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T. Edward Nickens Goes Coon Hunting
In northern Alabama, chasing baying hounds in the middle of the night is part hunting, part competition, and pure adrenaline...
T. Edward Nickens
"Get on him, Rowdy, get on him," Baker coaches. "Talk to him, boy." Johnston and Baker hiss and shriek like fighting coons, trying to get the animal to move, but after 10 minutes, it's clear the raccoon has curled up in a den, safe and snug, and is certain not to show.
Baker snaps a thick wire lead to Rowdy's collar and pulls the dog off the tree. "Late winter is a hard time," he says. "The easy coons are gone, and the boars are in the rut. Most of the time they go to a den tree. A hard time. But that don't make it a bad time. Not with a coon dog in the woods."
A Coon Hunting Conversion
"Coon hunting saved my life," Mark Carroll tells me the next morning. It is 7 a.m., but a coon hunter's bruised shins and bloodied cheeks make it seem like the end of a long day. We're back in the truck now, driving through oak-clad ridges. As a younger man, running deer with dogs was Carroll's consuming passion. But somewhere along the way, he says, "I took up drinking and sinning on a full-time basis, and that didn't leave much time to hunt." He also took up a pair of dogs that cared nothing for deer. "They'd run the fire out of squirrels," he explains, "so I thought, maybe they'll tree coons." That's how it started.
"Once I got going, it burned in me something fierce. I'd walk off and leave a steak on the table and a good-looking woman wanting my attention to go coon hunting," says Carroll. "It changed everything. I quit drinking. I quit everything but smoking and coon hunting. I counted up one time, and I went for more than 400 days in a row, except for Sundays. That's why I can tell you: Coon hunting saved my life. If I'd-a kept on whooping and drinking like I was, I'd be gone by now."
As it turns out, Carroll has plenty of company. Coon hunting takes place at night, in the back of beyond, where small groups of hunters huddle off the side of the road. They require a gathering place, a place where the younger hunters can plot out the next night's hunt and the old hunters can spin their lies. They need a place like Square B Tack & Feed.
Baker snaps a thick wire lead to Rowdy's collar and pulls the dog off the tree. "Late winter is a hard time," he says. "The easy coons are gone, and the boars are in the rut. Most of the time they go to a den tree. A hard time. But that don't make it a bad time. Not with a coon dog in the woods."
A Coon Hunting Conversion
"Coon hunting saved my life," Mark Carroll tells me the next morning. It is 7 a.m., but a coon hunter's bruised shins and bloodied cheeks make it seem like the end of a long day. We're back in the truck now, driving through oak-clad ridges. As a younger man, running deer with dogs was Carroll's consuming passion. But somewhere along the way, he says, "I took up drinking and sinning on a full-time basis, and that didn't leave much time to hunt." He also took up a pair of dogs that cared nothing for deer. "They'd run the fire out of squirrels," he explains, "so I thought, maybe they'll tree coons." That's how it started.
"Once I got going, it burned in me something fierce. I'd walk off and leave a steak on the table and a good-looking woman wanting my attention to go coon hunting," says Carroll. "It changed everything. I quit drinking. I quit everything but smoking and coon hunting. I counted up one time, and I went for more than 400 days in a row, except for Sundays. That's why I can tell you: Coon hunting saved my life. If I'd-a kept on whooping and drinking like I was, I'd be gone by now."
As it turns out, Carroll has plenty of company. Coon hunting takes place at night, in the back of beyond, where small groups of hunters huddle off the side of the road. They require a gathering place, a place where the younger hunters can plot out the next night's hunt and the old hunters can spin their lies. They need a place like Square B Tack & Feed.
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