Welcome to Church Country, a new column written by Eric Church in the new Field & Stream journal. You can read his previous column, "Seed Ticks!" here. Interested in reading Church Country in print? You can purchase individual copies of the journal here, or subscribe here.
Even with all my days on the road, I’d never been to Waco, Texas. That’s where Baylor University is—a fact I knew because the previous March, my Tar Heels had vanquished them in an overtime thriller on their way to a showdown for the ages against Duke in the Final Four. But now here I was, with my best friend and partner, Ben Weprin, and our wives on a plane touching down in the heart of Waco to see the king and queen in their kingdom. By “king and queen,” I don’t mean Charles and Camilla, but two people much more likable and arguably more powerful: Chip and Joanna Gaines.
Our agenda included some hunting, a Baylor football game, and a friendly bass fishing tournament. It was shaping up to be a weekend for the books—and a column for a cherished magazine. On the drive from the airport, we were invited to Baylor’s campus by one of the bass-fishing tournament participants, Coach Scott Drew. We watched practice, talked to the team, spent time with Coach, and got to see the national championship trophy they recently acquired after a storybook run. At Carolina, we have six similar pieces of hardware, and due to my upbringing, I couldn’t resist commenting on how cute their one trophy looked sitting all alone. Coach Drew just grinned—then let me know he’d see me on the lake.
That night, we attended a spectacular dinner hosted by Chip and Jo. Coach Drew, his wife, and a handful of close friends attended. It was a picture-perfect setting, and I was admittedly smitten with the people and the ambiance. After dinner, conversation turned to tomorrow’s hunt.
Stag Party
The next morning—after sleeping for just two hours, being the creature of the night that I am—I beat the hell out of my alarm clock for a good 45 minutes before I finally got into my hunting clothes and went downstairs to meet the others in the living room. I was only 10 minutes late to our agreed time—which is early for a musician, and still more than an hour ahead of the coming sunrise.
As we drank coffee, Chip talked of the day ahead and the different animals we could hunt on the property. Immediately my ambitions drifted to the largest of the mounts—majestic in size and horn: a red stag. To me, it looked kind of like a cross between the biggest whitetail on Earth and a bull elk. “I wanna go after one of those,” I said.
Chip smiled at my comment and looked at his son Drake. “Drakey,” he said. “You go with Mr. Church and take him to the field stand down by Coon Creek.”
Off we went.
Drake and I arrive at the stand just before daylight on a cool Texas morning. It was a two-man stand with clear views of the flat Texas landscape, backed up against a forest directly behind us. As we got situated, the first glow of the sun began to appear on the horizon. As first light turned into shooting light, we spotted a couple of large whitetails entering the flat field. But, alas, no stag.
I had been glassing our surroundings and was intrigued by an interesting grouping of what I thought were dead tree limbs behind a brush pile on the far reaches of the open expanse. But after I eyeballed it again in better light, all at once, those “dead” tree limbs got up and started moving. They were attached to the head of a giant stag.
I gasped—then let out a series of four-lettered expletives that I’m sure Drake had heard before…just maybe not in that successive order or cadence.
The stag was 165 yards away and, thankfully, was unaware of our presence, but all the brush piles between him and our stand prevented me from getting a clean shot with my trusted 308. I painstakingly watched as the stag circled around to our left and slowly entered the forest behind our stand.
I finally took a breath—then let out another four-lettered expletive.
Drake and I decided to stay put and see if the stag would walk back out. There was also the chance of another stag appearing, but, for me, I knew: The first one was the one. I couldn’t imagine taking another stag after seeing that bruiser. So, we waited. Ten minutes turned into 20… 30… 60… Finally, Drake spoke up: “I think he’s bedded down in the thicket behind us.”
Another four-lettered response from me, then silence as we determined our gameplan: Stay and wait or get out and stalk?
“If that’s the one you want,” Drake said, “I say we go see if we can get after him.”
A large grin from me was all the response he needed.
Once again, off we went.
We picked our way through the thick and surprisingly hilly woods. As we prowled, Drake moved as quietly as a special-forces assassin; myself, more like a future record-setter for the largest number of dry sticks and leaves a person could step on. I remember thinking at one point, I hope this stag is like me and was up late, because his deep-REM sleep is the only chance we have with my 747-like approach.
We walked and stopped, walked and stopped. No sign of the stag. We were close to giving up hope when Drake and I stopped to take a break. I wouldn’t be surprised if the stag got suspicious at that moment, because it was the first time the woods had been silent since I’d entered them, and he was possibly just curious as to what creature could cause such a commotion. Because all at once, up on a hill 50 to 60 yards ahead us, the stag stood up. Thankfully, we were obscured from his view. Drake’s eyes went wide, and he gave me the nod. I leaned into a tree, looked through the rifle scope, and clicked off the safety. Boom!
One shot, one wahoo from Drake, one (more) four-lettered expletive from me, and one massive red stag on the ground in front of us.
He was majestic. He was glorious. He was the one.
He was also wedged halfway up a hill in thick woods with no possible extraction scenario. Honestly, it would’ve been easier to cross the Nile on horseback than get Mr. Brush Pile Head off this hill. After the adrenaline began to subside, I looked at Drake. “OK, how do we get this beast off the hillside?”
He shook his head and said, “I’ll call Dad.”
I’ve met some amazing people in my travels and adventures, but I remember thinking, If Chip can get this thing off this hillside, he will shoot to the top of my list of impressiveness. After some maneuvering on a 4-wheeler through the forest that would’ve made Evel Knievel proud, Chip arrived. When he saw the stag, he was as thrilled for me as I was. Chip extracted the winch from the 4-wheeler, then devised a plan to get Mr. Brush Pile Head on a downward trajectory and let Sir Issac Newton do the rest. It worked. We got the stag out of the woods—and Chip went to the top of my list.
Day 1 in Waco was a success.
Tennessee Two vs. Waco Wackos
We awoke early the following morning ready for our next adventure—a fishing competition between two teams: The Tennessee Two, consisting of Ben and me, and the Waco Wackos, represented by Chip and Coach Drew.
I was told we would be picked up, then we’d grab Chip and Coach en route to our fishing destination. So Ben and I grabbed a coffee and waited patiently by the front door, watching the driveway for our ride. Minutes continued to pass. Nothing. Not one vehicle. All quiet on the northern front. Finally, we got a text from Chip: Your ride is arriving now. I took a moment to answer nature’s call, and soon after, the entire house began to shake. Then I heard Ben yell from the kitchen, “Eric, you’re not gonna believe this!”
I went out to the driveway to find nothing—only to realize at the same moment that a helicopter was landing in the backyard. That’s right: Our ride was a &$%@^#! chopper! I shook my head as the bird touched down. The vibrations woke up our wives, who both walked out from the kitchen, wide-eyed. The rotors stopped, and out popped a young pilot—looking like an ad for Ralph Lauren. Our wives commented, “He’s cute.”
Ben and I hated him immediately. I nicknamed him Air Wolf, but seeing as he had my survival literally in his hands, I considered giving him a pass—until, sensing my reluctance, he made the joke that he had been flying for weeks and really this chopper was so old that it kind of didn’t matter who flew it.
Nope, it was official: I hated him. His smile let me know he was messing with me, so I unleashed a new flurry of expletives that even Ben found excessive.
This was going to be a long day.
We boarded and set off for downtown Waco. Admittedly, I’m not up to speed on FAA rules and local regulations, but I’m fairly certain we broke a few. My grandpa once said that choppers don’t really fly; they just beat the air into submission. And we did just that. Ahead of our showdown, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that Chip may have tipped the pilot a few extra bucks to give me some things to think about.
Have I mentioned that I hated this pilot?
We landed on a field in the middle of town and watched as Chip and Coach—aka team Waco Wackos—and Doug McNamee, our friend, president of Field & Stream, and the unofficial referee for our tournament, came walking across the ballfield to board our man-made bumblebee. Then we took to the Texas skies again on our way to a top-secret lake rumored to hold monster bass. On the way, we chatted into our headsets, talking smack about which team was about to pummel the other.
Let the Fishing Begin
About 30 minutes later, our lake came into view. Wide open with large areas of cover and varying depths, this lake was a beauty—and she was all ours. Air Wolf landed us softly beside the boat launch. There, by the ramp, sat two beautiful bass boats—one for each team—fully equipped with state-of-the-art rods and reels, tackle, sonar, and the cherry on top, two professional, world-ranked bass anglers to serve as guides: Alton Jones, winner of the 2008 Bassmaster Classic, and Kelly Jordon, a founding member of Major League Fishing and the Bass Pro Tour.
We said hello and picked our boats and the captain who came with it at random. The rules were established: Only fish weighing 1 pound or heavier would count, and the heaviest haul wins.
We set our time limit, called each other more names (my smack was more expletive-laced and, in my opinion, more creative than the others’), and shoved off. Ben and I got paired up with Kelly. No offense to Alton, but I was excited about this for two reasons:
He used traditional spinning rods and reels, not those -bird’s-nest--producing baitcasters that are all the rage with kids. (Yes, I’m old.)
Kelly’s last name is Jordon. And while it’s spelled a little differently, no Jordon or Jordan has ever let me down. All our team was lacking was the number 23 on our backs. The Tennessee Two were a lock. We had our chariots and our capes.
We got off to a quick start. I don’t mean to rub it in, but General Custer had a better showing at Little Bighorn than the Waco Wackos had on this lake. My team was three fish up when I glanced in the distance and saw that both of our competitors’ reels were, you guessed it, in bird’s nests. Meanwhile, Ben and I were boating fish left and right. The sound of our reel drags buzzing filled the air.
Kelly’s boat had a LiveScope sonar, and fishing with one was a first for me. It’s like having a combination fish-finder and GoPro in real time. Using it felt like cheating. I loved it so much that I bought two when I got back home.
After we were well ahead, Kelly broke out an Alabama Rig, which, if you’ve never seen one, looks like a wire-rigged chandelier, but instead of candles at the ends, it has hooks rigged with swimbaits. Cast and retrieved properly, it simulates a school of small minnows swimming in unison. It was a killer. Now, instead of catching a fish on nearly every cast, we were catching two and three bass at a time. Like I said, Little Bighorn had commenced—and we were the Sioux.
I decided our lead was large enough that it was only fair to find out about the cooler’s contents. Since we were catching everything else, I figured we might as well catch a buzz too. I’m pleased to report there was ample beer—and that it was ice cold. And while our adversaries did close the gap (marginally), in the end it was no contest: Team Tennessee prevailed. When both teams returned to the boat ramp, I wish I could tell you that the Tennessee Two won gracefully, but, well, I can’t tell you that.
It was one of my favorite days ever on the water. Great fishing. Great weather. And great friends. Air Wolf got us back safely, and we wrapped the weekend taking in one of my other loves in life—college football. Hunting, fishing, and football. God bless America and everything she propagates.
It truly was a weekend for the books.