A grin started to spread across my face and adrenaline began to rise in my system at the nearing prospect of chasing the baying hounds upon a hot trail through the dark woods. Unexpectedly, a vehicle in front of us lost traction, skidding across the oncoming lanes and back across to the shoulder of the roadway. Ahead a big rig was pulled to the side of the road, unable to maintain traction as the snow continued to accumulate. With heavy snow falling, the old Toyota seemed to be running reliably, but strained at each incline we encountered. After 45 minutes we turned off the Coast Highway. As we crossed a bridge, the hounds caught a scent on the breeze, barking and baying excitedly. Once again my adrenaline level rose.

One by one John pulled the hounds from the kennel, and equipping each with a tracking collar, chained them to the rail surrounding the top of the dog box. The snow had settled to 2 inches as a mix of frozen flakes and rain continued falling. Just typical weather for the Oregon coast range in January. In the back of my mind I wondered what we would encounter on our return trip over the high summit. The hounds soon broke into an excited baying, so we pulled to the side of the road. John unhooked each dog from its chain and upon hitting the ground, they immediately began sorting out the scent trail. I looked uphill in the direction the searching dogs had focused their attention. It was nearly vertical! I wondered if we could follow the dogs if they went farther up. I also wondered if this was sane and actually going to be fun.

Two of the hounds began a further ascent of the hill. We readied our gear; raincoats, wool gloves, flashlights. I carried my Ruger 10-22. I had purposely hunted through boxes of gear at home in search of scope covers that would keep the lenses dry and the gun ready to shoot if we came upon a treed animal. By this time the hounds were baying wildly. They seemed to be stopped only 100 yards above us — a steep 100 yards! John led the way and as we stopped to rest I found myself only an arm’s length away, but looking directly at John’s boots. We struggled upward through the brush, fir boughs, deadfalls, and mossy rock piles. Checking my rifle during one of the frequent stops, I found the scope covers conspicuously missing. So much for preparation.

As we neared the baying hounds, we found three of the dogs working away at the base of an ancient stump. The other dog was above the top of the 14-foot tall relic, and tearing in frustration at the bark of a fir tree. At the top, we shined our flashlight into the interior and found the six-foot diameter rotten and eroded. Turning toward the tree, which was the focus of the single hound, we spied a large coon 20 feet above in the limbs. Bracing the flashlight alongside my rifle, I fired. Fully expecting the animal to fall from the tree, I continued to see the glaring eyes of the coon staring back at me. I raised the rifle again and found more raindrops had gathered with an accumulation of fog from my breath. I steadied for the shot and fired. Two more attempts found the same listless effect.

Frustration was beginning to get the better of me so I leaned against the tree to relax for a minute. John climbed higher on the slope and upon reaching a level with the coon, called for me to follow him as a clear shot was possible from his position. Standing alongside John, I cleared the water from my glasses and scope and took a steady aim. The large coon slid from the tree and the furious barking from the hounds followed its fall to the road below. Descending to the level of the stump we could hear a muffled barking of a single hound coming from inside the stump, mixed with the snarls of another coon. Hollering at the dog did nothing to distract it from the quarry, which had retreated to a defensive position in the stump. Snarling, barking, and yelping was heard, but the dog was only partly visible through a narrow hole in the side of the stump. We searched for the point of entry and eventually found it seven feet up-slope from the bottom. The dog was trapped. Reluctantly we made our way to the truck, having decided to return to John’s home to retrieve a chainsaw. At the road we quickly found the coon and loaded the three remaining dogs into the kennel. Marking our spot in the snow, we headed off. The most fortunate move of the evening was noting the odometer reading as a further reference.

The rain had changed and was now coming down as a blizzard of snow at the summit. Several trees had fallen onto the roadway since our first pass. To add to the excitement, we narrowly missed a quick end as a tree brushed the truck as it fell to the road. Reaching the house, a check of my watch showed it was close to 11 p.m. and nearly an hour since we left the trapped dog. Quickly loading up the chainsaw, we grabbed a snack and headed back toward our hunting partner in the stump. By the time we again reached the incline at the summit, the storm had abated, though we found several cars and trucks stuck in off positions about the road. Traveling down the road to the great stump, the two hours since leaving had allowed rain to almost completely wash the snow away. The marks we had left to guide us were gone! Retracing our route, and verifying our mileage from the turnoff, we soon located some of our footprints in a remaining patch of snow. Straining, we could hear the baying of the hound from inside the stump.

After the initial cut into the relic of past logging, we made another 15 inches below it. After much straining and cursing, we were able to kick the slice from the trunk. A check with the flashlight still showed no hound. She was still after the coon and had wound her way farther into the rotting mass. John calmly coaxed the dog from the fray and grabbing her collar, pulled her from the trap. Amazingly, the dog was unscathed. The coon had been able to huddle far enough in to keep a distance between them. We dragged the reluctant dog down the hill, and left the coon for another time.

After a well-deserved cup of hot coffee, we collected our thoughts and decided to do what only two "slightly irrational" houndsmen would do at 1 a.m.; take off and go bobcat hunting!