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“Back Home Again” By Jerry Moll 4/1/2006  1:24:35 PM By: Jerry Moll A huge cloud of grey filled the air behind school bus #16 as it bounced along the rarely traveled dirt road past Herb Miller’s field of hand tied corn shocks. Now about half way home on my hour long bus ride, I was getting impatient and anxious to get the trip over with. Trying to pass the time away, I crossed my arms on the back of the seat in front of me for a place to rest my head while making a halfhearted attempt at taking a nap. The nap idea was proving to be quite unsuccessful as the remaining kids on the bus were making quite a commotion. Bob, our bus driver flipped back and forth from Cincinnati radio stations W-L-W and W-S-A-I trying to find something more to his liking. I perked up a little as he caught the end of “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, but after a few more channel selections he seemed to settle on the news. Great! Just what I wanted to hear, more political analysis of President Richard M. Nixon’s resignation a few months prior and his recent unconditional pardon granted by current President, Gerald R. Ford. Luckily Bob switched back over to W-S-A-I just in time for John Denver’s "Back Home Again”, now that was soothing to the ears and I finally started to relax. It was Friday, November 8th 1974; the opening of coon season here in Indiana and not much else really mattered to me at the time. I truly believe I did not hear a single word spoken to me by a teacher or fellow student this entire day as my mind was 100% focused upon turning my hound loose once it got dark. I had been working hard trying to save money for a hound since the previous winter. Mom and Dad were a little unhappy with me considering the work needing done on the farm; they didn’t want me wasting valuable time and money on an ol’ hound dog. Since I had worked and saved the money on my own, they reluctantly said it was my decision, but I could tell they sure didn’t like it much. Dad reminded me several times that year, “Son if your chores get to slippin’ on account of that dog, he’s gonna’ have to go, that’s all there is to it”. Up to this point everything had been going along smoothly along those lines as I made absolutely sure nothing was left undone. The more I thought about it, I was admittedly unsure how I was going to keep all my chore responsibilities covered and still spend all the time I wanted to in the woods. I kept my savings folded up in one of those old Prince Albert tobacco tins; you know the red ones that were flat and shaped to fit into your pocket. The “bank” was hidden in the attic, my secret place and even though I always knew exactly how much money it contained, I couldn’t resist emptying it out and recounting it all each time I had a dollar or two to add. Selling furs was about the only way I had to earn money in the winter months. I sold hides to a local fur buyer about six miles or so from the house, muskrats brought me around $6.00 and coons could average about $15 back then. Each morning after chores I would run my trap line and try to get back in time for the school bus. I intentionally made my trap sets as close to the county roads or dirt farm roads as possible so that I would not have to walk far from my bicycle. There were a few mornings I cut it right down to the wire and had to wear the old clothes I had on to school that day. Back then it wasn’t uncommon for some of my classmates to come to school with the smell of hogs or cattle on their clothes, so it really wasn’t that big of a deal to anyone, like I’m sure it would be this day and age. In the spring and summer months work was much more plentiful for me and my brothers. We had four local farmers within walking or bike riding distance that were always needing help with hay, fencing or other odd jobs. If we wanted to, we could work at one farm or another most every day of our summer vacations. This past summer I had ventured out taking a new job for a couple of months with a seed corn company detasseling corn. In order to produce hybrid seed corn they would grow six rows of one variety, then two of another, then six of the first again and so on alternating throughout the width of the fields. The six “female” rows were to be detassled so their ear silks could only be pollinated by the two “male” rows via some help from the wind. The seed corn company was located about twenty miles from home, so I had to get up early to meet a bus in town at 5:30 am. It was good to see a few of my friends from school when I arrived, because most of the workers were from another town and unfamiliar to me. I sure wasn’t used to being that far from home and working for someone I didn’t know, but the money was good at $3.00 an hour, so I stuck with it until the end of the summer season. Along about the end of August I started getting real nervous because I had not yet found the coonhound I had been saving for. I didn’t know many coonhunters and the ones I spoke with didn’t know of any good hounds for sale in the area. One Sunday after church a friend of mine told me about a Bluetick owned by a man named Ben Cassens over near the little town of Milan, Indiana. The prospect of finally having a dog of my very own tied up behind the barn sounded pretty cool to me, so I offered my brother Mike some gas money to carry me over there to take a look at this hound. As we pulled in Mr. Cassens’ driveway with the truck windows down we heard a loud booming hound voice coming from behind the house and I sure hoped it was him. It sure enough was him and he was a big, good looking sucker too. A very striking hound, probably seventy pounds with very dark bluetick color, lots of black and tan trim and he was a registered dog to boot. Mr. Cassens was friendly enough, but he seemed to expect I would buy his dog on the spot. After talking for awhile, he reluctantly agreed to take me hunting with the dog the following night. Boy, I couldn’t wait to see that big beautiful hound in the woods and that day seemed to go by slower than molasses in January. Finally as the evening drew near my friend Jake and I were heading down the road to Mr. Cassens’ house in his 1964 Dodge pickup. Mr. Cassens appeared to be all ready to go, standing in his garage with his hunting clothes on and the dog loaded up. We jumped out of Jake’s truck expecting to head straight for the woods, but Mr. Cassens seemed to prefer standing around talking for awhile first. A few minutes had passed when another truck pulled into the driveway and a man stepped out saying he had heard someone around there had a Blue Dog for sale, wondering if he had stopped in the right place. Mr. Cassens spoke up, “Well sir you have come to the right place, but a little late because this young man here is about to buy my Blue Dog“. The stranger eased around the front of his pick up and said, “Well now, if that’s him there in the truck, get him out and we’ll have a look at him anyway”. Mr. Cassens pulled open his tailgate and Ol’ Blue jumped down wagged his tail and belted out a big ol’ houndy bawl. “Man that dog has the looks and mouth I’m lookin’ fer’, I’ll just take him right now”, said the stranger. “Now wait just a darn minute, this boy has first chance at this here Blue Dog and you can’t just up and buy him out from under his nose, at least give him a chance”, Mr. Cassens insisted. This did not diminish the strangers determination one bit, he walked up to me and in a challenging voice said, “Well boy, what’s it gonna be, you want the dog, er’ not”? Well, I was just a little flustered not knowing what to say or what to do; I had never been in such a predicament before. I finally blurted out, “Heck yes I want him that’s what I’m here for”, and the next thing I knew they were loadin’ Ol’ Blue in Jake’s truck and Mr. Cassens was handing me the registration papers with one hand while holding out the other hand to collect his $300. The stranger appeared mighty disappointed and Mr. Cassens mighty happy, but the two of them just stood there and watched while Jake, Blue and I drove off into the darkness. Jake couldn’t believe I had just bought a dog without trying it out first, but said he understood I needed to do something fast or loose out completely. I was young and gullible and it never dawned on me until later that I had been snookered by the oldest con game in the book. I simply didn’t know any better at the time and looking back it was probably a cheap education by today’s standards. The most important thing to me at that particular moment was that we were driving down the road with a Coonhound of my very own in the truck. I spent most of that trip home studying Blue’s registration papers with my flashlight trying to understand what it all meant, I had never seen anything like that before. His papered name was “Midnight Blue Blaze”, so from that point on I called him Midnight, which everyone thought was a strange name for a coonhound. As soon as we pulled in my driveway I took Midnight back behind the barn, tied him up and gave him fresh water and some food. I probably went out and checked on him twenty times that night, wanting to make sure he was ok. Mom and Dad thought I was obsessed and were not very happy when my new buddy went to howling in the middle of the night. Over the next few months Midnight and I became inseparable and very close friends. I spent a little time with him each morning before school and on the evenings and weekends we ventured out exploring and getting to know the surrounding landscape so we would both be ready when the big night came. We had not been out after dark yet, but we knew every woods, field, creek and fence within several miles of my home and could not wait until coon season. My skinning knife was sharp enough to split hairs and I had been practicing a good bit with Dad’s Remington #522 to the point I could hit eight out of ten walnuts even on the windy days. My sister carried me up to Gamble’s General Store where I picked up some knee high rubber boots, coveralls and several boxes of .22 hollow points. We stopped by Woody’s Auto Supply and I picked up a silver colored 12v spotlight, a 12v motorcycle battery and two alligator clips. Dad helped me make a shoulder strap and a wooden box to carry the motorcycle battery in and I cleaned up the old kerosene lantern that was hanging in the tool shed. I was now finally ready for opening night; everything I needed was sitting on the back porch or tied up behind the barn just waiting for darkness. The one thing I had not figured on was that my Prince Albert can, previously over stuffed from a year’s worth of hard work, was looking mighty empty now with the exception of a few measly dollars and some loose change. I must have dozed off or gotten completely caught up in daydreaming about night things when I was startled and nearly jumped out of my skin hearing a few kids on the bus holler out, “Jerry it’s your stop, hey Jerry hurry up”! Bob the bus driver just grinned and said, “See ya Monday” as I stumbled out the door and ran up the road bank into our front yard. I hurried through the kitchen door, threw my books down and was heading upstairs to change clothes when Mom hollered, “Where’s the fire, what’s your hurry”? I didn’t have time to stop and explain, having figured by the time I finished the nightly chores and ate supper it would be time to get in the woods. During supper everyone wanted to know why I was all fidgety and had this huge grin on my face, so my brother Mike enlightened them all to my plans for the evening. Mike was heading out on a movie date and had agreed to drop Midnight and I off down on Salt Creek and pick me up at 11:30 at my cousin’s house several miles down stream. After Mike picked me up I had hoped he could drop us off again down at the old Laker farm between Oldenburg and St. Mary’s and I could hunt another five miles or so back to the house. We had no dog box, so Midnight and I road in the back of Mike’s 1967 Ford pickup as he headed for Salt Creek. We were a little cold, but didn’t mind at all as we would be warming up real soon with all the walkin’, shootin’ and coon skinnin’ I was planning on. When he stopped the truck I hurried to get the dog, lantern and gun out and ready before Mike sped off toward Batesville. I didn’t have a leash, so I just spoke to Midnight and he followed me to the edge of the creek and started out away from me. About the time I got the old lantern lit and trimmed down he struck down on the water with that big booming bawl I loved to hear. I just set back against a big sycamore tree and soaked up the beautiful night. It was somewhat overcast with a light wind blowing the clouds just enough the moon would peek in and out. At that point it all seemed like a fuzzy dream, an entire year of planning and preparation had finally come down to this point, sitting on a creek bank waiting for my hound to tree our first raccoon together. In between Midnight’s frequent bawls I could hear yard dogs barking and a few chop mouthed hounds treeing far off in the distance. By 11:00 I was sitting on the well curb at my cousin’s house resting and watching down the road hoping to get a glimpse of Mike’s Ford headlights as they popped up over the hill. My feet were a little sore and my side ached from the motorcycle battery riding up on it. We had completed the first leg of our opening night hunt and were very anxious to get the second leg underway. Mike couldn’t help but rub it in a little that I had been out there in the dark for nearly five hours and still did not have one coon to show for it. He was convinced his activities this evening made a lot more sense than whatever I was trying to accomplish out here in the woods. He had spent his time at the Gibson Theater in the company of a young lady laughing until their sides hurt at Gene Wilder, Peter Boyle and Teri Garr in “Young Frankenstein”. After he had finished giving me a hard time, we headed down the road to Laker’s bridge. As I sat in the back of the truck and rubbed Midnight’s ears, I wondered what the heck we could be doing wrong. I thought we had done everything right, I had the coonhound and all the equipment needed, why weren’t we catching coons? Midnight was striking tracks and running tracks, sometimes a short ways, sometimes a long ways, but he had not treed yet, always coming back as if to tell me about it. I was convinced on this next turn out I would follow him step for step and find out what the deal was. As Mike revved his Ford’s straight six to pull off the bridge, he hollered, “Good luck, I’m goin’ to bed, see ya later” and on he went toward Loop Road. It wasn’t long before Midnight was running a track again, but this time I was right there with him. He stopped and looked at me a few times as if he wondered what I wanted, but I would coax him right back on the track. He finally caught something, so I ran up to investigate, a darn possum! I spoke to him and he left it alone and went on hunting leaving me at least one clue of what he may have been up to earlier in the evening. The sky was beginning to darken and I was starting to hear a little rumbling in the west as Midnight struck another track and boy was it a doozy! He worked and worked this track for what seemed like hours and before he finished it the clouds opened up and man did we get a downpour. It was raining so hard that I couldn’t see much in front of me with that old lantern and I was thankful this track had taken us much further south toward home. I didn’t have a dry stitch of clothing on me as Midnight came in and we stepped out onto the road. I was pleasantly surprised, realizing I was standing on Sawmill Road just a half mile from the house. Up to this point I had not been to sure where we were due to the constant rain in my face. I leaned the gun up against a fence post, removed the sling to use as a leash and called Midnight over to hook him up. I doubted anyone would be on the road that time of night, but didn’t want to take a chance, so we started down the road toward the house. As I look back on that year and that opening night it still amazes me how excited I was simply to be out in the woods, just me and my dog. The facts that we were not catching coons and that I was tired, cold and very wet seemed completely irrelevant at the time. They say ignorance is bliss and I guess in my case that was very true. I could not have been happier even though I was completely clueless about coonhounds and coonhunting. Thirty plus years of experience later I really miss those days of wonder and naive innocence. In some ways it seems I have been cursed by the good hounds I’ve been fortunate enough to follow through the last three decades. These days my expectations of coonhounds and coonhunting are extremely high, maybe too high and I always want to breed and hunt a better dog than I did before. When I’m out hunting these days I am more easily annoyed at a dog or the weather if either is not cooperating and sometimes I wish maybe I didn’t take these things quite so seriously. My thoughts and feelings as Midnight and I walked down Sawmill Road together that magical opening night so long ago remain so vividly etched in my memory that it seems like only yesterday. Cold and soaked to the bone, I was no doubt a little discouraged and disappointed with the night’s events, but as the familiar security light near our barn came into view it brought a warming smile to my cold and frowning face. These warm feelings transported me back to the daydreams I had earlier in the day while trying to relax on the school bus. Somehow seeing the lights of home translated to a little extra spring in my tired step and before long I found myself humming that soothing melody Bob had found on his bus radio, “Hey it’s good to be back home again, sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend, oh yes it’s good to be back home again…” Last Updated by: Jerry Moll  8/30/2006 7:11:22 AM Stories From Salt Creek "Summertime and the livin¡¦ is easy" By: Jerry Moll The thick layer of grey haze floated between the hazy moon and the dark treetops reminded me it was mid-summer in Southeastern Indiana, as if I really needed another clue. An observable cloud of nighttime humidity seems to go hand in hand with summertime around here and really makes the corn grow; at least that¡¦s what Dad used to say. With every step forward I could feel the sweat trickle all the way from the base of my neck down to the small of my back. The once dry t-shirt was now fully saturated and the additional perspiration had no place else to go. Stopping to take a short breather, I instinctively reached for my S/C water bottle holder hanging by my side, but the container had been empty for awhile now. These hills were tough, but still much better than the perils of the low ground and cutover that lay ahead. As I topped the last hill I could hear the hounds treed in the distant bottom, beseeching me to give them some type of relief. Both hounds were taking uncharacteristic but reasonable pauses in their tree barking due to the choking heat and humidity. While starting off again in their direction I mumbled to myself about the foolishness of hunting more than one dog at a time and of not driving around to get closer before heading toward them. I like to keep sending dogs off trees rather than patch hunting; I guess I¡¦m stubborn that way and sometimes I have to ¡§pay¡¨ for it. As I plodded along I recalled just five short months ago when the snow and ice covered ground was almost too treacherous to walk on. I remembered being bundled up in my old Carhartt coat and gloves, longing for warmer weather. ¡§Be careful what you wish for¡¨, I thought to myself while stopping to remove a pair of wood ticks crawling up my right arm. The closer I came to the banks of Laughery Creek the more the local mosquito swarm went on the offensive, coming at me from all directions in full attack mode. Our annual bull nettle crop (itch weed) was growing well, towering well above my head making it nearly impossible to navigate without walking sideways stomping a pathway ahead of me. I knew from years of experience not to scratch the itch of the itch weed, no matter how uncomfortable, it only made it worse. I laughed to myself thinking about how my brothers and I used to play in the creek as youngsters with cutoff shorts as our only clothing without a care in the world. Now I¡¦m covered with jeans, boots and nylon trying to protect my ... more “Now That Is A Coondog” By: Jerry Moll With every step the thick layer of crusted snow on the barren soybean field crunched beneath them like fresh tortilla chips making it extremely hard to hear anything else as they pushed forward. It was a cold Saturday night, in the single digits with no air moving whatsoever; yes it was still as a stick in northern Iowa. There was no need for a light; a man could have easily read a book with the bright moon and stars above reflecting on the white snow below. Individually Tony and Joe thought they were carrying on a conversation with the other, both totally oblivious to the fact they were completely muted by the situation. The hounds had been gone for a good, long while and the tracking system showed them way out of pocket to the north and definitely out of hearing. Taking a break on a small ridge and cupping their ears Tony and Joe could hear the steady chopping of their two hounds Sally and Ranger. As with any houndsman this was music to their ears and brought smiles to their frozen faces. They were off again, crunching through the snow, still talking to one another without either knowing the other was speaking. There was still a mile or more to go and each time they stopped for a breather the treeing was louder and motivated Tony and Joe to press on. As they arrived at the tree they were surprised to see the forest floor around the tree covered with blood from the hound’s pads being cut by the crusted snow. There hearts filled with pride upon seeing a large raccoon perched up high in the mighty oak. They knew it took a lot of heart and determination from their hounds to tree a raccoon under these adverse conditions. Tony and Joe leashed the hounds and rubbed their ears, praising them for a job well done. As the two seasoned houndsmen started the long journey back to the truck they agreed, these were sure enough COONDOGS. Bill and Mike pulled up to unlock the gate at the Melville deer club, nearly 1,000 miles to the south of our northern houndsmen Tony and Joe. After driving a quarter mile to the north they stepped out for another listen as the pungent smell of the swamp hit them in the face like a blast from a furnace. Above the vast acres of frog chorus they could hear Nell and Singer treed solid just a half mile to their east. The guys had to face the music; it was time to pull the boots up, no more driving from here. They had originally cut the hounds to the north and after listening for an hour or so t ... more “A Fresh Beginning” By: Jerry Moll The freeway security lights flickered on and off as they traveled easterly along interstate seventy-four while the rising sun interrupted the morning’s darkness and the weary passengers’ slumber. Mike Jackson and his younger brother Paul wriggled about the truck seat, squinting and rubbing their eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight beaming through the windshield. The young boys had dozed off while riding home from a night of Competition Coonhunting with their Uncle Carl Stephens. Uncle Carl had retired from the local foundry a few years back and was now a full time pleasure/competition hunter that loved to invest his time in his younger sister’s boys, the youth of the sport. Carl sure enjoyed the boy’s company, especially on the weekends when they could hunt all night without the bother of homework or worry of having to get up for school the next morning. As they turned off the freeway and started down the back roads toward home, Uncle Carl started pointing out the beautiful daybreak scenery one can only witness in the Midwestern springtime. It was an extraordinary time of year, the grass was greening up, the leaves popping out on the trees and the countryside was full of new life. Uncle Carl rolled his window down slightly to soak up that springtime smell and they all noticed the peepers were making quite a racket down in Jackson’s pond. Paul pointed out a nice Tom Turkey strutting his stuff down along the east fork of Frederickson’s Creek near their horse pasture. A little further up the road the boys laughed out loud watching Pete Sampson’s nanny goats butting at their kids while they jumped back and forth over them rambunctiously playing in the small pasture. Turning west on Ditch Road, just across the creek they noticed Fred Allen’s Jersey cows nursing their young calves in the morning sun while the bull stared at them from across the ravine in an adjacent pasture. The sight seeing tour came to an end as their old farm house can into view over the next hill. Yes, it was a beautiful morning, but right now Mike and Paul were looking forward to hitting the pillow for some much needed shut eye. After the boys washed up and slid under the covers they began to reflect on their fantastic day and night attending the Friendship County Coon & Fox Club’s annual youth hunt and show. They could not believe the gracious hospitality extended to them, a vast departure from what they had previously seen and heard about the spo ... more Building Bridges-Mending Fences By: Jerry Moll It was that very special time of year, early November in Indiana. The leaves had long since turned and were absent from nearly all the trees by now, scattered to the wind they blanketed the forest floor as well as many of the creek banks and farm fields. Farmers had been fortunate this fall with dry weather and that beautiful harvest moon on the clear nights bringing us several early white frosts. The golden brown soybean fields had all vanished to barren farm ground and the remaining cornfields left standing were few and far between. Our raccoon season had just opened two days ago on Saturday and I felt very fortunate to take the entire family out on opening night. We stopped and bought snacks and drinks for the night out while on our way to a farm I’ve been hunting since I was just a young boy. We turned the dogs out and as we sat there on the majestic oak ridge listening and soaking up the night air it seemed as if the deadlines and stresses of the daily grind were long gone and we were in another world all to ourselves. By 11:00 or so the moon was up bright and the kids were cold and worn out, so we loaded up and headed back toward home. We had treed several raccoon, walked a few miles, ate a lot of snacks and had a great time laughing and cutting up. While driving back home I reflected upon how fortunate we were to have this great Hoosier outdoors to enjoy, the beautiful night, these lovable hounds and most importantly to be able to share it all with our children on this peaceful November night. On Sunday evening after dinner, homework and bedtime I headed our once again, just me and a young female. It was a still, cloudless night with millions of bright stars and a huge moon lighting the sky. The kind of fall night where there is not a sound in the woods but maybe a faint trickling of water in the creek and a house dog barking several miles away. When you venture out on these clear nights you know Jack Frost is not far behind you. Beautiful yes, but not exactly the kind of night you would pick to work a young dog, but I was enjoying the gorgeous night and the time spent with the young hound even if I did need to keep my expectations low. We covered a lot of ground that evening, made some bad trees, caught a possum and even treed a few coon. For her age and experience I was content with the performance and had her back home in the kennel by 1:00. Today was Monday and our local club had a one hour event scheduled ... more Eight Men Out By: Jerry Moll My recollections of the AKC World Coonhound Championship Final Cast, September 30th 2006, Warsaw, Indiana. Joe Newlin, member of Silver Lake, Indiana’s Sportsmen and Farmers Conservation Club, and I had been discussing possible final cast locations for months and the time was at hand to nail it down. It was noon on Saturday September 30th and the 2006 AKC World Championship Show was about to get underway. Joe, Ron Manns and I agreed to stay for the inspiring opening ceremonies. It was complete with the presenting of the colors by the local American Legion and the twin trumpeted National Anthem. I had to shake off the chills before we headed out for a final inspection of the proposed hunting grounds. While preparing to leave the fairgrounds we called and invited Mike Nelson to be our lead judge for the final cast. We all have known Mike for years and he’s a top houndsman and judge, so we were very excited when he said yes. To my delight Joe and Ron agreed to serve as Mike’s back up judges, I sure didn’t want to hold this final cast without them beside me. Once my Ford was pointed south on State Route #15 we went about twelve miles to check out the first spot. What a great location, lots of timber, corn and beans for the dogs to scatter into. The country block was situated in a one by two mile square with a farm road running south from the north side taking us very near the center. Many of the soy bean fields had harvesting equipment setting around and there were lots of grain bins and dryers, none of which were operating at the time due to recent rains. We spent some time checking out cell phone reception, establishing landmarks and talking with several adjoining landowners. The three of us quickly agreed this was THE place and briefly discussed needing a back up plan if we needed to move for some reason. Ron suggested we use a spot he had guided me to several years ago and as I recalled the hunt I remembered that Jenni and I had gotten a sound thrashing from Ron and his fine hound Tree Grippin’ Joe. If I remember correctly, for every coon Jenni treed, Joe treed two. That spot sounded good and it was back toward Warsaw, so we headed back north. I checked in with our friend, Don Weisehan with the Kosciusko County Sherriff’s Department and he knew exactly where we would be and said he would be glad to patrol the area between 9:00 and midnight. From this point things moved very quickly through the fantastic top ... more “To Everything, There Is A Season” By: Jerry Moll The wood floor creaked loudly in the early morning silence as I slid one leg at a time from under the covers and stepped out of the bed. I grabbed my pants and shirt from a nearby chair and tiptoed toward the staircase trying not to wake anyone. It had been a long night of tossing and turning without much sleep, but I was now wide awake quietly closing the bathroom door behind me to finish getting dressed. “Quiet as a church mouse”, I kept reminding myself as I gently pushed open the screen door going out to the summer kitchen where I would find my work boots. Everyone in the house was sound asleep as far as I knew and I sure didn’t want to awake anyone this time of morning. Bruno, our mixed breed farm dog jumped up to follow me, wagged his curled tail and looked up as if he was wondering what in the world I was up to this time of day. We startled the sleeping chickens and they cackled loudly while frantically flying down from their nightly roost in the hen house. I doled out their morning feed and water and using my two cell flashlight scanned their nesting boxes for fresh eggs, grabbed them up and headed out toward the hog lot. Luckily the pig feeders and water troughs were nearly full, so topping them off went rather quickly. Filling of the cow tanks near the barn was the only task yet to complete before I headed back toward the house. I normally didn’t work my chores before sunup in August, but Dad had agreed to take me on my very first squirrel hunt before he went to work this particular morning and I wanted to keep my end of the bargain. Before I could squirrel hunt on my own, Mom required me to have a least one hunt with Dad, so this was a very important day for me. I could see well enough to cut off the flashlight as I walked back toward the house with my work boots and pant legs now sopping wet with the morning dew. Easing onto the summer kitchen, I noticed a light or two was now on and I could hear Mom and Dad talking quietly over their breakfast coffee. Reaching into the corner behind the old cupboard I pulled out Dad’s Ithaca Model #37 Featherlight 20 Gauge, soaking up the fresh smell of 3-in-1 oil I had just coated it with the night before. I opened the cupboard door and grabbed the new box of Federal High-Power #6 shot shells, just purchased the day before at the Gambles store in town. As I stuffed several shotgun shells in my pocket Dad emerged from the Kitchen and grabbed up the Ithaca, “Let’s go, we ha ... more “Time Marches On” By: Jerry Moll Over 300 years ago Irish, French and English fox and scent hounds were first brought to America by the most affluent settlers of the new world. For centuries the ancestors of these hounds had used in Europe to hunt for fox, deer, rabbit, wolf, and bear. Some say their lineage dated back to hounds used in battle by and against the Great Roman Empire. The majority of these early scent hounds varied tremendously from one to the next in appearance and ability because breeding up to this point had been exercised strictly on ability and performance factors. Distinct from the majority was a running hound being bred “true to type” and consistent in appearance and performance was the English Foxhound. These hounds had been designed specially for their noble sport of foxhunting by English Nobility and to this point had not been available to the average citizen. Although the more wealthy settlers imported these hounds from Europe for sport and enjoyment, they eventually spread out among the countryside. In the new world anyone could hunt and own hounds and soon the average settler was enjoying fox hunting, the sport of kings. These foxhound packs flourished in Virginia and surrounding areas and gradually moved west into the mountains of West Virginia, Kentucky and Tennessee before making their way to the South, West and Midwest. The very best foxhounds were bred to the very best foxhounds regardless of color, so the size and color of individual hounds within these newly created packs was wide-ranging. As this process evolved there were hunters who personalized their foxhound pack by selective breeding toward specific color and type, culling those not fitting the profile and not allowing anything outside these specifications to be mixed in. There specific packs were normally given the family name of the breeder or the region in which they lived. A more pressing need for the average settler in these early days of our country was a dog to assist in making a living and providing for the family. The typical scent hound, foxhound or running dog would simply not fill the bill. These pioneers needed a dog to serve numerous purposes for the household, such as guard dog, livestock protection and putting food on the table by catching game. There was no room for mediocrity with these dogs of high utility, the family simply could not feed a useless dog and they were culled immediately upon this determination. The family farm dog prospered t ... more “Where Eagles Fly” By: Jerry Moll The dawn’s bright sunlight burned my bloodshot eyes as the flight attendants pulled up the window shades and handed out warm lemon scented wash cloths. Each of the 260 passengers were awakening one by one to their multi-lingual morning greetings and the once dark and quiet airplane turned into an intense, hustling and bustling crowd. I had dosed off just a few hours prior while watching the in-flight movie, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan’s “Sleepless in Seattle” and as I washed my face and tired eyes I can remember thinking how I sure could relate to the sleepless part. While the morning coffee and bagels were being served, they announced we would be touching down in Frankfurt, Germany in just a few minutes. It had been a long nine hour flight from the Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky Airport but it didn’t seem like we had traveled 4,350 miles, but I guess time flies (pardon the pun) at 37,000 feet and 530 miles per hour. From the appearance and chatter among the English speaking passengers I concluded most of them were traveling to Europe on business just as I was. The company I worked for at the time had purchased a building site in the small town of Ko³o (pronounced Co-wa) in central Poland to build a manufacturing plant. I was to meet with several companies concerning the architectural design, the purchase of manufacturing equipment and to develop a contemporary plant layout. I was very excited about the assignment, but was more than a little uncomfortable with the situation; I had traveled a good deal for business before, but never outside the continental United States. My flying experience had been limited to several day trips in a co-worker’s single engine Cessna and several longer trips to the western and southwestern U.S. on standard commercial aircraft. This airplane was unlike anything I had experienced; it stretched over 200 feet long with a wing span of 170 feet, weighing in at about 450,000 pounds. On a more personal note, I didn’t like being out of contact with my wife Brenda, her being eight months pregnant and having two-year old Nicholas to care for. As if that all were not enough, it was just a few weeks prior to Christmas 1993 and I really didn’t want to be away, especially more than half the world away. After an uneventful landing in Frankfurt, we were delayed on the runway for a good while before we were asked to deplane out in the middle of the tarmac. I was unpleasantly surprised when armed guards ushered us ... more "The Path Less Traveled" By: Jerry Moll Jeff’s heart nearly leaped from his chest as he impulsively threw back the covers, jumped out of bed and hit the floor running. What he was running to or from he had no idea, still blurry eyed trying to determine the source of this awakening commotion. “Up and at-em boy, it’s time to get ready for church”, came the stern words of his Mom as she slung open his bedroom door while hurrying about her Sunday morning routine. Jeff had been sleeping like a rock, dead to the world but for only about three hours before this morning reveille call. As he sat back on the edge of the bed pulling up his jeans and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he stopped to reflect upon the events of the past evening and early morning hours. He tried to piece together all that had happened at the Nite Hunt he and his hunting buddy attended, but at this point sorting out all those details was like trying to see through an early morning fog. Jeff eased his way the hall to the bathroom washed his face, brushed his teeth and headed to the kitchen for some breakfast. Now that he was starting to feel somewhat human again his only hope was to stay awake through the preacher’s sermon so he could continue in Mom’s best graces. Hopefully after lunch he could curl up on the couch for an afternoon siesta leaving some time in the evening for catching up on homework before school tomorrow. It all started at school on Friday when Tommy Neal asked if he wanted to ride down to the Jackson Creek Fox & Coon Club coonhound event on Saturday. Of course Jeff said yes immediately, not wanting to miss a chance at showing off his nice young Redbone female, Dolly. “Sounds good, I’ll pick ya up around 5:30 and we’ll be there in time for the show too, said Tommy as he headed down the hall to biology class. Jeff really appreciated the invite as he was still a year away from having his driver’s license and didn’t have a ride to the Coonhound events without Tommy. Jeff’s Dad had not been very supportive of the Nite Hunts since he had a few coworkers down at the steel mill give him the “low down” on how those things worked. It wasn’t long before he was passing the details along to Jeff about the lying, cheating and bullying that goes on and warning there was no need for him to get caught up in all of that. Jeff really didn’t want to buy into all the negative stuff, he just enjoyed hunting his dog and the idea of meeting new people who had similar interests of Coondogs and Coonhun ... more "A Slick Treein’ Idiot?" By: Jerry Moll Sam was so comfortably snuggled into his old hunting coat with his back against a huge tulip poplar that he had nearly dozed off to the lullaby of the sweet early morning sounds of the woods. Dew drops dripped from the green leaves of the nearby bushes and filled the air with that April Springtime smell as the peepers maintained their constant chorus back and forth between Jackson’s pond and Wilson’s swamp across the ridge. Every now and then a lone gobbler would strike up a cord down in the meadow below Pipe Creek Bridge, but so far his persistence was ignored and unanswered. An unpleasant roaring sound startled Sam as he quickly jumped to his feet, looked at his watch and instinctively reached for his tracking system. Those lulling sounds of the springtime woods had been abruptly interrupted by the roaring sounds of rubber on asphalt as one car then another traveled down the back roads on separate sides of the timber toward the factories in town. Soon these roads would be full of morning travelers in a hurry headed for work and Sam was feeling the urgent need to round Sugar up and get on outta’ there before she became someone’s new hood ornament. It had been a long night for the pair, starting out at a local coonhound event against a cast of proven winners and seasoned handlers. Sam felt very confident and initially unconcerned despite the obvious competition he was facing. His new prospect, Sugar, had been turning in consistent quality performances out there in the dark alone for the last several weeks. Tonight she had looked up to par early on with two split trees boasting “Rickies” in plain view of all before the wheels completely fell off. For the first forty-five minutes Sam was on cloud nine until his lead completely evaporated due to Sugar scoring 200- on a blank while the remaining dogs in the cast were split with plus points. Sam could not understand how his nice young female could look so good and perform so well, then just have a “stupid attack” right there in the middle of an important nite hunt cast. He wondered what caused her to come up short like that for no apparent reason. Was it something he was doing wrong as a trainer, was Sugar short on ability, short on brains, or was it all a genetic throwback? Sam even wondered if he had one of those “slick treeing idiots” the inexperienced cyber coonhunters banter back and forth about on the coonhound message boards. As the cast members signed the back of th ... more “Back Home Again” By: Jerry Moll A huge cloud of grey filled the air behind school bus #16 as it bounced along the rarely traveled dirt road past Herb Miller’s field of hand tied corn shocks. Now about half way home on my hour long bus ride, I was getting impatient and anxious to get the trip over with. Trying to pass the time away, I crossed my arms on the back of the seat in front of me for a place to rest my head while making a halfhearted attempt at taking a nap. The nap idea was proving to be quite unsuccessful as the remaining kids on the bus were making quite a commotion. Bob, our bus driver flipped back and forth from Cincinnati radio stations W-L-W and W-S-A-I trying to find something more to his liking. I perked up a little as he caught the end of “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, but after a few more channel selections he seemed to settle on the news. Great! Just what I wanted to hear, more political analysis of President Richard M. Nixon’s resignation a few months prior and his recent unconditional pardon granted by current President, Gerald R. Ford. Luckily Bob switched back over to W-S-A-I just in time for John Denver’s "Back Home Again”, now that was soothing to the ears and I finally started to relax. It was Friday, November 8th 1974; the opening of coon season here in Indiana and not much else really mattered to me at the time. I truly believe I did not hear a single word spoken to me by a teacher or fellow student this entire day as my mind was 100% focused upon turning my hound loose once it got dark. I had been working hard trying to save money for a hound since the previous winter. Mom and Dad were a little unhappy with me considering the work needing done on the farm; they didn’t want me wasting valuable time and money on an ol’ hound dog. Since I had worked and saved the money on my own, they reluctantly said it was my decision, but I could tell they sure didn’t like it much. Dad reminded me several times that year, “Son if your chores get to slippin’ on account of that dog, he’s gonna’ have to go, that’s all there is to it”. Up to this point everything had been going along smoothly along those lines as I made absolutely sure nothing was left undone. The more I thought about it, I was admittedly unsure how I was going to keep all my chore responsibilities covered and still spend all the time I wanted to in the woods. I kept my savings folded up in one of those old Prince Albert tobacco tins; you know the red ones that w ... more “The Good Ol’ Days By: Jerry Moll The cigarette smoke obstructed Dale’s vision like an early morning fog as he opened the rusty steel door and stepped in to the Greenbow County Coonhunters Club. He concluded he must be the first one back from the Nite Hunt as the usual guys were still sitting around playing cards or warming themselves by the old pot belly stove. The club cook Henry Petri hollered over from one of the card tables, “Sonny, a man sure hates ta’ get up when he’s a-winnin’, if’n ya need anything from the kitchen, jus’ help yourself and leave the money right there on the counter”. That advice sounded pretty darn good to Dale as he was cold from the night air and getting a might hungry to boot. Taking Henry up on his offer, he stepped back into the kitchen to find a big slow cooker full of chili soup, you know the kind with lots a meat, maters’, plump macaroni, bits of green and red peppers along with several different kinds of beans. Dale filled up a bowl to the brim, poured a styrofoam cup of steaming hot coffee, grabbed some saltine crackers and laid $2.75 on the counter. This night hasn’t turned out half bad after all, he thought to himself as he found a perfect spot to sit down next to the wood stove to warm up and wade into that bowl of beef & bean chili. Chester McFarland, the coon club’s resident old-timer, was sittin’ there by the stove and noticed Dale at the table eatin’ his chili. Chester says, “hey youngun’ looks like you must not have done to good tonight since your back so early, huh?” Dale, not really wanting to talk about his night, begrudgingly answered, “yeah, I had the big end of two blanks and the other dogs had scored on a coon and felt my chances were pretty darn slim, so I hollered “uncle” and went to the truck.” Chester chuckled a little and said, “yep, them tree dogs are a dime a dozen these days, but a good track dog that’ll have a coon when its treed is scarcer then hens teeth, I tell ya.” Dale grumbled a little as he crushed the remainder of his saltines to spread over his bowl and looked at Chester and said, “you outta’ get ya’ some of this here chili, sure is good”, trying his best to change the subject. Chester not being one to give in that easily, said “I can remember them ol' runnin' dogs Bubba Baker use to raise over on Hoot Owl Flats. Every once in a while one would fall out of the pack and start to treein’, if you’d latch on to one of them, man you had somethin’. Dale polished off his chili, picked up his ... more “What You Breed Is What You Get” By: Jerry Moll It was an exceptional winter evening to be out in the woods, late January and thirty-five degrees with a soft westerly breeze keeping the tree branches busily smacking each other overhead. Remaining patches of snow lay deep on the north face of each ridge while the south hillsides were thawing and slick from the day’s warming sun. A slab rock creek at the far end of the hollow below produced a continuous roaring sound as the water rushed within its banks from the vast acres of snow melting by the minute. The sky was alive with millions of stars seemingly at arms length and a beautiful crescent moon reminiscent of that huge grin on Alice’s Cheshire Cat. Being outside in the night air was a welcome change for Harry and Larry and they were enjoying it as well as each other’s company for the first time in several weeks. Old Man Winter had settled in on their corner of Indiana and the two had been confined to their respective homes for quite a while. It had not been fit outside for man nor beast with the daily temperatures bouncing around in the lower teens on the good days and in to the single digits or negative numbers on most nights. But, tonight the duo’s expectations were extremely high with the change in weather and the prospect of running one of those late winter love sick boar coons seemed almost a certainty. As the pair sat on the remains of an old poplar log their two females Flossie and Fannie seemed to be taking turns giving tongue as they struggled on an old track below, working it back and forth over the hillsides about a quarter mile to their east. The gyps could run the track well on the south banks but would stall out and run in circles or back track on the frozen north sides. It seemed they were taking two steps forward and three steps back as the wait on the log grew longer and longer. Both Harry and Larry had bought these females of “good” lineage with the intention of breeding and raising some nice puppies from them. Their theory was to keep and train the ones they could not sell off the teat and make themselves some extra spending money, maybe even enough to run a few nite hunts in the area. As was the usual case when these two friends got together the discussion soon turned to the philosophical aspects of coonhound breeding. “Ya know Ol’ Flossie ain’t too bright, maybe I’ll just breed her to one of them studs with the dew claws and glass eyes, they say them dogs have the “good stuff” in their backgrou ... more "Prepare To Win" By: Jerry Moll There were but a few numbers remaining on the countdown of Dave’s trusty Timex Ironman™ wrist watch as the knots began building in his stomach. He and his hound Matilda had won their qualifying cast earlier in the evening by treeing the only two coons scored and were now attempting to make through the late round for a berth into the semi-finals. This second cast proved to contain much stiffer competition from both the dog and handler standpoint, but as the cast progressed Matilda had secured the deciding lead. There was just one “minor” issue that was eating at Dave and causing him to squirm in his nylon bibs and shuffle the leaves beneath his Mucks, three minutes were remaining in this cast, but only two minutes left on the stationary rule. This severe anxiety attack of Dave’s actually stemmed from Matilda’s high point in the cast when she slammed a red hot coon by herself with the other three dogs completely out of pocket. This coon put the duo way out ahead of the pack; nothing could take away the cast win from them, well almost nothing. This one coon had Matilda so excited that she just had to return and tree some more until Dave had to re-tree her only to be handled and re-cast again. The thought of her returning the second time never even crossed Dave’s mind as he strutted through the regulation one minute walk. But return she did and it was the moment of truth, Dave had to tree her now to prevent the scratch. Could she be on a different tree? Would she leave the tree before they arrived? These two unlikely scenarios seemed to be their only possibilities at this point. But, no Matilda was locked down tight; right below the same “Mr. Ricky” that gave her such an impressive lead just moments before. Dave’s heart sank as he snapped the lead on her knowing full well a less capable hound had just won his cast and advanced toward a major title and some major bucks. The cast members quickly congratulated the winner, signed the scorecard and scattered to the winds in search of their hounds. Meanwhile Dave and Matilda were heading back to the truck, one down in the dumps and one bouncing around as proud as a peacock, just happy to be alive. As Dave walked along he kept asking himself, “How in the world can a dog like this get beat when she’s the best out here”? Dave recounted in his mind the number of nights he hunted her, the coon they had treed, the lost sleep and sometimes the lost work over the last two years. He ... more "Always Hoe Out Your Row" By: Jerry Moll The frost glistened in the moonlight illuminating the green winter wheat as I stepped over the last woven wire fence into the field, now within a quarter mile of her. She had been treed for quite a while and was sounding more convincing with each step I took. The long walk had finally eliminated the chills I had accumulated from waiting while she worked the cold feed track out of the creek bottom and up onto the oak ridge. It was getting up into the morning somewhere after 2:00 am, but the night sky was bright as noon. I believe you could have sat down and read the wall street journal with no additional light. As I looked out over the landscape I took note there was not a cloud in the sky and not a noise to be heard but the rhythmic ringing chop of my hound off in the distance. Immediately I paused and gave thanks to our God for providing such scenery, such an opportunity to be one with nature, just me and my hound. As far as December nights go, the young gyp and I had started out the evening pretty well, treeing two coons early on before things started to backslide. The afternoon had been overcast and the coons seemed to move right at dark, if not before. Directly after our short lived success the skies began to clear showing a spectacular full moon, followed by the temperature dropping quickly into the low teens. As I continued on my trek toward her I pondered how this next event of our night would set the stage for the next several hours. Would I wind up in bed all warm and cozy like “normal” people, or would we be out here for the duration trying to end the hunt on a good note? I had been working steadily on this female for treeing wrong and depending on what she had to show me in this tree of hers, we could be in for a long night. The idea of leashing her up and heading for the truck regardless of what she had did cross my mind. It was cold and I was tired and boy did that nice warm bed sound good to me. But as the tree line came into sight I could hear Dad’s voice in the back of my head, “always hoe out your row son”, “always hoe out your row”. What in the world does hoeing rows have to do with coonhunting you might ask? Well, I had somewhat of a unique childhood, growing up on a small Indiana farm the youngest in the family with twelve brothers and sisters. No, this is not a misprint; there were actually thirteen children in our family, six boys and seven girls. The trips to the grocery store much less anywhere else away f ... more

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