Excerpts from the February 2010 issue....

Not So Quiet Sunday

It was a quiet Sunday morning about 6:30 when we were awakened by the phone. Our friend Cowboy on the other end of the line asking, “are we going hog hunting today?” “Binder hasn’t called me yet so let me call him and I will call you back”, my husband said. My husband, Charlie, called his friend Binder whose lease we have been hunting to get the hogs out before deer season. Binder said there were some guys bow hunting, but after eight it was all ours to hog hunt. My husband called Cowboy back and told him to come over and lets get ready and loaded up. We headed out to the lease eager to catch something because we had been told some good hogs had been seen the day before. We arrived and started to unload dogs and gear and headed off into the woods. We came up on a feeder where the hogs had been recently because the smell was just overwhelming and then it happened, Smokey struck out with his team behind him: Red Dog, Spike, and Daisy. It wasn’t a minute and we heard Smokey baying so we turned loose the catch dog, Sandy, then the fight was on. We got to the dogs and we were all excited because it was a big one, a black boar hog that looked like it weighed about 300 pounds or so. Cowboy said, “ this has got to be the best birthday present yet!” As we were hobbling up the hog to load Charlie said to unvest Sandy and let her rest a minute and go ahead and turn the other dogs loose. Maybe they will get on another hog before we leave. Well we all headed back out except for the ones hobbling the hog and it took about as long as the first bay for the second one, just minutes. There was a hog just about 25 yards from where we were at and it looked to be a monster. My daughter Kylie said, “mom come here now”, and I said, “why; are you lost?” She yelled, “no it’s a huge hog, help me!” About that time I started running through the woods to get to her and Smokey and Red Dog cut the hog off and ran it in another direction. Smokey and his team got him bayed up so Charlie yelled, “let Sandy go!” But she was not vested so we had to get her vested again but by that time the hog had ran with the dogs chasing behind him. We all headed in the direction the dogs went and turned Sandy loose, but they were out of sight and not barking. We came up on Spike, a puppy we got from the hog dog trials who is now about 8 months old. His skin had been peeled back on his side. Then Daisy came walking up to us with a cut to her front shoulder and after seeing that, we knew something had gone wrong because she was wearing a cut vest that now had a hole in it. . Smokey, Red Dog, and Sandy were still out there some where, so we started to call them back. Sandy was the first to make it to us unhurt, but Smokey and Red Dog were still on the trail. We called them for about 15 minutes and finally Smokey emerged from the woods unhurt, but no Red Dog. We continued to yell for him but nothing. Smokey kept trying to pull away, but we were afraid to let him go with all the dogs being hurt. Charlie decided we needed to go back to where they first bayed the hog and split up and walk because we were not leaving without Red Dog; he has been known to trail a hog for miles. Just about 5 minutes into our journey to find Red Dog, one of the guys that was with us yelled, “I found him” and Charlie yelled, “is he hurt?” Then there was silence and we all knew it wasn’t good. Red Dog was dead, he was wearing a cut collar but the hog managed, with his cutters, to find his way around it and got him. What started out to be a quiet Sunday turned tragic just that fast.

We will truly miss Red Dog…
The Canterbury Family

THE PREACHER'S BEAR

By Scott Cain

The Southern Appalachians are filled with a strong hunting heritage. Generations have lived, and hunted in our rugged mountains. Some of the hunters have made a name that have far outlived their own mortality. So it is that the dogs, and the game too sometimes are remembered years beyond their own time. This is the story of such men, and animals still remembered and revered by us today.

Take yourself back, back in time to a place on a small homestead, a small cabin site in a dark cove surrounded by steep ridges on three sides. A tiny pole barn, and corral sit to one side. On the other, a log smoke house. Through hard work, blood, and sweat the three acres of cleared land falls shallow toward the mouth of the cove. Running water, and electricity are still many, many generations away.

Washington Reece stood on a small knoll high above his cabin. He could make out the plumb of gray smoke seeping up from his chimney. It was early November and the trees had long since given over to their fall colors. Many had shed their leaves altogether. A cool rain had begun at morning and the rest of the day had been dark and over cast. Wash stood staring down at his place, it had taken him over two years to make his farm livable. As of yet; at the age of twenty six he had not taken a wife. His love of hunting had not left a lot of time for courting and at times living alone weighed heavy on his mind.

At his feet stood four dogs, his constant companions and hunting partners. They were blue and gray spotted, the fourth a high tan. In time they would be called leopard curs, but at the time they were known only as leopard spotted bear hounds. Wash worked his way down the steep mountain side. A small white ribbon of water rushed down the ridges crossing, and re-crossed the long descending trail back to the cabin. The mountain laurel seemed to droop down in the foul weather.

Wash thought he too seemed just a little bit down. The day’s long hunt had produced nothing and he was feeling defeated. Wash had just stepped up on his porch as the drizzle turned to sleet. He opened the door and stepped in. The room was dark, the only light a small red ember glowed in the fireplace. In a short time Wash had the fire blazing and a warm comfortable feeling pushed away the gloom of the day. In a short time the smell of sour dough biscuits filled the tiny room.

Outside the smell had brought all the dogs up on the porch, and a long series of whines and howls had begun. He opened the door and four ghostly figures flew in, each taking his place on the floor. Wash closed the door behind him as he stepped out on the porch. He placed his old felt hat down snug on his head, and stepped out into the sleet. A quick run to the smoke house and back, and in no time salted pork was popping and sizzling away in the old cast iron pan.

“Ready”, Wash announced as he put the bread and meat down on the table. The dogs gathered in a half circle around Wash. Patiently they waited for their master to say grace over the food, then they all ate an equal share.

After their meal, Wash went to his old rocker and pulled out his pipe. Both the chair and pipe had been given to him by his father when he had moved to his new home. He rocked back and forth and watched the sleet slowly cover the ground through the small and only window in the dwelling. The dogs had long since fallen asleep in front of the fire. The only sound was the creak of the old rocker and the occasional pop of the burning wood. As he stared out the window, the hunter’s thoughts centered on the day’s hunt. He had hoped to cut the track of a big boar bear. This was a particular boar bear, somewhat of a legend back in his part of the country. Just like today, hunters prided themselves on their ability to bring home the meat. Wash was no different, he loved to hunt, and prided himself in owning a fine pack of dogs.

The animal he sought was an old bear. Folks around the settlement named him, “John’s Bear”. John Bell was a preacher that lived down along the Etowa River. He owned a good bit of low land that always seemed to produce a good crop. John prospered on his farm, and as a consequence had time and money to purchase a good pack of bear dogs. They were said to have come across the mountain from “Mount Plott”. They were an impressive pack and John became somewhat of a celebrity in the hunting fraternity. His pack was said to have accounted for many huge bear and boar. When any farmer or homesteader had trouble with bear, or any critter they would call Preacher John and his tough pack of dogs. But for all his success, there was one animal the Preacher could never seem to conquer. Ironically, the animal plagued the Preacher’s own property. In roasting ear season the bear’s tracks could be found checking the many corn patches down along the river. When the corn was blistering good, he would help himself. The animal seemed to take great delight in retribution for the many of his kind that had fallen to the Preacher’s gun.

This went on for a few years. The bear which seemed to come somewhere around Long Mountain, just could not be killed. He was what is referred to as a sour bear. He would not tree, and he would not stop and fight long enough for a hunter to reach the bay, a walking bear. Some hunters believed he had crossed over from the high balds of North Carolina. Perhaps it was there he had learned how to evade the packs of great bear dogs. Crossing over into North Georgia to find an easier living, only to meet Rev. John who would relentlessly pursue him. The two had been locked in a duel of wood craft for over two years before the Reverend broke his knee, trying to get down a rocky gorge were his bear was fighting the dogs.

After his injury, the Preacher, was not able to follow his dogs. Shortly thereafter, he sold his pack. Forever humbled by the animal which he could not catch, the Preacher would refuse to even talk about hunting. Eventually the very mountains he had hunted and loved could only cause him grief. Whenever he hard tale of a big bear being killed, he would sulk for days worrying that some hunter had killed his bear. Eventually, John sold his property and moved to the south were he hunted quail and turkey the remainder of his life. Through the next year or two the big bear wrecked many corn crops. Occasionally someone would loose a pig or young steer to what was sometimes called John Bear, and later old John. Many local hunters tried him, only to be outran or out fought along the many steep ridges of Long Mountain.

Hunters from different places came to try their skill against “Old John.” Some of the most famous families such as Dentons, Cables, Dillards, and Blevins gave it a go. Many left without there complete packs as “Old John” left many a good bear dog laying dead.

This was the bear Wash was hoping to kill, and these were the thoughts that slowly crossed his mind as he dozed off in the rocker. Some time in the dark hours of the night, the wind picked up. The sounds of huge hemlocks crashing back and forth woke him. The dogs stirred about some as he made his way across the floor to the small bed.

Morning broke cold and still. The wind had pushed the foul weather out and the temperature had dropped. Wash awoke with four big cur dogs in various positions on his covers. Tack and Sam were brothers. Big, strong dogs, were one went the other was there. Cap and Ball were father and son traded for a young Jersey Bull from the Crow Family from the mountains. Cap was the older dog, but not old, only being five himself. He black and tan color, easily standing out amongst the blue merle of the others.

Wash rose and went to the door to let the dogs out. Wood was the order of the day. It seemed every spare minute was spent cutting, splitting, or hauling wood. Winters were long and cold in the cove. Cold air seemed to settle in the low hollow.

A summer storm had blown down a big red oak back in July and although it had not been cut and split it had seasoned some. Wash hooked his little pair of mules to the sled, and made his way down to the red oak at the edge of the corn field. The mules were not matched very well and it took a few hundred yards for the animals to pace out together. The dogs were here and there, checking first one thing, and then another. The sun had not yet made it up above the mountain and it was still somewhat dark in the thick woods around the field.

Wash was looking at a good day’s work if he could cut and split most of this oak before dark. Being finished sawing, the tree would eat up most of the day. It was a job for two men. It was somewhat awkward for a single man to cut with the long crosscut saw alone. In a short while sweat was running from under Wash’s felt hat. It seemed strange to wipe sweat from your face and watch your breath hang in the light morning air. But all signs pointed to more bad weather in the next few days, and even though there was plenty of wood already cut, you could never tell when the weather would settle in and freeze up everything for months.

See The Preacher’s Bear - March 2010