Fox Hunting

 

Fox HUNTING

Late in the afternoon we pulled up to the foot of the hill we had to climb. We loaded up our sleeping bags, water bottles and lunches on our backs and unloaded the barking hounds out of the back of the pickup truck.  My dad brought four or five.  It was hard enough leading one dog up the hill, but leading two or three was a real chore.  Leading is really the wrong word, it was more like following.  None of the dogs were trained to lead, they more less pulled you behind them as hard as they could.

It was a good size group hunting fox that night. There was Frank Waugh and his son, Tom. In addition to his sleeping bag and lunch, Tom was carrying a lizard in his pocket. There was my cousin Thomas, and counting me, the Toms were well represented. My dad’s name was Tommy Joe, so really there were four Toms on the trip.  There were a couple of other gentlemen, whose names I can’t remember right now, but they all had hounds to lead and were in a hurry to get the spot where they’d turn their hounds loose.

I didn’t have the foggiest idea where we were going. I just let my two hounds drag me along behind the group, through the brush and trees. We crossed over and under several barbwire fences. We came to one with a strand of electric wire along the bottom. I let the hounds cross under first. Only one got shocked and it yelped out in surprise, giving me a sad look.  I think it thought I had kicked it.  The theory had been proven correct, though.  It had several black and brown spots. We believed that the dark areas conducted electricity.  None of the white dogs were shocked, so it must have been true.

It was a cool evening, just the start of fall. Tom Waugh’s lizard didn’t look very healthy, and he turned it loose. We leaned against trees, catching our breaths. Some of the younger hounds kept pulling, huffing and puffing, sounding as if they were about to strangle to death.  The older hounds sat patiently, waiting for the slower humans catch their wind.

We finally found the clearing. The hounds were tied to trees while we all gathered up wood for a fire. Everyone threw down their bags and goods where they planned to sleep for the night. The clearing was along the top of ridge. This was the best place to hear the hounds barking as they chased the fox through the woods and hollers.

When twilight came, they untied the older, wiser dogs.  Their job was to find the fox. They immediately put their noses to the ground as they ran down the hill.  Everyone sat down, got out their coffee thermos and began telling stories. Most of them were hunting tales, of good old foxhounds or hunters. Sometimes jokes were told, or ghost stories recounted. This would continue until someone hissed: “Listen!”

We’d hear a single bark ringing from one of the hollers below. The younger hounds’ ears would prick, and they started jerking against their collars. We stood up and walked towards the direction of the barking.

“That’s old Maude!” Thomas said. No one argued with Thomas, he had the best ears of the group. Soon Maude’s tenor mouth was joined by a deeper bark.

“That’s old Kingfish!,” Dad said. Everyone listened intently as the two hounds barked in a slow regular duet as they tracked the fox.  It looked like the race was about to start.  We ran over to the younger hounds, now jumping and jerking against their leads. They stood pushing off with their hind legs trying to get to the tracking hounds. We turned them loose, they put their heads down and ran after the two old-timers.

Soon the duet became a chorus. Fine, high pitched, quick barks were joined by the baying of the coarser mouths. The race was on, and everyone hoped the hounds were after a red fox, and not a grey one.  The greys tended to find their dens as quick as possible. The red fox didn’t mind leading the hounds a merry chase around the ridge for a while.

The fox race was on. It didn’t take the hunters too long to get the general direction the fox was heading.  He was going to cross the ridge, just a hundred yards or so below the camp.  We all started heading that way.  We hoped to see the fox, but we, at least, wanted to see the hounds. 

I had only seen a fox once before. It had been a spring morning. The hounds had been chasing foxes all through the night. It was just Dad and I. A few hounds had taken up the chase, and we headed down the ridge to see what they were after.  Down the hill, I saw a red fox trotting across the field. He was a pretty red, and his white chest stood out in the green grass.  He didn’t seem to be in that big a-hurry, and he certainly didn’t look like a pursued animal on the run.  He crossed the field and disappeared into the trees beyond. A few minutes later, the first foxhound appeared, barking and panting, where the fox had stood.  She ran full speed in the general direction the fox had travelled, but then had to stop and backtrack.  Her nose was to the ground as she made short, quick barks.  Soon the other hounds ran out into the field. They scattered about as they tried to pick up the scent. Once they picked it up again, they barked excitedly, running after the fox, but having to stop many times to make course corrections.

That day I realized that the wise fox had nothing to fear from the hounds. As long as they were following his scent, it was unlikely they’d ever catch him. If they were to get too close, he’d find a den to hide in. However, every once and a while, he would come up against a “cunning” running hound.  These hounds would figure out the fox’s route, and try to get in front of him.  Fox hunters typically despised this type of “cheating” dog.  Very rarely did he catch the fox, but he did convince the red to hole up as soon as possible, disrupting the race for the “honest” hounds.

There weren’t any cunning dogs in our hound pack that night. There was no moon, and it was very dark.  We trotted with our lights to the crossing point. Thomas caught a glimpse of the fox as it ran for the bushes.  Minutes later came the pack of dogs. One hound clearly held the lead, and the owner was very proud. He’d told everyone all along she’d been in the lead, her clear fine mouth ringing out above the yelping of the other hounds. Soon the other dogs appeared, panting and barking, crossing the ridge and plunging into the brush where the fox had crossed. The excitement over, we all went back to our places around the fire and settled in for lunch.

Lunch was a very important part of the foxhunt. Everybody usually brought their favorite things to eat, probably things they wouldn’t eat every day at home. Probably couldn’t anyway, since the food in our lunch bags wasn’t very healthy.

The staple fox hunter’s lunch was the bologna sandwich, usually on white bread and loaded with mayonnaise. Some would bring hard-boiled eggs, or ham sandwiches. I don’t think it every occurred to anyone to bring peanut butter and jelly. Coffee was drunk from silver thermos bottles, and by the time morning came it was either gone or cold. Most of lunches were bought at the store on the way to the hunt.  A favorite was the Vienna Sausages in the easy open can.  We called them “WHY-EENIES”.  They were good right out of the can and some of the gourmet hunters liked to add some vinegar to them. Cold fried chicken was also a popular choice. I had my first taste of chicken gizzards on a foxhunt. They tasted a lot better when I didn’t know what they were. I don’t remember eating too many chips or vegetables on any hunt. Dessert was usually a TWINKIE, or SNO-BALL or some sort of cupcake. Others liked HONEY-BUNS. Sometimes the healthier hunters would eat raw turnips and apples.  They’d peel and slice them with their pocket knives.

If you were lucky enough to have a REALLY good lunch you had to be very careful.  Hunters liked to share lunches, and they did so with or without your permission.  I remember a hunt where my Uncle Charlie ate my turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie. He’d found them in the cabin and thought they looked very tasty. I really didn’t know what to say, and had to fill up on WHY-EENIES.

Sitting around the fire, we’d listen for hounds.  Most of the time, we didn’t hear them, so the time would be passed telling stories.  The stories were usually about past hunts, hunters or foxhounds. Occasionally a few jokes would be mixed in.

The famous foxhounds had names like: Maude, Fanny, Kingfisher, Blue, Fuzz and Batman. The Famous Foxhound wasn’t necessarily the fastest, nor did it always have the prettiest mouth. The famous foxhound was the one that DID NOT QUIT.  Once it got on the scent, it barked and chased after the fox, until the hunter had had enough and was ready to go home.  These dogs had DRIVE.  They were single minded. When the other hounds were sleeping under the trucks or in the bushes, the famous foxhound was still out, trying to run a fox. They were deer-proof and they knew why they were out there.  They did not fraternize with other hounds or hunters. I think these epitomized the attitudes of the people that hunted them. Don’t quit.

I remember a story my grandmother used to tell about two frogs, a smart one and a dumb one. They fell into a churn of milk. They hopped and hopped but couldn’t get out. The smart frog said to the dumb one, “There’s no hope, we can’t get out. I’m giving up.”  This frog drowned. The dumb frog kept hopping because it was too dumb to see the situation was hopeless. Eventually the milk turned to butter, and the dumb frog hopped out. It survived because it didn’t quit.  This also probably explains why frogs aren’t that smart.  All the intelligent ones drowned.

The famous foxhound was like the dumb frog. It never (or very rarely) caught a fox. Every hunt it just chased and barked all night, trying to catch something it had never caught before. In fact, the hound probably hadn’t even seen the fox, he was just chasing after the scent of one. It had what the hunters liked to call “grit”.

The old hunters were like their hounds. They had grit. My grandfather died on a foxhunt. His hounds stood by him and waited until he was found, dead by a barbwire fence. My uncles hunted until they were too sick to hunt. And even then they wouldn’t quit.  The old hunters didn’t brag, although they liked to talk about their favorite hounds, just like proud parents like to talk about their favorite sons or daughters. All the stories about the old hunters told about how tough these old-timers were. 

All good things had to come to an end. The sun came up, and the ground was wet with dew. Many of the hounds were sleeping, curled up in the leaves under trees.  One or two hounds’ barks still echoed in the holler. Some of the hunters had gone to bed, others were hunched over the dying embers of the fire. It was time to call the hounds in.  Some liked to just call in the hounds: Y’ERE, Y’ERE WOO-EEE!” Uncle Charlie liked to use a hunter’s horn. It was an old cow’s horn and it took some skill to get any noise out of it at all. But its low tone carried over the ridge and down into the hollers. 

The hounds came trotting back.  As they came in, they were caught and tied to a tree.  Once all the hounds were in, we packed up our gear, cleaned up the trash and began the slow walk off the hill. The walk out was usually all downhill, but still we just stumbled and trudged our way down.  The hounds were tired, no tugging or pulling now.  We had time to look around and see what we missed on the way up.

I remember once we had gotten our drinking water out of an old open well on our way up a hill. The well had brick walls, and we had lowered our drinking jugs into the water with a rope. We had done it the evening before.  On the way out, in the daylight, we stopped at the well to refill our jugs. That’s when we saw the big red salamander swimming around in the well water. The water that had tasted so good the night before, suddenly became undrinkable.

Growing up, I wasn’t a big fan of the foxhunt. I didn’t like mosquitoes, I didn’t like sleeping bags. I didn’t like staying up all night or the way I felt the next day. I didn’t like the way I smelled. But I did like being with my kinfolk and being out with my dad. I did like the lunches and the stories that the hunters told. I liked being outside in the cool night air and the damp morning mist. I liked the old hounds and the old hunters. I liked the smell of the campfire, and the bright night stars. And I liked doing what my kinfolk had done before me. And those are the parts I miss.