An hour before the sun came up over the Smoky Mountains, I pulled my Ford F-150 King Ranch Edition pickup into a crowded church parking lot outside Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.
Hopping out of the truck, I was armed only with a hot chocolate, plus a splash of whiskey to keep me warm. I kept a respectful distance between me and the gathering mix of men, boys and packs of howling dogs. It’s not that they weren’t freindly. I was simply a stranger amidst a group of men who had been meeting in this spot faround this time of year for quite some time.
We came together in the hazy, damp dawn to enjoy a centuries old tradition – the annual eastern Tennessee black bear hunt.
Let me digress for a moment and save some time for the uber sensitive types out there: I enjoy being outdoors. I enjoy fleeing cities for the quiet of the forest, the lake, the swamp, etc. I am not only comfortable with guns, but am also skilled with them.
And, I hunt. I hunt small game and large. I buy a license. I use a modern weapon that’s safe for those around me. I don’t take females or the young. When I find the animal I’m hunting, I shoot it. I hit what I shoot at, and I kill it. Quickly. Once I kill it, I make sure it’s properly cleaned, kept and butchered. And, finally, I eat what I kill and share the quarry when there’s enough to go around. I believe there is a quality to wild game that is difficult to find in stores.
I don’t pack up and head out to kill. I hunt. The term “hunting” acknowledges the idea that I may not find what I’m looking for that day. If that’s the case, I sling my weapon and head home – all the better for spending the day outdoors.
That’s what many anti-hunting, animal rights types fail to understand about hunting and fishing. They hold to the belief that we hate animals and venture into the wild to enjoy the supposed power of the kill. It never occurs to them that we’re the ones out there enjoying nature and playing a part in a food chain often deprived of natural predators.
In short, while the would-be crazy cat lady types are standing outside the Whole Foods handing out animal rights flyers, the hunters and fishermen and women are out getting our boots dirty.
So, if you’re sending money to PETA on a regular basis and believe guns are sentient metal creatures that stalk the country side randomly taking lives, skip to the next article. I’ve written some decent tech and car reviews lately.
Alternatively, there’s a sale on kale somewhere, You should get on that. Now, back to the realm of the living…
I originally met my host, Joe Baker, while working on story about Ole Smoky Moonshine in Gatlinburg. After I experienced how moonshine shaped and defined the people of the region Baker (co-owner and president of the popular distillery), invited me back down to the Tennessee hills for another glimpse into Volunteer culture.
The annual black bear hunts through the hills leading to the Smoky Mountains are a proud tradition passed from generation to generation. Amongst that morning’s sizable hunting party, there were at least two sets of grandfather/son/grandson combinations. The proud denizens of Tennessee have been gathering for these hunts since long before Davy Crockett dropped his first quarry with a musket ball.
We would not be using musket balls that morning. The hunting trails would be wide open dirt roads large enough for trucks and ATVs at first, but once we were on the track of a bear, that run would no doubt take us deep into dense woods. So a long barreled rifle runs the risk of snagging on brush or banging against trees while on the run. Whether using sawed off barrels or creating their own snub rifles with hacksaws, we took 30/30s or 30.06 out into the sunrise.
Before these rugged men in blaze orange get all the credit for hunting the region’s largest predators, there are others who must be recognized for doing much of the work.
Bear hunting hounds are not treated like pets. They are trained to hunt, and they are trained to hunt only bears. That training may include starving and corporal punishment. The dogs are not socialized for amusement. They are made to identity with their owner as the alpha and to pursue bears in packs.
If they fail to scare up a bear, they are not punished. They are rested, fed, watered and returned home to their kennels. pursue the track of the wrong game, they are punished to remind them they’re solely on the track of the bears.
Once the dogs are set free into the woods to seek a scent, the challenge of the hunt falls to the expert guides who have been aiding in these expeditions for years. The guides take the hunters to high ground and simply listen.
They follow the echoes of the dogs’ barks and howls as the animals tear through the hills and rivers. As if they possess some sort of hillbilly GPS, the guides correlate the howls to their knowledge of the area terrain. Once they hear a concentration of canine fuss, they know a hair is cornered. The hunters gather and head double-time to join their dogs.
Speed is essential because the hunters must reach their dogs can become overzealous and get too close to the bear. There isn’t a dog on Earth that can stand up to the size and power of a bear. During this particular hunt, seven dogs were injured. The genuine concern and grief expressed by their owners made it clear that each of these is hunting dogs is more than a mere beast of burden to their “alphas.”
On occasion, the dogs will tree the bear – meaning the remaining marksmanship comes down to knocking it out of the branches. More often, the bears cut across the ground through the dogs – requiring a quick shot at a moving target.
After three days of morning hunts, I confess I didn’t get a bear. But, a member of our hunting party did take a 500 lb. specimen – rendering more than enough meat to share with his comrades. Bear meat is less gamey than venison, but can be greasy (depending on the cut). If slow cooked, the loin is leaner than beef and richly flavored.
Still, truth be told, I didn’t get the feeling any of the hunters on hand were out in the woods with a burning desire to take a bear or fill their freezer. The hunt was an excuse to gather for laughs, to tell stories and to check up local business. Maybe wives and girlfriends gathered in town over coffee and pancakes, but the men of these towns hunted each other’s camaraderie as much as their dangerous targets.
