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"Summertime and the livin¡¦ is easy"
By Jerry Moll
11/2/2009 6:12:08 PM
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 myself and still being bit and scratched to no end.
After crossing the creek I was almost there, the dogs were just on the other side of a ¡§small¡¨ cutover. This had been a nice hardwood grove just a few years ago and was harvested down to nothing. Many times the tree tops are cut up for firewood in our area leaving reasonably clean cut-out woods, but not in this instance. Briars, multi-flower roses, raspberry and blackberry bushes had taken over and entangled themselves in these discarded tops. The young kitten coon are really attracted to this stuff, plenty of cover, places to climb and all kinds of berries to eat in between. Luckily I found a deer path going through the underbrush, sure it was still thick and briery, but at least I could keep my feet on the ground most of the time. Before I knew it the dogs were picking up pace in their treeing rhythm, hot or not they were excited to hear me coming. As I rounded the corner of the woods I spied a whole tree full of eyes looking back at me, yep a big sow and five kitten coon. ¡§Good dogs¡¨, I said as I approached them, thankful I didn¡¦t put myself through all that for a blank or a maybe.
After leading the dogs to a nearby drainage ditch for a drink I sat down to contemplate my next move for a moment. This was one of those nights you question the sanity of yourself and every other Coonhunter in the world. Why would anyone venture out under these conditions, putting themselves through torture, just to follow a hound dog through the woods? ¡§Boy wouldn¡¦t air conditioning and an ice cold beverage feel good right now¡¨, I mused. It was well past 2:00 am and I in no way intended to be out this late. But, with our newly established Daylight Savings Time, darkness doesn¡¦t fall until well after ten o¡¦clock. Sure, the time change may be a welcome change for landscapers, goofy golfers (sorry Terry) and a few other groups, but rest assured the Coonhunting population was not consulted or even considered in this decision making process ƒº.
Now, how to get back to the truck with just a few reasonable options at hand. I was only about one quarter of a mile from the nearest county road with fairly easy field walking to get there. (Yes, I know that¡¦s where I should have driven around to, don¡¦t remind me!) If I walked out that way it would still leave about two more miles of road walking ahead of me. Hey, wait a minute, what if I called Brenda and asked very nicely if she would get out of bed and come pick me up? Then for some reason I came to my senses and realized the pain of the briars, nettles and mosquitoes maybe weren¡¦t all that bad after all. As much as I hated to admit it, my best option seemed to be leading these two dogs back to the truck just the way I got in there.
On the long way back my mind began to wander about dedicated Coonhunters, those considered to be successful and those virtually unheard of. An interesting dynamic seems to arise when someone in the Coonhound world experiences a measure of success with their hounds. Uncle Lawrence used to say, ¡§Nothing changes your opinion of a friend as surely as success - yours or his¡¨. On the human side, previous friends and hunting partners will jump at the chance to say, ¡§I used to hunt with old so & so before they knew which end of a dog barked, I taught him everything he knows¡¨. If a dog starts to demonstrate notable winning or reproduction there is normally someone claiming they trained the dog or you will see magazine ads claiming to have influenced the breeding of this new wonder all the way back to Noah¡¦s Ark if need be. Heck, some of the ads you read nowadays you would think if it not for one or two people the modern day Coonhound would not even exist.
The flip side, hunters and dogs appearing to be unsuccessful never draw much attention. I¡¦ve known a few hunters in my lifetime that were as good at training and hunting a hound as anyone, but they chose to go unnoticed. These guys would not darken the doorway of a clubhouse and never owned a registered dog in their name that I know of. This type of hunter and trainer does not exist much in this day and age of instantaneous communication. If there are guys out there fitting this description, someone knows about him, guaranteed. Dogs are the same in my eye, years ago there were many top notch hounds both registered and grade that never hunted under the rules of the Nite Hunt game. They were hunted hard and often and would usually take on any comers, but that day too has come and gone in my opinion. Sure, you¡¦ll still hear people saying, ¡§There are dogs just as good tied up behind barns somewhere as there are in the hunts¡¨. Well I can agree, if we are talking about mediocre dogs entered in cheap weekend trophy hunts. But if you are talking about top hounds that can win anywhere in the country, there is simply no way to hide them these days. No way!
It is interesting to look back over the last thirty years to see who has been successful at winning and breeding. What lines of dogs and what breeders and handlers have stood the test of time? Some breeding programs were severely derailed by the DNA programs of the registries. All of the sudden they were unable to come up with a young winning dog from their stud year after year. Some of the top handlers became overzealous to the point they would win at all costs. Many of these guys are gone and forgotten, at least until you read the lists in the monthly magazines. It kind of makes you wonder what they are doing now. Oh, but the guys with the treedog strains that are still going strong, what do they have in common? They started with a strong foundation to build upon. When they ran across something that did not measure up they were not afraid to cull. When things got tough, they persevered and became better for it. Seems to come down to hard work, honesty with themselves and others as well as determination.
By the time I reached the truck I don¡¦t think I had enough moisture in me to sweat one more drop. Believe me both of the dogs were now leading and heeling like they had just come out of obedience class. Several sharp stickers had found their way down my chaps and into my boots, so as soon as the light was off, so came the boots. I gave the dogs each a bowl of water and the rest of the milk jug was poured directly over my head, boy did that feel good! Between the mosquito bites, the nettle rashes and the unseen tics, I couldn¡¦t wait to hit the shower.
On the drive home I thought a little more about success and failure in the Coonhound world. It seems that every year there is a new bandwagon of breeders for newcomers to unwittingly jump upon. In some cases these bandwagons are the real deal and can be successfully ridden for many years into the future. On the other hand sometimes these bandwagons are poorly fabricated and the wheels come off before they even get out of the gate. Remember, no matter what path you choose, jumping on the latest craze or trying to make your own, people flock to the winner and run from the loser. In this day and age of high speed communication you can¡¦t very well pretend to be something you are not. Success, as they say, has many parents, but failure is always the unwanted orphan!
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Last Updated by: Jerry Moll
11/2/2009 6:15:10 PM
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"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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