine sauce. Morels cooked in wine sauce and served with a thick ribeye steak fresh from the grill is second to none! For more delicious morel recipes and morel hunting information, visit The Great Morel website at thegreatmorel.com . There is more information on the web about this wonderful pastime than you would ever imagine.

Morel hunting is an opportunity for the whole family to learn tree identification, mushroom identification, and outdoor savvy. You can start a young outdoorsman on the path of living within the boundaries of Mother Nature’s Economy while spending valuable time with your children and grandchildren. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Link - thegreatmorel.com

Turkey Hunting Humble Pie

I’ve had turkey fixed about every way you can fix it. It’s all good,… except one way – a big heaping helping of turkey hunting humble pie. I hate that stuff! This past weekend during youth season we had it all covered – new ground blind, all varieties of turkey calls, great looking decoys, and a great place to hunt. The turkeys, however, weren’t let in on the plan. They did not cooperate…or they cooperated too well, depending on your point of view.

My cousin, Lance, and his 8 year old daughter, Lydia, hunted with my son Alex and me at our farm for the youth turkey season weekend. Our camper was set up beside the old farmhouse. We had all the camp necessities – hot dogs, soda, candy, and chips. We had all the right equipment – ipods, cell phones, hand held movie players…(I don’t know the correct name for these things…PS2 player maybe?), anyway, they kids were ready to go.

The night before opening morning, after a 10:30 pm camp hot dog, we went out to set up the ground blind in the pitch black of night in the food plot next to the turkeys we had roosted. Opening morning found us all four in the blind at the first crack of light. We heard several gobblers gobbling from the roost; however they weren’t as close as we had thought. After approximately an hour of calling, it was decided that Alex and I would take a trip to the other side of the farm. That is when the ingredients of the turkey hunting humble pie began to come together. Just as we made it to the road leading from the food plot, a large gobbler hidden in the brush in the opposite corner of the food plot, decided to bug-out. He had been coming to our calling but hadn’t made a peep in return. That disgusted, sick feeling crept over me. Sometimes in turkey hunting one chance is all you get.

After getting to the other side of the farm Alex and I, in one of our favorite ambush sites, crouched down to call without putting out the decoys and locating ourselves in good tactical positions…turkey hunting tip #1 - NEVER call without expecting a turkey to answer right on top of you. This was the second ingredient of the bitter turkey hunting humble pie recipe. As we were standing in the corner of a field, up on a knoll in the wide-open woods, a gobbler answered not 75 yards from where we were standing. We immediately dropped to the ground. Alex was between my legs and we were sitting with no backrest in the middle of a briar patch. The gobbler flipped on his gobble switch and it was stuck on ‘gobble’. As he was coming in and answering our every call, we could hear him walking in the leaves just under the knoll on which we were located. Just then, in the distance we began hearing a helicopter. As the helicopter got closer and closer it also got louder and louder and the gobbler shut up, or we just couldn’t hear him over the noise. It flew directly over our heads just a couple hundred feet off the ground. It felt as though the ground was shaking!

After the ground finally stopped moving and the noise subsided there was no sign of our gobbler. A few minutes went by but we still could not hear him walking or gobbling (…maybe because our ears were ringing…). After a few more minutes of sitting up without a backrest and Alex leaning on me, my back began to scream. Then Alex whispered, “Dad, there he is!” As I looked frantically down the fence from where he had previously been coming I asked, “Where? I don’t see him.” As only fate would have it, the crazy thing was on my blind side (One-Eyed Hillbilly), directly to our right, forty yards from us! We were pointed in the wrong direction, sitting with no backrest, standing out like a sore thumb, and with no way to move. The gobbler began clucking and walking directly away from us. Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. This turkey hunting humble pie was being force fed with helicopters.

The final ingredient to our weekend recipe of turkey hunting humble pie came the second morning. Again, we had roosted the turkeys, again we had a battle plan, and again we were ready to get started. Nothing would stop us today…until Alex, as he sat there in the camper on the edge of his bed getting dressed said, “I hear a turkey gobbling.” I told him he was crazy. It was 5:30 am and he was still in the camper. If he heard a turkey gobbling it would have to be within 75 yards of the old farmhouse and camper. I opened up the door to the camper and “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOOBLE!” There were two turkeys roosted within 75 yards of the house! We immediately began bumbling and falling all over each other in a mad rush to get dressed! The turkeys were so close that we didn’t know how we could get out of the camper without being seen.

First thought would be to think that this was a stroke of good luck; however it was actually the third and last ingredient in the humble pie. First of all our carefully crafted battle plan for the two groups of hunters for the day had to be scrapped. Second, we had no prior knowledge of the roosted birds so close to the house and thus, no good plans and tactics for taking advantage of the situation. With campers, houses, tractors, trucks, barns, and well houses blocking every route, there was no good approach for this unforeseen opportunity. We had to sneak through the farmhouse back yard, through the woods, and over to the trail leading to the food plot and set up our decoys. The two gobblers were gobbling about every thirty seconds. I heard one fly down and gobble on the ground. Then, just as I had suspected, the two turkeys retreated directly away from the direction of all the structures, roads, and vehicles, gobbling the whole time as they went. They wanted the hen we were representing to follow them however they weren’t about to come toward us. It was a bitter lesson in futility. Humble pie served up cold and dry.

With youth season over we now will place all our hopes in the Missouri regular turkey season, Monday, April 19 – Sunday, May 7. My youngest son, Coleman is turning 6 years old on April 12, so he will be in the ground blind with us. I hope he is a good luck charm since Alex and I can’t stomach any more turkey hunting humble pie. I hope you get the opportunity to take a child to the woods this turkey season. Even when eating humble pie it is one of the most enjoyable experiences of which you will ever be a part. It is also an experience to set a child in motion down the path of a rewarding life in the Great Outdoors. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

Crossing Fences

In Missouri, prior to 1969 the law of the land regarding fencing was “open range.” Open range meant it was the landowners responsibility to “fence out” neighboring livestock. Livestock, like wildlife, had free range of the land. That all changed in 1969 when the laws changed to “closed range.” Thank goodness the livestock these days are more educated and understand boundaries, since the livestock owner has to “fence in” their livestock and livestock are not allowed outside those fences. I never had that much appreciation for how educated our Missouri livestock was until I grew up in the outdoors crossing fences. Over the course of forty years it is amazing how much you can learn from such a small and seemingly inconsequential action as crossing, or not crossing, a fence. And the cattle have it figured out.

The first lesson about crossing fences took me well over thirty years to learn and I still forget it occasionally. I experienced déjà vu as I recognized the question and tone that my wife used was identical to that used by my mother for years while doing my laundry and I finally put it all together. From the time I was a young boy up until, umm… last year,… from the laundry room came that same incredulous, distressed, and disgusted voice questioning why I had worn my good pants out in the woods. When crossing a fence, if you are wearing new britches they will rip every time. That is a law written by the fence gods. Take it to the bank.

The second lesson about crossing fences is that hunting dogs and their quarry are color blind and they aren’t as smart as livestock. Either that or they just don’t care about boundaries. Trusting hunting dogs on property boundaries is like trusting the government on international borders – someone is always on the wrong side. Also, all those purple trees aren’t the result of vandals with bad taste in paint color. Apparently, every hunting dog I’ve ever hunted behind was color blind. If you are in the middle of pubic hunting ground and your blue tick strikes, you can bet that the coon and the dog will make a bee-line for the nearest private fence or pretty purple trees, especially if the landowner doesn’t want you there. It’s aggravating when a fella pays big dollars for a top notch hunting dog and it isn’t even as smart as Ol’ Bessie the cow. It’s also really embarrassing when the dog trees in the landowners backyard. Truth be known, I think the coons, coyotes, foxes, and rabbits know the rules but try to frame our hunting dogs. I’ve heard deer do the same thing….

Next lesson - fences will make a liar out of your dad. If you are under 12 years old, ask the Old Man if he can do a forward flip and land on his feet while decked out in his turkey hunting garb. He will tell you, “no way.” Next, begin working a turkey with an old, barely visible, knee-high fence about twenty steps out in front of you. Now, don’t tell the Old Man there is a fence out there. At forty steps, as he shoots the turkey out from under you while it was coming right to you, he will jump up and run like a mad man for the bird. Just about the time he gets to the knee-high fence he will perform the most amazing acrobatic front flip you have ever seen. The judges would all hold up the perfect “10” card if it weren’t for him loosing his shotgun in mid-air and bouncing his butt off the ground on the landing. It’s probably a good idea to go to the bathroom before going on this hunting trip because you will pee your pants after watching him flip and then from the laundry room you will hear that same incredulous, distressed, and disgusted voice.

The final and most shocking fence crossing lesson is learned while hunting during a thunderstorm and crossing the fence. With a bright flash, somewhere up the fence line lightening hits the fence and all the water on the fence raises straight up in the air like a Star Wars force field rising from a space ship. And, as you straddle the fence while holding the top wire down with your hands, you won’t be able to get off the fence. Trust me on this. Despite time going into slow motion and the electricity violently surging through your hands and arms, strangely enough you are still able to think fairly clearly. You remember the many times you have been stung by 110 volts from a house outlet and you compare that experience to touching your tongue to a 9 volt battery as compared to Mother Nature’s current lightening example. Finally, your quick thinking uncle realizes what is going on, lowers his shoulder, and hits you like a middle linebacker, knocking you off the fence with a bone crushing tackle. To add insult to injury, as your uncle lands on top of you, you crush your father’s prize turkey box call between your hip and the ground on the other side of the fence.

These are some of the many lessons learned when crossing fences in the Ozarks. So, as a landowner, when considering our boundaries and in the interest of the good neighbor policy, during fall hunting season it is sometimes prudent to remember hunting dogs and their quarry don’t understand fences and purple paint. On the other hand, this spring while turkey hunting, when contemplating crossing fences it is sometimes wise to take a lesson from our educated livestock friends and don’t do it, especially if you are color blind, wearing new britches, and hunting in a thunderstorm. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.