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.

An Itchin’ for Huntin’ and Fishin’

Worth its weight in gold! Jewel weed will prevent the rash associated with exposure to poison ivy

After finally thawing from the deepfreeze of winter, the dirty melting snow piles of late February and March have lost the appeal of the earlier brilliant white beauty of the first snowfalls of early winter and an outdoorsman turns his attention to the warm breezes of spring. Since the time I was a little boy I always remember earnestly wishing and waiting for the final cold days of late winter to pass so that those warm spring breezes would usher in warmer water and ground temperatures for fishing and mushroom hunting in early April and then, with the spring blossoms, the thundering gobbles of spring turkeys in late April and May. Every year since I began getting out into the spring woods in the early 1970’s these wonderful trips afield have had but one drawback. That drawback is an outdoorsman’s most miserable nightmare. It is an evil that has sent me to the hospital on numerous occasions. It seeks you out like a carnivore hunting its prey. Snakes, creepy-crawlies, ticks, bugs, you ask? No, much, much worse. It is the green devil poison ivy.

If there is a patch of poison ivy within five miles of me and I have a square inch of exposed skin, it is a law of nature that I will seek out and sit right in the middle of this curse of spring foliage. The evil resin that this demonic plant secretes in the spring and early summer will line up on my one square inch of exposed skin like a low-hanging branch on your new $5.00 fishing lure. And oh man will it catch you! Faster than a gobbler running from an unintentional squawk from a new mouth-call, this curse will travel to every spot on your body that rubs against another part of your body. At your inner elbows, behind your knees, between you toes and fingers, arm pits, and worse places, it will blossom like a blister from a Coleman lantern burn, but it is much more unpleasant. For me poison ivy is proof that Mother Nature is a little sadistic and has a sick sense of humor.

As a child I single handedly increased the stock price for the Calamine Lotion Company. I recall using gallons of the stuff every spring. Each night before bed my mother would dab it all over my body so thick that if I went to bed too soon thereafter, when I woke up the next morning the sheets were glued to my legs and back! And if you even acted like you were going to itch the rash for relief you were read the riot act in four languages. I was so glad after I got into my late teens to discover that I could go to the hospital and get a shot and the whole mess would simply go away. Of course soon there after Mother Nature paid off the hospitals so that they stopped giving out the shots. Apparently, when using that method the misery didn’t last long enough for the old girl. Again, more proof of a sadistic and sick sense of humor.

Now, as I have gotten older I have also discovered that Mother Nature often likes to throw little puzzles at you to solve. About the time I turned thirty I became interested in natural remedies and heard the old saying that “wherever poison ivy is found, jewel weed grows close by.” Jewel weed is an old-time remedy that will not only immediately relieve the itching from stinging nettles, but it will also prevent the onset of rash from exposure to poison ivy. So, nature inflicts the poison but also provides the cure for those who know how to find it. The Indians knew of this amazing plant and used it for a wide variety of applications. It is found quite abundantly in rich, well drained soils of river valleys and in many places where poison ivy grows and if you’ve been in the woods, in particularly in river valleys, you’ve seen this wonderful plant and might not have even known it.

In my experience there are two things that can spoil a spring turkey hunt – finding a patch of morels and sitting in a patch of poison ivy. The first is a welcome diversion, the second transforms the turkey hunt into a jewel weed hunt! This spring if you have an overpowering urge to hunt and fish the way I do, don’t let the green devil keep you away. Just like good and evil in the spirit world, Nature provides both poison and remedy in close proximity in the natural world; you simply have to know what to look for. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

For more information on Jewel weed visit the following links:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impatiens
http://www.wildmanstevebrill.com/Plants.Folder/Jewelweed.html

Keeping an Eye Out for your fishing buddies

From humble beginnings at Montauk State Park, to Lake Taneycomo, to the shores of Kodiak, AK - Father & son, Greg & Alex Stephens, shaping a young boys foundations in the Great Outdoors

Sometimes I think you have to be over forty before you realize the levity of some of life’s most unexpected lessons…such as lessons learned while fishing with your dad. These days, while sitting at the campfire and staring out over the river through the early morning mist, I remember back to my first fishing experiences in the early 1970’s. Through the hazy and blurry distortions of time’s prism I see my dad and his friends at our weekly fish-fries on the Current River at Montauk State Park. I remember the sheer ecstatic excitement of a young boy finally being included in the elite group that I knew only as ‘the guys.’ I remember being amazed that these grown-ups actually knew my name! I remember all the pranks, teasing, and laughing directed at me, the new kid, as we fished holes known locally as “Hudson’s Corner,” “The Howard Hole,” and “The Slough.” Today, with my own children growing up and my Dad now gone, I realize there was a much greater significance to spending time fishing with my father and his friends than just the elation of a young boy coming of age. A young and evolving outdoorsman’s sense of value and belonging is shaped by these rites of passage in the great outdoors.

From those humble beginnings my fishing exploits have evolved to an extent Dad would have never imagined. From Florida to Alaska, the venues, friends, and experiences have morphed from a fun-filled pastime to a component of my own outdoor ‘Maslow’s hierarchy of needs’ in my personal journey toward outdoor self-actualization. One such venue was the annual trip to Lake Taneycomo with ‘the guys.’

The names, places, and dates have been changed to protect the innocent….and since none of them were innocent except me - John McColloch, Don Smith, Larry Maxwell, Charlie Pace, Benny Bryson, Jim McDaniels, Bud Glazier, me and several others used to attend an annual fishing trip to Taneycomo every February. Now, in the cabin sitting around the table on fishing trips is much akin to sitting around the campfire during deer and turkey season - there are great stories and laughter, but sometimes the first liar doesn’t have a chance. And, as I learned while playing cards with ‘the guys’, the only honest player at the card table never has a chance!

In my experience fishing Lake Taneycomo in February is often as cold as or colder than fishing in our northern sister state of Alaska. The cold can be down right brutal but the trophy potential is excellent, the card games are fun, and the food in Branson is great! And hey, when you have a chance at landing a world class brown trout, such as the Missouri state record brown trout landed by Scott Sandusky in November 2009 on Taneycomo, a little cold just adds to the excitement. Scott’s monster brown trout, a 28 pound, 12 ounce, 37 inch behemoth, was the third consecutive state record caught in Taneycomo since 2005. The lake previously produced a 27 pound, 8.8 ounce and a 27 pound, 10 ounce brown trout which each held the record for a period of time. According to the Missouri Department of Conservation, Lake Taneycomo has virtually immeasurable potential for producing world-class trout. Enough said.

So, we have a world-class trout fishing lake, good friends, good food, and much laughter. What more could you ask for? Speaking of laughter, one of life’s lessons learned quickly while spending time with ‘the guys’ is that you had better be able to laugh at yourself, because if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at, right? Now, for those of you who don’t know me, I have a glass eye from a fight with a grizzly bear…ok, but I really do have a glass eye. Now all of ‘the guys’ know that we will have fun with that glass eye at my expense or someone else’s, whenever the opportunity presents itself. Another lesson learned quickly from ‘the guys’ is the unwritten code requiring all group members to cheer up any other in the group who is down on their luck; it’s a moral imperative of sorts. Such was the case the last time I was on the Taneycomo trip.

You see, our buddy John McColloch had been devastatingly out-fished and out-card played by virtually everyone else in the group…again,… and he wasn’t even the honest player in the card game. While we were at dinner Charlie Pace gave me the high sign and I knew I had to bale out our dear friend from his deep, dark, depression in the amateur fisherman and card player doldrums. Someone directed John to look out the restaurant window and when he did, I did the only thing that I thought might make him forget about being embarrassed on the lake and at the card table - I took out my glass eye and dropped it into his water glass. The eye sank through the ice straight to the bottom and when John turned back around he didn’t even notice his glass was looking back at him. With the whole table watching his every move, after finishing his dinner and finally drinking to the bottom of the water glass, his eyes and my eye met. Now I’ve seen lots of reactions of appreciation from my attempts to cheer up a down-and-out buddy in my day but never have I seen someone so choked-up with emotion that they almost lost their dinner right then and there! That is how John reacted…he was a little green colored too. I was touched by John’s reaction and I’ll treasure the memory forever. As will all the rest of ‘the guys,’ who were obviously likewise touched as they were crying, kicking, rolling, and screaming on the table and on the floor. You see, that’s what fishing and hunting buddies do - reaching out to friends in their time of need.

Learning to interact with and be part of the whole of Mother Nature, life-long memories, and, many years later, understanding there was more value to it than the immediate face value of the thing; these are the rewards for the outdoorsman interacting with family and friends in the Great Outdoors. Even in today’s technologically advanced world these memories, experiences, and lessons are still the ones upon which to firmly bed a young child’s outdoor foundations or to provide soul food for an old experienced outdoorsman. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.

The Glue that Binds Us

Every veteran Ozark turkey hunter has been there – late in the morning, sitting up against a large oak tree with the warm sun rays beaming through the newly bloomed canopy overhead. The early morning prime-time hunting has slowed and the warm sunlight is slowly taking advantage of the drowsiness from the 5:00 am alarm. In hopes of hearing a late gobbler to chase, you teeter just on the edge between sleeping and consciousness and drift in and out of memories of friends and family from hunting seasons past. These are the memories that honor and keep our loved ones alive in this physical world. These memories, retold time and again around the spring and fall campfires, are how we surviving outdoorsmen pass the torch to future generations while preserving the names and adventures of those who have went before us to join the ranks of the outdoors fraternity immemorial. In our great outdoor heritage this is the glue that binds us.

More so than any other group, outdoorsmen understand and accept the circle of life, it was our beginning and it will be our eventual end. Mother Nature’s perfect design lays out our only two inescapable requirements on this earth, an entrance and an exit. And, while we do not know the exit date, it is up to each of us how we fill in the time in between. For those who knew Bob Duncan, as far as hunting in Great Outdoors of southern Missouri is concerned, we know that he understood how to experience all that Mother Nature had to give. This year for all that knew my friend ‘Arkansas’ Bob Duncan, the spring turkey woods will be a little emptier compared to years past. Bob enriched our lives with more outdoor stories than a person could possibly tell in a year of campfire story telling. Our naps under the oak trees will be visited by the memories of times we spent with Bob in the great outdoors. It is how he would have wanted it. I know because he told me so himself in many of our conversations. Bob knew that one day he would pass through door number two. He also understood the glue that binds us in the brotherhood of outdoorsmen.

Bob loved to laugh and tease with all his friends who participated in his outdoor exploits. Case in point, he tormented me incessantly about a trip that he, Leroy Frizzell, and I took to Iowa pheasant hunting in November 2004. After I scored the first pheasant of the trip on the first morning, Bob and Leroy had the nerve to tease me because I hit the bird too good. Can you imagine that?! I shoot the first bird of the trip and all I can figure is that those two are so jealous that they have the nerve to tease me because I hit the bird with too much shot. They made references to “feather pillows” and “Swiss cheese” when referring to my pheasant. If I had any feelings they would have hurt them! On the other hand, right in front of Leroy and me, Bob spotted a bird standing at the edge of some crop residue and fired off a shot. When the dust and vegetation finally settled to the ground, the bird was still standing there. Bob fired again, and again the dust and corn stalks flew, and again, the bird was still standing there. Bob had fired twice and missed a bird standing still! He never told that side of the story when laughing about my “feather pillow” all over town. Bob got the title of “Arkansas Bob” on that trip. And that’s my side of the story and I’m sticking to it. The only way a person might ever hear any more of the story is from me around my campfire,… or from Leroy Frizzell, but he’s been known to stretch the truth!

This year Missouri turkey season starts April 19th and extends through May 9th. As you sit at your oak this spring teetering between sleep and consciousness I hope you are visited by the bittersweet memories of seasons past. These memories are part of the continuum of the reality that is real life in Mother Nature. Just as all other living things must pass so must we fulfill the second of the two inescapable requirements of life. In life Bob always laughed loudly with that big smile he had and he would say, “Hey Greg, when you gonna write about the Iowa trip?” (I think he wanted to edit the story himself and take some liberties concerning his interpretation of the true happenings). Arkansas Bob is now for the Ages and the Ages are better for it. Senior citizen season will never be the same. God’s speed Bob on your journey to the other side, you are part of the glue that binds us. So says the One-Eyed Hillbilly. Good Luck, be safe, and get a big one.