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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
The group turns quiet. One of the dogs lets out a long bawl that trails off into a wavering yodel. Holden pumps the air with his fist. "Who do you think's on that tree? Ole Buzz!" he hoots. "Hear that little quiver at the end? Put it in the bank, boys. Time to go!"
Holden and a few other hunters start off for the dogs, but James Baker and I hang back for a moment, listening to the music. Baker, Carroll told me earlier, has been coon hunting "since he came off the teat." But he's had to slow it down of late.
"Man, there was a time I was a sure-nuff coon hunter, let me tell you," he tells me. "I'd hunt six nights a week." Baker glances around to make sure that nobody is close enough to hear, and shakes his head. "But not anymore. Now, I reckon I don't hunt more'n two, three nights a week."
When I get to the dogs, total chaos ensues: Buzz, Rowdy, and Hopeless have "split tree," each dog baying up at a different trunk. The dogs are stretched out, each one leaping, barking, and dancing around a tree. Two of the trees are slick, but in the third, far above Buzz, a raccoon presses itself tightly against a branch, its eyes glittering in the headlamp beams. Holden slips a battered .22 off his shoulder.
He doesn't like to shoot the coons, Holden tells me. He doesn't need the hide or the meat. But the dogs need this, he says. Not often, but every now and then. They need to taste the coon's blood, its spoor in their mouths. They need to hear it screeching and feel its claws on their muzzles.
Holden pulls the trigger and the coon falls like a sack of sugar. It hits the ground, and Buzz is on it.
"Dead. Dead. That's right, Buzz. Dead."
The dogs need it every now and then, he says, to remember why they run, why they go wild when the leash is slipped, why they have these clangorous, mournful voices and wet noses and long legs.
"Dead. Dead." It is a shamanistic chant. "Dead. Dead."
And every so often, Holden needs it, too. He's out here for the music, to see shooting stars streak through bare winter branches, to gather at the truck and trade barbs with his buddies. But Holden understands why Buzz strains at the leash and leaps at the tree, delirious with the scent of coon. They are here, man and dog, for the hunt.
"Good man, ol' Buzz. Come on, now. Find another one."
Holden and a few other hunters start off for the dogs, but James Baker and I hang back for a moment, listening to the music. Baker, Carroll told me earlier, has been coon hunting "since he came off the teat." But he's had to slow it down of late.
"Man, there was a time I was a sure-nuff coon hunter, let me tell you," he tells me. "I'd hunt six nights a week." Baker glances around to make sure that nobody is close enough to hear, and shakes his head. "But not anymore. Now, I reckon I don't hunt more'n two, three nights a week."
When I get to the dogs, total chaos ensues: Buzz, Rowdy, and Hopeless have "split tree," each dog baying up at a different trunk. The dogs are stretched out, each one leaping, barking, and dancing around a tree. Two of the trees are slick, but in the third, far above Buzz, a raccoon presses itself tightly against a branch, its eyes glittering in the headlamp beams. Holden slips a battered .22 off his shoulder.
He doesn't like to shoot the coons, Holden tells me. He doesn't need the hide or the meat. But the dogs need this, he says. Not often, but every now and then. They need to taste the coon's blood, its spoor in their mouths. They need to hear it screeching and feel its claws on their muzzles.
Holden pulls the trigger and the coon falls like a sack of sugar. It hits the ground, and Buzz is on it.
"Dead. Dead. That's right, Buzz. Dead."
The dogs need it every now and then, he says, to remember why they run, why they go wild when the leash is slipped, why they have these clangorous, mournful voices and wet noses and long legs.
"Dead. Dead." It is a shamanistic chant. "Dead. Dead."
And every so often, Holden needs it, too. He's out here for the music, to see shooting stars streak through bare winter branches, to gather at the truck and trade barbs with his buddies. But Holden understands why Buzz strains at the leash and leaps at the tree, delirious with the scent of coon. They are here, man and dog, for the hunt.
"Good man, ol' Buzz. Come on, now. Find another one."
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