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A nocturnal hunt for raccoons
The Nature Call: Author was looking forward to a hunt with houndsmen
John Lawrence Hanson - correspondent
Dec. 9, 2023 7:00 am, Updated: Dec. 11, 2023 8:04 am
Rain dropped between bare branches and into a zone of red light.
At times the drops looked like flakes. Merely an illusion, but fitting in an illusionary scene: a black cloak surrounded us, the woods were visible only here or there as the headlamps painted, the return vision of wet leaves and trees — glistening red.
A hound barked, clawing for the upper branches with all its might. Biology fitted the coonhound with many skills, but the claws of a black bear aren’t one.
Jason and Don trained their lamps up the tree, pushing back the black blanket only as high as the branches grew. There, high in the tree in a mass of oak leaves were a pair of raccoons.
There was the summit.
Goal obtained, the handler leashed the hound. The humans were satisfied and ready to move on, but the hound balked. It was emotionally invested and the cool human logic of counting treed game wasn’t the complete success ancient instincts desired.
At least I dressed right. I wore heavy knee boots, thick nylon chaps, no apologies leather gloves, a depreciated hunting coat, and shooting glasses. I took my cues from boyhood grouse hunts and an awareness that multiflora rose vines come alive at night.
I had wanted to tag along with houndsmen for a long time. Dog and man, united in a common pursuit — a timeless tale. Though the stuff of literary legends, it’s a pursuit tangentale to much of societal norms. For me, that made it all the more alluring.
Jason agreed to take me. The day was wet, the woods would be so dark and slippery that I wondered if that necessitated a reschedule. No.
Turns out only clear, full moon nights or bitter cold keep the hounds kenneled. I also learned that one doesn’t just “tag along” either.
Don joined us, too. Jason’s dad trailed hounds since boyhood on the farm near Fairfax. Don had lots to say, I had lots to learn.
Somewhere in the borderlands of Linn and Johnson counties, Jason parked at a forest trail near its heavy gate. This was the place.
The hounds only expressed muted whines of anticipation at the opening of their kennel boxes from the truck bed. Duke and Detox, Bluetick coonhounds, pulled at the leads as Don and Jason led them around the gate. Squishing leaves underfoot or the drops of a not-quite-full rain were the dominant sounds.
And then they were off; no fanfare. Loosed from their tethers, one to the right and one to the left. They made a momentary commotion through the brush and then their sounds were swallowed up by the inky forest.
Jason and Don examined their GPS trackers. The hounds were hundreds of yards away in what felt like a moment.
The men started up the trail, wordless, I followed. I had questions, Don had answers.
We didn't walk 100 yards before a hound voice penetrated the forest from our 10 o’clock. I think Jason said the hound was about 200 yards. The other hound was almost 900 yards away now. Its barks only registered on the handhelds and not our ears. The night woods are vast.
The bark changed to a chopping call, baying, a signal the hound was at the trunk of a tree. The hound would keep up the performance until a houndsman arrived and shot down the raccoon or leashed the dog and pulled it away.
This tree was almost a two-man hug in diameter. It was pocked with cavities, a likely den tree. Sure, it held a raccoon, maybe several but they were not leaving the safety of their hole for the world.
The raccoon is a curious survivor that expanded in range and numbers owing to agriculture and suburban living. Raccoons are nocturnal. They rest alone or in groups during the day in tree cavities. As the sun descends below the horizon, they descend too, to the forest floor to forage for what they will.
Raccoons are vulnerable on the ground. We soon found by an exploring hound and with a bawl of “havoc” the chase is on. Quickly, the raccoon will scale the nearest suitable tree. Most likely this hasty escape was not up its denning tree.
Even so, the coon will be safe high in the thinning branches, save the tools of man. By way of tools, countless raccoons fed and clothed countless people. It’s a timeless tale.
Times have changed. Raccoon flesh is stigmatized. Fur fell out of fashion. The houndsmen changed, too.
A little like show trials for horses or retrievers, houndsmen developed a rich competitive system. Hounds still run at night, men still follow in hopes of seeing the bandit’s eyes reflecting the spotlight. Instead of the gun, they carry a scoring sheet; a referee tallies the work.
Houndsmen claim prizes, whether glory, pedigree, or cold-hard-cash. A trial in northern Missouri touted a $25,000 first prize.
Houndsman Matt Ellis of Postville gave me an education about competition raccoon trailing. The Professional Kennel Club and United Kennel Club are the major sponsors. The PKC claims to host more than 8000 competitive hunts a year. Ellis noted competitions take place throughout the year, save July and August. But as they happen at night in remote areas, they go unnoticed.
Our second rendezvous with a baying hound was also a bust. The hounds search independently, the better probability of striking a trail. The pack of dogs in pursuit is confined to literature or diurnal quarry.
At our deepest point in the forest we got the signal of the fourth treeing. By now I was thoroughly confused about which dog was which. Jason and Don knew their voices as distinct as any family members.
This treeing was down a billy goat steep ravine. Don deferred the pursuit to Jason and I, “the young guys.”
At 79, Don coursed the timber with speed. He’d also earned the right to invoke discretion, being the better part of valor. My climb out of the hollow was worth it as Jason marked a successful treeing.
Back at the truck, I assumed we were done. The rain continued, everyone was wet; Jason drove to another spot. The hounds needed the training and they wanted to work, it was the obligation of the houndsman to provide it.
We were close to the Iowa River. I followed Jason southwest. Don monitored a hound to the east.
This was our longest trek of the night when Jason noted we were about halfway there. Invasive honeysuckle fought our headlamps. Vines, brambles and the random length of barbed wire protested our progress.
I followed Jason, he followed the bays. Up and down the wooded draws we went until we met the hound faithfully barking up the tree, clawing the trunk to continue the pursuit.
It wasn’t a big tree so the raccoon was perched like an owl. It sat for the spotlight as if ready for an address, like a scripted ending.
The hounds retired to their dry, spacious kennels. Jason and Don retired to the garage to peel off wet clothes. Like a good guest wanting more, I retired home.
Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.
John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D., of Marion, teaches Social Studies with an emphasis on environmental issues at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board.