00:00:04
Speaker 1: Welcome to This Country Life. I’m your host, Brent Reeves from coon hunting to trotlining and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences in life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives from the store More Studio on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast that airways have to offer. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I’ve got some stories to share. Coon Claude Jake and Philip Worm. We’re living off the land this week, two similarly themed stories that highlight the willingness to make a go of it in the wild, one of them for a few days, in the other for a lifetime. I think you’ll like them both. Join me at the fire. Let’s get started. This story comes from This Country Life listener Jacob Clark. Jacob’s a fellow Arkansas native and making tracks with his family up around ash Flat, the sole county seat of government in Sharp County since nineteen sixty seven, with a portion of it poking over into Fulton County. It is one of eighteen cities to reside in more than one county. I learned that today anyway, Jacob shared the following, and here it is. I grew up with a deep love and respect for the outdoors, particularly those arcs. My forefathers hunted and trapped to feed their families. Lucky for me, my father could afford a few extra groceries to go with our deer meet. Over the years, we still needed to meet and often hunted justice up on protein in the freezer. But I was blessed to grow up with a different perspective than my grandfather’s, which was surviving. I was just able to enjoy the many aspects of hunting and enjoy it all with my father, my grandpa, and my uncles. Many years ago, some friends from up north came down to hunt with my dad and I. I was twelve. One of them, Eper was his nickname. He was a bona fide north Woods trapper. He took me under his wing and told the wildest trap line stories. I had used dog proof traps before on the farm, but never anything like what youper talked about. In that fall, I dug out some old night of Victor, wanting to half cold springs that belonged to my great grandfather, and I started trapping. Fast forward about two years and I was running my own trap life. Being homeschooled allowed me some flexibility with my schedule. I was getting up at daylight, walking a mile to the Strawberry River and running a dozen or so set targeting red fox. We also had a four hundred acre farm in southern Missouri that my grandpa built a cabin on. I wanted to go trap on that farm so bat and finally he let me do it. The plan was fool proof. My dad would drop me off after church on Sunday morning and come get me before church Wednesday afternoon. I had three cold mornings to catch as many coons and cowoats as possible, and we lived about two hours from the farm. I didn’t have a driver’s license, just my uncle’s old side beside he left there for deer hunt. Dad made it clear that I was to keep that thing on the farm. I have no idea who preached that Sunday or what they preached about. I was mentally already in the woods. After church, I went and I got a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and a dozen eggs and some bacon to get me by. Plus you had a little deer meat to fry. If I wanted to fancy dinner. This was going to be awesome easy just three days or so, I thought. That Sunday evening I set a few traps, even though I didn’t have a lot of time before dark, and I used the flashlights. At the last one, I had my twenty two and my favorite skinning knife. And let me tell you, at the Boogeyman so much as sneezed, I was sending everything I had in whatever direction he was. And once the last one was set, I was skidaddling back to the cabin as fast as my legs would go. I made eggs and toasting, put on one of my favorite John Wayne movies. I was in high cotton. Once it came time to go to bed, though, the cabin started making making some strange noises that the Boogerman and make it back with me. I wasn’t sure, but my twenty two slip in bed right next to me, just in case. Monday morning, I stepped out and took in a long breath of fresh Ozark air. That was That was it, man, I was. I was pretty much an ozark version of bear Claw Chris Lap from Jeremiah Johnson. I only caught two coons that day, but I was able to set the rest of my traps. I got done before lunch, and I went out to cut some hickory sticks. That afternoon. A five foot hickory stick sold for sixty cents at our local cane factory, and I had to save up for a truck, and it was a good way to pass the time until dark and make a little money while I was doing it. That night, it was another simple meal with John Wayne movie in lights out. I slept a little better, just a little. On Tuesday morning, the trap line yielded nothing. I was discouraged, but I persevered. Nonetheless, changed up a couple of my dirt hole sets and I cut some more sticks, and that afternoon I called my dad to give him an update. He encouraged me to continue on and reminded me of how blessed I was to be able to get out there and do it. So many grown men would have given so much to be doing what I was doing. It’s all about perspective now. Dad informed me that my mother and both of my sisters had come down with some kind of bug and were pretty sick. I prayed for him, and I went on about the day looking forward to Mom’s cooking the next night. But that night it was just another simple meal, another John Wayne movie, another day done. The Burgerman never even crossed my mind, at least no more than once. Wednesday was my last day out in the wild, my last day fending for myself. I checked the trapline. I caught three more coons and that was it. I got to the end and loafed around a while, waiting for the daily call from Dad. He called and said, son, the girls are pretty sick. I don’t feel comfortable leaving them. I’ll have to try and get up there tomorrow if that’s all right. Well, of course I was coon clawed J Clark after all. Thankfully I didn’t pull any of my traps. I reset the ones that had coons in them, and I went back to the cabin. I had a few pieces of bread, a couple of eggs, and a glass or two of milk that was left. And after that there was a couple of packages of peanut butter crackers and maybe some cans of viny sausages in the cabin pantry. I killed a couple of squirrels and I had them for supper. That night. I went to bed, and I slept pretty good, confident that I would be in my own bed the following night, Thursday, I got up and I felt well rested down some cold water, and I stepped outside to relieve myself, and I walked around the corner of the cabin, half awake, and ran right smack dab into the Boogerman. The neighbor’s old dog had wandered over a mile to the cabin and thought he was as lone as I thought I was. We both jumped about a foot high, let out a high pitched yet, and we both went our separate ways. I no longer had to pay, and I would guess that he probably didn’t either. I think I’m ready for Dad to come get me. And he called and said the girls were still sick and there wasn’t much hope of being picked up today. I reassured him that I was good on groceries and I left to go check my sets. I planned to kill another couple of squirrels and stretch when I could out until tomorrow. And on the very last trap, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I called an old bobcat, my first one ever in man. Was I excited His pelt was worth eighty dollars to my local buyer. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it. Made my way back to the cabin in time for lunch, only I didn’t have much to choose from, and I was about to get flat out hungry. I went to skinning that bobcat, and right about the time I was done, I realized he had some decent sized backstraps, and they looked like normal meat. To me, I had some flyer and grease left from frying deer. Now he yanked those backstraps off that bobcat and I hid it inside. Mama taught me how to cook a lot of things, and I treated this meat like everything else, A little bit of seasoning, a little bit of flyer. Friday on a cast iron skille it now. I took a seat at the table and dug in, and it was amazing. Who would have thought. All I know is I had a full belly the rest of the day and went to bed, confident that I could do this for as long as I needed to. I just didn’t want to do it much longer. The next day was Friday, and my belly was on empty. When I got up, I gathered myself. I ate an egg, and I peeked outside to make sure no hounds were scavenging around, and I hit the woods. Nothing was lighthearted that morning. I was dead serious about everything and starting to feel lonely. I’d been gone long enough that I wasn’t sure Mom and the girls would recognize the grizzly looking woodsman they replaced their son and brother. Mama had said farewell to her baby boy last Sunday. I was a different man. Now. I might as well sell all my possessions and head west for the rocky Mountains. I was no longer a fourteen year old boy. I was a fourteen year old mountain man. Dad called and he said the girls were better and he would update me after lunch. Hallelujah. That was the best news I could have heard at that point. This mountain man was ready for Mama’s cooking. And I checked the trapline and I had another coon. And I couldn’t believe it, but another bobcat. Only this time I wasn’t thinking about the eighty dollars in the bragging rights. I was already smelling those backstraps being fried up for supper. Dad called that afternoon. It wasn’t too sure about leaving the girls yet, but was also worried about me. Me. I’m doing great now. I got my supper a huge boosting morale, and I’m doing just fine. Just to come tomorrow. That night, I slept better than ever, so good. I left my twenty two in the other room. The next morning, I didn’t catch anything, and I pulled all my traps. I had two bobcat pelts and a few coon pelts, and a pile of hickory sticks and a couple pieces of fried bobcat left over. Eventually, I heard his truck coming through the woods, and when he pulled up, all I can think to say was, Dad, You’re the first human being I’ve seen in a week. And he really got a kick out of that, but I was serious when saying it. I showed him the hides and offered him the leftover fried cat. He wasn’t a fan, but also more well nursed than I was going into the trying it, and I talked his ear off all the way home. I was proud, and I could tell that he was proud of me. I’m a firm believer that I created designed the heart of a man to be wild and dangerous, and that week my heart changed. I found the wild in it, and I came out with some confidence that I can be dangerous when I need to be. I tell both of my little boys every day that they’re strong, they’re wild, and they are dangerous. That week in the southern Missouri ozarks and made a lifelong impact on me and would later influence how I lead my family someday. I hope my boys have the same desire I did to be outdoors, and I hope I can give them the same opportunity that my folks gave me, only I won’t leave them for too long. Or maybe I will. We’ll just have to see how my wife feels that week. And according to Jacob Clark, the ash flat flash, that’s just how that happened. Well, Jacob, I appreciate you sending that in and sharing it with the rest of us. You learned at an early age that you can be self sufficient when you want to be, But being put in a position to do it when you have to be, now that’s a whole other level of satisfaction. Thanks buddy. In nineteen fifty nine, Philip Henry Worm went to work weld and bumpers on buses at the Ward Bodyworks Company in Conway, Arkansas. He was earning a dollar an hour and was promised a ten cent raise after his first three months. It was an agreement between his supervisor and Philip. Philip, being a man of his word, expected his boss to be the same. He was eighteen years old, and he and his new wife pat because her Patsy, were determined to make it on their own. Philip was born in nineteen forty one. His father was a truck driver serving overseas in World War Two, as were all of his uncles and relatives who were of age, all of whom would come home to Conway after surviving the conflict that ended in the fourth year of his life in nineteen fifty nine. Fourteen years following that grand homecoming, Conway’s population had added twenty nine hundred ar Kansas telling to a a little over eighty six hundred folks, and Philip Warm was three months into a job banking on a promise of a supervisor’s word, and the week leading up to the promised ten centini raised, he reminded his supervisor of the agreement they had made. When he collected his check on Friday and that raise wasn’t there. Philip went home and he never looked back. I sat on the couch with him a few weeks ago, miss Pat and his son Terry, and we talked about his life and what he did next. He said. I came home and I told my wife I didn’t get that raise, and she said, you quit, didn’t you? And I told her I did. She asked me what I was going to do, and I told her I didn’t know, but I’d have it figured out by Monday. Philip took two days to think and map out his plan on how he was going to support his brand new family. During the time of his youth, he became a depth at playing marbles and hunting rabbits with a slingshot, two skills that helped to keep his pockets full of ammo in Mama’s kitchen full of meat. Like most folks of the time in place, they raised nearly everything they ate, depended very little on others, and worked for all that they had. He also called rabbits with a trap known as a rabbit gum wants a rabbit gum? Well, I’m glad you asked. The name comes from the traditional hollowed out blackgum log that the traps were made from. They naturally holler out due to a condition called heart rod, which is a fungus that causes the center to rod away and it leaves a wooden pipe of sorts. The outside is still solid, and all that was needed to complete the trap was a back wall on one end and a triggered trap door on the other. The name stuck, and now, at least here where I’m from, every trap of that type, even the ones built out of lumber, are called rabbit gums. But back to that weekend in nineteen fifty nine, sometime between Friday night and Sunday night, Philip Worm made his decision. On Monday morning, after breakfast, he left the house and headed for the northeast corner of Oak and Chestnut Street in Conway, where the store entrance tiles steel reads. Grummer Hardware Company, a local concern, originally operated as John Grummer’s Hardware Store starting around nineteen oh five. Walter Massey took over the stocking name in October of nineteen forty two, and on that day in nineteen fifty nine, the protagonist of our story walked inside and purchased a spool of nylon line in a box of fish hooks. There was a popular local saying that if you can’t find it at Mass’s, they don’t make it. They sold everything from farm tools, guns and ammo, to fishing gear and cannon supplies and hard to find engine parts. Philip Worm walked into that store unemployed but singular focused, with a desire to depend on only himself to provide for his family. He walked out a commercial fisherman, with Lake Conway the first place he planned to start working. Lake Conway was formed when the down was placed across Palarm Creek, forming a sixty seven hundred acre reservoir in central Arkansas, just south of Conway, built in nineteen forty eight by the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission as the largest lake constructed by h State Wildlife Commission. It was there that Phillips started fishing out of a wooden boat that he’d made in high school, and while doing so, he met the man who would become his partner for many years. Afterwards. He learned to tie gillnets and hand wove them from linen using a net needle and a sheet bend or a weaver or not. Mister Philip made his linen gill nets in the backyard of his home. There wasn’t any locally available nylon small enough to use back then, and nets would be made from linen and cotton before the introduction locally from monofilment small enough to use later in the decade, US gill nets to catch and sell buffalo on the wholesale markets for seven cents a pound or retail at fifteen catfish were more than double that. So it’s an easy formula comparing commercial fishing to welding bumpers as to which one was more lucrative. It’s also an easy summation as to which one was harder. Fishing was every day and you didn’t get rained out. You just got rained on a simple formula for a young entrepreneur. You can’t sell fish if you hadn’t caught him. So that’s what mister Philip did. He fished. He first started out in Lake Conway, and then he moved to the Arkansas River, adding the Mississippi as his business expanded. He leased private lakes from landowners and netted buffalo by the boat loads all through the cold winter months, net in season open in January on the Mississippian on one occasion, mister Phillip and his fishing partner were prepping one hundred fiddler nets to drop up and down the Big Muddy. Once they were set, he said he would take them two solid days from daylight to dark to run them. He built a portable fish box that could hold a ton of fish and traveled with a capper in an ice machine. Garfish he sold right alongside buffalo and catfish. I’ve eaten them myself and the good He had a good market for all three. But fishing is hard, and not just because of the environment. A catfish in buffalo fish’s metabolism slows down in cold water, and so does the catch. They become sluggish and they don’t move as much, and if they ain’t swimming, they ain’t getting in the net. If they ain’t getting in the net, the fisherman doesn’t get paid. Fortunately, for the growing number of children being added to the stringer at the wormhome, the height of the fur boom was just getting underway. Add trapper to mister Phillips’s resume and you’ll have two thirds of the skill sets that kept the lights on at his house over the last sixty years or so. He trapped here in Arkansas and out west for weeks at a time. Traps were about a dollar each when he started out, and we walked outside to a shed behind his house, and traps by the dozen sat orderly in boxes and stacks, ready to be prepped for the upcoming season, although they appeared to have been sitting there for several seas. Three hundred dollars bobcats, top priced coyot and coon hides from Kansas, Colorado, and Wyoming were what he talked about with the most excitement each year from October to December. He stayed in campers and cabins in those states and ran his trap lines much like the fur trappers did. They were the first Europeans to see those places many years before. The pictures his daughter Tammy shared with me I’m referring to now will be on my social media channels. They’re really impressive. In a big tip of the hat as proof positive to someone who relied on his knowledge of the environment and how the animals he was after interacted in it. He wasn’t just posing with a pile of furs in those shots. He and his family were sitting amongst the car payment school clothes, Christmas presents, groceries, light bill and every other item required to raise a family and live a comfortable life. Comfort or lack of it, was the only thing that interrupted his trap lines. When the snow got too deep, mister Phillip went home. Now, if that ain’t enough, get a load of this. At one time in Arkansas there were six turtle farm permits issued. That’s right, turtle farm permits. Guess who had one of them, correct again, mister Phillip. For decades, Arkansas allowed heavy commercial collection of turtles alongside pond bread and raised ones. Between two thousand and four and twenty seventeen, one point three million turtles were harvested in Arkansas, leading to concerns of the sustainability of taking such slow mature in wild reptiles. Commercial turtle ponds like mister Phillips filled the void in a market that didn’t take from the wild population. He raised them himself, as many as twenty five thousand a year from three small ponds on his property annually. Ponds were inspected and kept the codes regulated by the States Game Commission, and for nearly twenty years, turtle farming counted as the third of three sometimes simultaneous careers. They provided for the worm femily. They sold turtles commercially, most of which went overseas and locally as well. Now what I’m about to play for you now is a story told by mister Phillip about his longtime fishing and hunting partner, the late Bobby Alverson. This tale is introduced by mister Phillips’s wife, Miss pat Here it is here’s the story.
00:24:49
Speaker 2: Those are leaders thought and wanted the turtle bottle, twenty five thirty pound turtle. And Bobby went and got the turtle, and he wasn’t paying close enough attention, and the turtle turned and bit bit the end of his finger roll right about the top of the right about the joint. And he sacked the turtle up and collected the money, and then he went to the doctor and they sold the end of it up. And when I got down there Monday morning to go round nuts, he was telling me about it, and he brought out this jar that was filled up with I don’t know what he had alcohol, I guess anyway, he had the end of that finger in his in that jar. So I got it up looking at it, I said, my gosh, Bobby, your the least cleaned that finger nail out.
00:25:45
Speaker 1: Before you stuck it in that jar.
00:25:49
Speaker 2: That’s about the end of the story, all right, he laughed at me.
00:25:56
Speaker 1: It is. It’s a tough community of folks who run around in the commercial fishing and turtle business. Not a lot of sympathy passed around. The hazards of the job were just the things you dealt with because the job had to be done. I got a good friend who is a commercial fisherman, and he, just like mister Phillip and mister Bobby, didn’t complain about the work or how hard it was. Work is work, and it’s refreshing to see someone like my friend who does it now keeping this way of life alive in the wake of the mountain regulatory costs and sport fishing lobbyists. I’ve spoken with the Arkansas Fisheries biologists and have been assured the catfish population in the Arkansas River can easily withstand the amount of commercial fishing pressure it’s receiving. Catfish of every species are thriving, and the regulations put in place will ensure that they remain that way. The big ones, the trophy class fish, are the ones that get the most attention, but they all legal to harvest are almost always released by the self policing commercial fishermen. Those are the females that keep the fishery stocked. River samplings by the state’s fisheries teams report that the natural mortality of older fish far exceeds any impact brought on by commercial fishing. The smaller, more numerous sized catfish, the kind you see laying on your plate and restaurants, those are the money fish. And there’s not a commercial fisherman I know or have ever talked to that wouldn’t rather have twenty five two pound fish over one that weighed fifty Philip Henry worm commercial fished for sixty two years while trapping and farming turtles a lifetime of stewardship and regulated harvest, which is, in its truest working sense, the very definition of conservation. Thank y’all so much, Thanks for listening to Clay Lake and myself here on the Baggaries channel. That’s gonna do it for me for this week, So until next week. This is Brent Reeves signing off. Y’all be careful
Read the full article here