Our Coon Hunting Heritage

By Steve Fielder

“Our Coon Hunting Heritage” will feature stories and previously published articles from the bygone days of this great sport of coon hunting.

The inspiration for this series came with a rare find that I made on Ebay in 2002. I successfully bid on a collection of coon hunting stories published in 1924 that had been printed in the early 20th century in the popular magazine called Hunter-Trader-Trapper, published by F.J. & W. F. Heer, Publishers of Columbus, Ohio. The collection of stories was compiled by O. Kuechler, Editor of Hunter-Trader-Trapper and published in book form in an edition titled “Cooning With Cooners.”

These remarkable accounts of coon hunting when transportation was a Model T Ford, the light of choice was a bullseye kerosene lantern and the dog of choice was usually a duke’s mixture of bloodlines are a treasure to anyone who really loves this sport. The game bag of the night hunter in those days was mixed with opossums, skunks, and the occasional coon and the collars were removed from the hounds before they were released for the hunt. I found these stories to be great reading and felt that I had to share them with PROHOUND Online readers.

We will entertain similar stories from senior members of our sport and publish them here under the “Our Coon Hunting Heritage” title. Should you have such a story from days gone by to share, send me an email at dogstar118@aol.com and we’ll try to publish it here. We look forward to hearing from you.

I hope you enjoy our first installment taken from the yellowed pages of “Cooning With Cooners”, keeping in mind that this story was written over 80 years ago.

Story Number One

THE TALE OF A COON HUNT
By Orma Winter

November first, what did it mean? To most people practically nothing, but to me it was something I had been looking forward to for weeks. It was the first day in the open season for coon hunting. My coonhound, a large, beautifully-marked Kentucky black-and-tan, knew that something was in the air, for he had been trying to get out of his pen all afternoon. He was a thoroughbred in every sense of the word, and many an old veteran coon had he treed after hours of hard trailing.

I live on a farm just one mile from the Mississippi bottoms, where the coon are thick, although hard to get because of so many sloughs. As soon as a coon hears a dog bark on his trail, he makes at once for the water, which makes it very hard for the dog. I hunted mostly in the bluffs above the river for this reason; and here there are a good many caves in which they find a safe retreat from the dogs.

I had asked Fred Neale, a cousin of mine, from a nearby city, who had never been coon hunting before, to come out and spend a week of coonhunting with me. We were both just twenty-one, and had spent some good times together. He had arrived that afternoon on the 4 o’clock train. The first thing he said to me was, “Well, George, are you ready to start on that coon hunt? I am.” And he certainly was. He was rigged out in a complete hunting suit, with game bag, and a 12-gauge shotgun of the latest design. I smiled and said, “No, not now, as the coon don’t come out until after dark, and it would be no use in hunting them until then.” I took him out and showed him my hound, he had never seen a dog like this one, and thought he was a bloodhound, because he had such long ears. We talked about dogs and coon hunting until my mother called us for supper.

After supper I got out my carbide light and .22 Winchester repeater. My cousin started loading up his shotgun, and talking about shooting the coon we were going to get. I smiled a little, and told him there was no need to take his gun along at all, as the fine shot at close range spoiled the pelt, sometimes entirely ruining it. Some of the old hunters around here still use the shotgun, because they say they cannot see to shoot good enough after night with a rifle. I have always used the rifle, and usually bring Mr. Coon down the first shot, after shining his eyes. Fred was very mush disappointed, but I finally persuaded him to leave it at home, by letting him take my rifle.

When I stepped out of the door King let out a chorus of barking that could have been heard for two miles. He knew that old gun and carbide light, and was more than ready to be off. I told Fred that we would stop at our neighbor’s house, where two of my friends would join us in the hunt. They had a young hound which they wanted to give a little training, so brought him along. Ernest Miller, the elder of my two friends, had been with me on many a long night’s hunt. I was glad to have him along, for he not only enjoyed the sport, but was an expert in tree climbing. Walter, his brother, had also been with us a number of times.

It was just 7:30 when we started. We were all in high spirits, and speculating on how many coon we would get. It was a beautiful moonlight night, rather warm, and a slight wind blowing from the south. I told the boys that it was not a first night of the season, thought we would surely strike something.

We decided to cross our neighbor’s pasture and into the cornfield bordering the bluffs, where the coon and squirrels took a heavy toll of the golden ears. As soon as we reached the cornfield I unchained King. He was off like a streak: it seemed like he had smelled something already. In just two minutes he let out a deep bellow, and we knew he had struck a trail. My cousin said, “He’s got him,” and started off as hard as he could for the dog. We yelled for him to come back but he paid no attention, and kept right on after the dog, until he ran pell-mell into a barbed-wire fence. When we got up to him I thought he was half killed, blood was streaming across his face, from a cut in his forehead, and the front of his hunting coat was ripped clear off. Aside from this we found he was unhurt, although he had cracked the stock of my rifle in his fall. He decided to stay with the rest of us from then on, as I told him there was no use in following the dog, until he barked tree. He asked me how I knew when he barked treed when he was barking all the time. I said that the trail bark was long and drawn out while the tree bark was shorter and louder.

Meanwhile King had been hard after Mr. Coon. I knew that he must be an old one or he would have had him treed by this time. King had taken him out of the cornfield, and down in the lower woods pasture, where he had made two or three large circles. King was gaining fast on the coon as his bark was getting louder and more anxious. We were looking for him to bark treed any minute, when all of a sudden he stopped barking entirely. “That coon is up to some devilment,” I said. Then he began barking treed, but I could tell by his bark he was not certain yet. I was right, for he only barked treed a few seconds, and was off trailing again. I knew, then, what the coon was doing, he would run up one side of a tree, and then jump off on the other side. The dog, upon trailing him up to the tree, would at first think he was up there, but when he circled the tree would pick up the coon’s trail again. The coon did this a number of time, but old King was getting onto his tricks as he gained steadily on him. Finally he let out a ringing bellow, followed by another and another. Then the woods just simply rang with his music. “Boys,” I said, “he sure has got the coon this time.” We all started for the tree with my cousin taking the lead. I said there was no need to hurry, as King would stay until morning. We were all anxious, though, to get to the tree, so ran most of the way, a good half mile. When we got there he was barking us a large old black oak which was very tall. Fred said, “Let me have your light, I think I see him.” I did so and he said, “there he is, right in that lower crotch, watch me bring him down.” I said, “Wait a minute and see if you can shine his eyes first,” but he could not, so he shot anyway. The coon never moved, so he shot again and again. “Are you sure it is a coon you are shooting at?” I said. “Yes, I know it is; I think he is dad up there in the crotch, “ said Fred. “Well, Ernest, here is a job for you,” I said. So he pulled off his coat and began to climb the tree. When he reached the crotch he began to laugh. “The joke is sure on you fellows,” he said. “It is nothing but a squirrel’s nest, but you were coming close, as a lot of the bark has been peeled off by the bullets.” “Can you see anything of the coon above you?” I asked. He said no, that he did not think there was anything up there at all. I told him to climb a little higher, but it was no use, there was no coon up that tree.

King was very seldom, if ever, wrong. When he barked up a tree the coon was usually there. It looked like he had made a mistake this time. “Well, boys,” I said, “it’s no use, we might as well go on.” But King would not stir from the tree, although we coaxed and pleaded. As soon as we began to leave the tree, he began to bark louder and more determined than ever. There was a huge white oak tree still full or dry, dead leaves, right next to the tree King was barking up. “That coon is around here some place and I am going to find him. Give me your light and I will climb the white oak,” said Ernest. I said I did not think there was much use as I did not see how the coon could cross over into the white oak unless he jumped, and it was a good five feet between the two nearest limbs, although the limb on the black oak was higher than the one on the white oak.

There was a possibility of him crossing over, although I had never known of them doing it, unless the limbs were touching or almost touching. Ernest lost no time in climbing the tree, as it had a good many limbs on its truck. When he had climbed as far as he could go he said, “Well, there is no coon up here.” I asked him if he could see the top of the tree and he said no, that there were too many leaves. He then began to shake the top. “By golly, boys, he’s up here all righ, I can feel him coming down,” much to Ernest’s discomfiture, as he afterwards told us. The coon, a great big 30-pounder, had come down the tree for Ernest. If he had had a gun he could have shot the coon easily, but all he had was my carbide light. Ernest said it was the first time in his life he was afraid of a coon, he was sure frightened when he saw those teeth coming at him.

When the coon got within arm’s length, he shoved the hot flame of the carbide full in the coon’s mouth. This was too much for the coon, so he jumped, catching onto another limb below Ernest. All this went on without us hearing or seeing a thing. Ernest came working down the tree, shaking each limb as he came to locate him.

All at once out came Mr. Coon right over our heads where we could all see him plain. He was sure a big one, and my cousin was no time in getting a bead on him. It took three shots to bring him down, and even the dogs had hard work to handle him. We all made a guess as to how much he would weigh, Fred saying that he weighed fifty pounds if he weighed one. When, upon weighing him the next day, we found him to weigh thirty-six pounds, the largest coon I ever saw or got. It had taken us just two hours to get this coon after King had barked treed. I believe he was the hardest one to get I ever had had experience with. We got two more coon that night but neither one gave us the thrill the first one did.

King had sure lived up to his reputation that night, as he did a few nights later, when he swam across the Mississippi after a coon, and treed him in a big elm on the river bank, but that is another story.

My cousin had just simply gone wild over the sport and said he was going to stay all month if I would let him. We went out a good many times together, getting over thirty coon that fall, but none of our hunts equalled the first night out.