THE COON HUNT AND THE LYIN’ DOG

Steve was an avid racoon hunter.  In the Southern United States, and especially Eastern Kentucky, the sport of raccoon (“coon”) hunting is a favorite pastime for men. Early in our marriage, before we had children, I had never been exposed to coon hunting.  None of the men in my family had ever been coon hunters so I was naturally curious.  It sounded like fun and Steve persuaded me to go on a hunt with him one weekend.  I had absolutely no clue what to expect.   

Nobody knows for sure when this sport originated, but it was certainly around back in the early pioneer days.  Unlike the “gentleman’s sport” of fox hunting, there are no horses and no hunting horns blown.  A special breed of hounds originated and is bred in the Southern U.S. for this sport.  Coonhounds are descended from hunting hounds such as foxhounds and were thought to have been brought by early settlers to America in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.  There are at least six different breeds and every coon hunter will argue vehemently that their breed is best.  

I am most familiar with the three breeds I have commonly seen, Bluetick, Black and Tan and the English Treeing Walker.  I am by no means an expert on the subject.  However, from personal experience, there is no dog whose bark is more distinct and charming than that of a coonhound.  

All Steve had at the time was the limited illumination created by one old miner’s carbide lamp.  (Carbide lamps burn acetylene created by the reaction of calcium carbide with water. They produce a sooty flame and have a very distinct odor. They were banned by mining laws from use in coal mines because of the open flame and risk of ignition of mine gasses.)

Late one evening Steve and I headed out on a hunt in the hills behind his family homeplace.  At the time, he had a coonhound of questionable pedigree and integrity whose name was Snooker.  For lack of a better description, Snooker was a Black and Tan knock-off. Nevertheless, Snooker took the lead, quickly disappearing through the trees and darkness as the two of us followed at varying distances behind.  We went through briar patches and thickets, then climbed a barbed wire fence where I left a chunk of fabric from my pants behind.  Visibility was limited because carbide lamps don’t produce that many lumens on a new-moon lit night.  I stumbled here and there as I was following Steve.  He had the advantage of being the one wearing the head lamp.  

Soon we heard his hound barking on a distant ridge. 

“He’s got something treed.”  Steve commented.  “We need to head that way.”

We headed off in the direction of the barks.  We climbed for maybe 1000 feet/305 meters when the direction of Snooker’s bark changed.  He was now on the opposite 

hillside.  We changed course with him.

“He’s on the scent and trailing a coon.”  Steve commented, his voice only a little bit more excited.  “We’ll need to follow.”

We came to a rocky area, then a shallow creek.  I managed to cross, but at the price of two wet feet and one missing heel on my shoe.  By now the incline of the hill increased sharply and we were trying to hurry in case he had actually chased a coon up a tree.  Another five minutes or so of stumbling in the dark and again the direction of Snooker’s bark changed.  Over the course of a couple of hours, that lyin’ hound led us in a zig-zag pattern all over the mountainside.

Disgusted, Steve finally concluded “He’s running trash!”  

‘What do you mean “running trash?”  I asked.

Steve explained this meant his dog was running other small animals (e.g. a ‘possum) but not raccoons. The real joke was on the two of us for trusting the integrity of a lyin’ dog.  Within minutes we heard the rustling sounds of an approaching animal, looked down, and there was Snooker, wagging his tail as he stood at Steve’s feet.  

“That’s it! I’m getting another dog! We might as well go home if all he’s going to do tonight is run trash.”  Steve was not in the mood for humor.  “I’m getting another dog.  This time I’m getting one with ‘papers’ (certified pedigree).”

On the way back we happened upon a grove of persimmon trees, loaded with

fruit.   “Do you like persimmons?”  Steve asked, casually.

 ‘I’ve only tried them once or twice so I can’t remember what they taste like.’

Quickly Steve selected a large one from the tree and handed it to me.  It is important to note that the nights were getting cooler, but the first heavy frost of the Fall season had not yet come and the persimmon fruit had not yet turned orange and fallen to the ground.  I bit into it and immediately the bitter-tasting tannins from the unripened fruit made my mouth pucker with intense dryness.  I felt like my entire mouth was turned wrong-side out. ‘Oh yuck!’ I exclaimed as I flung the rest of the persimmon to the ground.

Steve started laughing.  

‘Very funny!’ I retorted with my mouth still puckered.  ‘I notice you aren’t eating them!’ 

“We’ll have to come back when they’re ripe.” Steve grinned.  

‘No thanks.  I’m not taking any chances after this one.’ I vowed that was my last persimmon.

That would also be my first and last coon hunt, although I later persuaded Steve to take a tape recorder one night and record the hunt.  It was a hilarious compilation of three men, each convinced his dog was best.  Each of them accused the other hounds of “running trash’ instead of a raccoon.  There was fierce competition for bragging rights regarding whose dog was the first recognizable bark indicating a coon had been treed.   They debated the finer points of coonhound breeds, which breed was best, which hound was the superior tracker, and which had the prettiest voice when they had a coon treed. On the tape, I could hear the men wading through creeks, chewing tobacco, spitting, teasing each other good naturedly, and each bragging on the superiority of their own hound.