The Raccoon Hunt

There are hunters and hunters. To me the most interesting variety of the breed is the variety of night prowlers, who start after dark and return between dark and sunrise. With a good sized pack of coon hounds with as many "pretty mouths" they start out whenever the spirit leads, preferably on a dark night when the ground is not too dry. Love it? You ought to see their eyes shine by the light of a lantern or flashlight when the hounds begin their music. And music it is to them. You might give these fellows a season ticket to the Grand Opera, but before the season was over, you would find them back once more in one of the swamps of old Virginia at three o'clock in the morning.

The writer has been on a number of coon hunts, but he always return minus the wily coon. Oh yes, he has brought home a possum and he has tasted of the possum's toothsome meat (if you like it.) He has helped to dig the pig-tailed creature out of a hole or hollow stump, but the only raccoons he has ever seen have been the Zoo pets, which have degenerated into fat peanut-eating creatures, slow of movement. But every dog has his day and this preacher has had his coon hunt from A to Z. Why did we get the coon? Because we had the bunch and the dogs; both knew their business as Paderewski knows his business. Only the playing of Paderewski is not to be compared with the music I heard when the hounds struck a hot trail and the professionals started their "hollering" a holy jumpers camp meeting cannot make more fuss than six trained coon hunters. And they were all high tenors. What they hollered at the dogs, I do no know, I believe they spake in "tongues". But that doesn't matter, for the dogs understood and I believe the coon did too.

Let me introduce these champion coon trailers to the public at large and more especially to the uninitiated readers of the "Enterprise": C. H. Burton, C. H. Burton, Jr., Jack Matthews, David Elliott, C. B. Mason, W. T. Mason and Rev. Marinus James (guest of the evening but not in full dress). In order to be familiar with the personnel of the chase, let me make the readers acquainted with the dogs who were privileged to share in this rare hunt: Belonging to "Dave" Elliott: "Jack", "Joe Kelley", "White Joe" and "Little Jim"; belonging to Jack Matthews: "Brownie"; belonging to C. H. Burton and Co: "Tip", "Poor Red Dog" and "Queen"; last but not least the dog belonging to W. T. Burton: "Nine O'Clock In The Morning." Oh, pardon me, there was one more dog named "Trinkle" who in some way or other followed the pack. But Trinkle was a "hasbeen", for he was not in the running. The other dogs took his crown.

We started at seven-thirty p. m., February 15 for Dahl Swamp, the coon's paradise, in a truck and runabout. Six dogs were tied to a long rope in the center of the truck and four were stowed away in the coverall of the little car. The occupants of the truck were entertained all the way to the happy hunting grounds by "Brownie", for that dog has the incurable habit of whining. It was pitiful to listen to his cries of despair. He reminded me of some church members I have known, who never see the silver lining. Every now and then his master admonished him, but the weeping hound would not be appeased until -- until he smelled the coon. Then his mourning was turned into dog hilarity of the finest sort. The roads were dreadful, but that did not matter, the anticipation was so great that little bumping only added to the zest of the occasion. We had to get out only one time to push Lizzie a bit. And, of course, we were entertained by the boasting of the dog owners. They were wonderful dogs and such experiences these men had gone thru on previous hunts! Well, George Washington never told a lie.

Our pilots, C. H. Burton and "Dave" Elliott, signaled by the swinging of a lantern that we had arrived. "Dave" an incurable devotee of the coon hunt led the way, and soon found the tracks of one of the two coons he had started that same day at five o'clock in the morning. He simply could not rest until he had another chase, if it was the same day. Then into the swamp. No, into the water. The heavy rains of the season had turned the swamp into a succession of lakes. Hip boots were worn by all and proved to be an absolute necessity. One or twice a fellow stepped into a hole and got his feet wet in spite of his boots.

At nine o'clock the concert started, for the dogs had "started" a coon. On account of the water all around the fleeing animals, the concert was interrupted frequently. Between the different numbers on the program there was speculation of the rankest kind. One of the wiseacres said: "I bet it is a gray fox. If that were a coon you would know it. That dog of mine can't be fooled." Then another expert exclaimed: "Don't you know that a gray fox never gets as close to people as that coon did." Whereupon another chap chimed in and said: "I have known a gray fox to come right close to the house." And so it went. On and on and around and around that poor coon would lead the pack of hounds by the nose. At times he got so close to us that we could hear the intense smelling of the dogs. At 9:50 there was no mistaking it, someone exclaimed: "He is treed." Through briars, over fallen trees, closely huddled together with flashlights and lanterns we followed our leader and there was the pack literally howling up a tree. "Jack," a veteran of many hunts sat on his haunches, and at regular intervals looked up and let out his pipe organ tones. When "Dave" called him he looked for a moment at his master as if to say, "don't you know that I am busy with the supreme business of my life? I am a blooded coon dog and at a moment like this, I want you to leave me alone." One by one the dogs were tied to a tree or held by the neck or under the arm, for if that coon should jump out, the pack would ear him to pieces and that would end the chase. A counsel of war was held, for the tree was tall and thick. Jack Matthews, the gymnast of the party put on his climbing spurs, for nothing is overlooked by a good coon hunter and was up in that tree as quickly as this is written down. He reported that the tree was hollow almost all the way up and down. He broke off a limb and started to operate in the hole. Finding that Mr. Coon was not to be moved, he stuffed a coat into the hollow and came down. In the meantime the orchestra was playing: "Hail, hail the gang's all here. "What to do next." "Dave" suggested that an axe be procured from a house near the swamp and the tree cut down. Who would volunteer to get the axe. "Give the preacher the compass, Dave, he can read it." Three of us, following the instructions to go due North and if it was too thick turn to the right, went after the axe and after a while came wading back to the fatal maple tree. As soon as the cutting process began, the musicians gave us a medley of songs with variations of the great dog master pieces. Such harmonies were never written. Tearing and pulling, they were ready to jump at the coon the minute he was released from his prison. We had all we could do to hold the furious animals. I was holding little Jim, Dave's special pet by a leather strap. "He wouldn't bite anybody," but after turning and twisting with all his might he and all the rest of the dogs went wild with excitement when the tree fell and bit the knuckle of my index finger. You could hardly blame the dogs for all was excitement. In the crash the hollow tree split open and the coon escaped. After holding the dogs a while to give the coon a chance for his life, the mad chase began in earnest.

Splashing, stumbling, running, jumping, ever on and ever on. All the tricks known to coondom were tried out by the little wild animal. At last he managed to get out of the swamp, across the county road and then to the mouth of the Pungoteague Creek. Faster and faster. My coat and trousers were dripping wet, for I had the misfortune to stumble over something while trying to keep up with the gang and fell into the water, face forward to the amusement of the gang. It was a cold night, but when we chased that coon across the corn field, soggy form the heavy rainfalls, the hot perspiration broke out and I discovered that a real coon hunt is no lark.

At the creek we parted, some following on one side and some on the other. Unfortunately, I was on the wrong side of the creek, as the final outcome showed. We could see the lantern and flashlight on the other side as the lucky fellows continued the chase. It almost broke the heart of one of the men: "To hear all that music and not be near the dogs is tough luck."

We warmed ourselves by a fire and decided to wait. Then we heard the unmistakable short bark of the dogs in pursuit. "They've got him." After swimming across the creek several times, the pack separately drove the plucky little animal back to land. At one time swimming in the icy waters, the coon was surrounded by not less than seven dogs. They pounced on him, but he fought them off every time, and came near drowning "Jack" when he held him under just a little bit too long for the comfort of a hound. At last the game fighter, slightly wounded and exhausted came near the edge of the creek and was taken by the hind feet and back of the neck and carried to the truck. If the daring creature lives, he will be turned loose again, for the real coon hunter does not go out to kill, he goes out for the sport of the thing.

Tired but satisfied the party returned at one thirty a. m. On the way home, we figured that the entire chase lasted four hours. Close to the Court House we saw the last sign of wild life as a scared little rabbit crossed the stone road and a few minutes later we were back to civilization. Oh, the call of the wild is irresistible. The battle of life will be a little easier because I have been close to nature once more. This is a great old earth and the earth still produces men who hear the voices of the wild!