Coon Hunt

(This column was published in the July 17, 1995 Buffalo News.)

   Millions of stars twinkled. The temperature had dropped from the mid-90s 
into the 70s and the Alabama woods still smelled fresh from an afternoon 
shower that had left puddles in road ruts.

   From the forest shadows came a cacophony of cries. Toads trilled. Tiny tree 
frogs added warbling calls and soprano cicadas whined. From the other end of 
the scale came green frogs' banjo twangs and the occasional "rum, jug-o'-rum" 
of a bullfrog.

   With me perched on the back of a pick-up truck were one of my favorite in-
laws, dairy farmer Paul Prince, and between us Cody Gibson. Cody is the young 
son of expert dog handler, Roger Gibson, who was driving. We were slowly 
penetrating what Paul called the river bottoms near Hartselle. From the cages 
we sat on came the eager whimpers of hounds.

   This was a new experience for me. I had never been on a coon hunt before 
and one of my expectations had already been discharged. I had thought there 
would be guns but the only weapon on this outing was the pop-gun that Cody 
occasionally clicked at imaginary targets. Today's coon hunters, far from 
killing their quarry, are to be counted among raccoons' few friends.

   Finally Roger pulled off the road and began to unload the dogs. There are a 
half dozen varieties of coon hound and three were represented here: a Black 
and Tan, a Redbone and Paul's "Hardwood Dolly," a Walker. I don't know the 
value of the other dogs, but I have learned that Hardwood Dolly's bloodlines 
make her worth thousands of dollars.

   When the eager dogs had been calmed, Roger released them. Off they galloped 
into the woods, yelping like those bloodhounds of prison escape movies. To me 
they all sounded alike, but clearly my companions could distinguish their 
voices.

   After about ten minutes the quality of the barks changed to baying -- the 
dogs had struck a trail -- and then in seconds it changed again -- they had 
treed something. By then I was as excited as the dogs had been. When Paul 
asked if I wanted to see what they had treed, nothing could stop me.

   Roger raised Cody to his shoulders and set off into the woods. I trotted 
behind, amazed at how fast the woodsman could move carrying this extra weight. 
The forest was reasonably open with no streams to cross so we made rapid 
progress. In about a half mile we came upon the dogs. They were leaping up 
trying unsuccessfully to climb a giant cottonwood.

   While I regained my breath, Roger flashed his powerful spotlight into the 
canopy 60 feet overhead. After several minutes of futile searching he pointed 
out a high cavity in which the coon was probably hiding. Since this was only a 
practice run, that was okay; in a competition it would have been discouraging.

   The dogs were rounded up and their chains reattached. Roger led the other 
two hounds and Hardwood Dolly led me, by now completely disoriented, back to 
the truck.

   Since that night I have learned that coon hunting is a highly organized 
sport. Kennel clubs schedule thousands of sanctioned hunts each year, some of 
them even here in New York State. By an elaborate scoring system winning 
hounds are identified and eventually national champions are determined. 
Several journals provide standings and help owners and handlers to share 
experiences.

   The idea of grown men and women slogging through swamps in the middle of 
the night chasing flop-eared dogs and pesky raccoons may appear foolish to 
some, but to me that night proved addictive. I hope to join Paul, Roger and 
Cody again soon.