Getting our Run on in the Dog Woods

Old Bug is now on the far side of her tenth year, which is pretty old for a coonhound. It seems like such a long time ago that her sister Annie left us, aged 12 years. But it was just a year ago, Oct 7, that the old hound passed, leaving Bug alone and depressed. Then, this May, an abandoned Newfie-Pyrenes mix found himself a hospice home here. Honey Bear passed Aug 9 of the cancer that had made him lame. He was a joy to care for and Bug was as happy as she'd ever been after the loss of Annie. It's been hard on her again.

The Dog Woods

We go for lots of rides in the car. Lots of walks. So. Much. Cuddles. And today - like yesterday's ravine climb, was another happy walk, this time to the "Dog Woods" on the State Gamelands. She's a little stiff in the back legs from her climbing yesterday, but her tail was wagging hard and she let out a few great deep bays at the scent of deer and raccoon. This is where the York County Coonhound Club held their night hunt trials for a long while, but not many people run coonies here anymore. So many of the old men have passed on and I don't hear of many hunt runs happening in this "wayback bit of woods" much. Even so, this is great terrain for sniffing out mink, ground hog, raccoons, opossum, fox, deer, and sometimes the post marking spots of bobcat. Today was no less a bouquet of scent for Bug. She had a blast running from cave to holler to tree hole to den.

Black knot fungus on old cherry.

These are some old woods. There are signs of farming but it was such an long time ago, nothing recent. You can read the age of the trees by their stands - there's a young stand of hickories not more than twenty years old where some logging took place back in the 1990s. Then there's an old stand with so many tree-elders on it. While we walked downhill, golden leaves and the hickory nuts rained down. I stuck as many in my pockets as would fit. They won't last long, though. Almost as soon as they hit the ground the grey squirrels come for them and sometimes raccoon. This put Bug into a tizzy and I had to make her "hold" while two squirrels made several trips to a stash site in a bank of rocks.

Hickory nut.

 One of the oldest black cherries I know grows here. I took it's picture for the 100th time. Although  inflicted with the black knot fungus which can deform and weaken limbs, sometimes killing its cherry host, this old tree sports the fungal knots with a certain pride, draped as they are in moss. With the past few days a little drizzly and foggy, the moss everywhere is lit up like neon against the fallen leaves. Against the black cherry's trunk, the moss stands out prettily. Every fallen limb seemed to have a splash of colorful lichen. From a distance the old growth moss mats on boulders seemed to glow.

Purple-toothed polypore.

When Bug found a hole to investigate, I was happy to find a log above it full of Purple-toothed Polypore. The purple frilly edges pop against the orange-hued shelf of this lichen. I nearly jumped out of my boots when Bug let out a bay at whatever was in the hole, so we quickly moved on.

Rain drops caught in a ground web.

I was surprised to find a group of young adults camped in a hollow by an unnamed stream. I asked if they had hiked in. They seemed really uncomfortable talking to me and wanted to know why I asked. I explained they were camped on state gamelands property and that I thought it might be illegal. "That's what another guy told us," said one young man. Their array of expensive hammocks, tarps, and backpacks (REI)  seemed to suggest they were trying out new gear. I asked if they were planning a hike in the future. No one said anything. Awkward. I did notice that one of the women had cinched her brand new camping hammock to a tree with a healthy rope of poison ivy vine growing on it. I walked over and took its picture. Then I told them what it was. No one said anything. Way more awkward.

Poison ivy vine

I was trying to be informative. I told them that since it was Sunday no one was hunting deer but come morning there would surely be some bowhunters in the Dog Woods. Again, crickets. So I did what any good hunting folk would do and told them about the (fictitious) coonhound hunt that starts at sundown tonight. "It'll be real loud," I said, "Guys with headlamps, dogs running everywhere, baying and howling to make your ears ring." The woman in the hammock sat up. "Hunting what?"

Haircap and Brocade Moss.

"Well, since you've been camping here - and not very neatly I may add," I said, "I'm sure you've dropped a little food or burned some food packaging in your campfire. So there'll be plenty of raccoons moving through here tonight to check for scraps. And then plenty of coonhounds to chase them up these trees y'all attached to." The young women were little pissed off. "I hate hunters!" one snarled. "Why so much killing?!" Bug seemed to pick up on her tone and raised her hackles. I looked around at the damage done to some of the young trees that they'd hacked up to make kindling and firewood. De-limbed sourwood, spicebush, and young hickories were all around. Swaths of moss had been torn from the base of the big trees and used to scrubs pots. "Yeah," I said pointing to the damaged trees, "So much killing."

The two women never did look at me. They had their backs to me the whole time. The two young men, however, climbed out of their hammocks and began cleaning up their cluttered campsite. Robin Wall Kimmerer, writer, poet, forester, and bryologist up in New York State, has written about the time it takes for moss mats to grow thick on trees and boulders. A thick blanket of moss can be over a hundred years old and take that long to grow back. An Onondaga woman, Kimmerer writes in Gathering Moss (2003),

Their loss will have consequences we cannot foresee. When the mosses are taken, their web of interactions goes along with them. Bird, rivers, and salamanders will miss them.

 

Deer trail leads to an illegal campsite on an unnamed stream.

The idea of hacking up a healthy understory rankled me. The more I looked around the more hacking I saw. On the ground, wet and dirty, was a brand new shiny hatchet. I reached down and picked it up. "Hey!" said the angry woman, "That's mine!" I pointed (with the hatchet) to the woods all around them and said "This is mine." I hope the Game Commission sends me a coupon or something for giving - at length - the story about how state game lands are managed, funded, and used by Pennsylvania's outdoor community. Birders, herpetologists, hunters with bows, trappers, hunters with firearms, even - bryologists - use and take care of game lands and that Pennsylvania has a strong tradition of land stewardship that we take very seriously.

Old growth moss.

Healthy understory.

My lecture seemed to do the trick and the two girls climbed out of their hammocks and joined the two young men in picking up their scattered equipment, food containers, and wet clothing draped on hacked understory trees. I handed the brand new axe back to the grumpy girl and suggested she learn how to use it and care for it properly. My friend John should have been there. He would have given a lesson for free and maybe expanded upon my lecture.

As I turned to go, she mumbled something about "the b---- who ruined our weekend," and I had intended to just keep walking away, when Bug in all her coonhound glory, caught a scent on the deer trail that led uphill, back from where we came. She bayed and tugged and clawed at the ground.

What a great voice you have, Bug, in the Dog Woods.

I hung on tight and let her pull me up the steep trail. Her howls echoed off the hills and Lo! there were others who answered her! I had no idea there were other coonies running today. What a sound! What music! One, two, three coonhounds - all distinct from each other by the depth and cadence of their baying - came running over the hill, a young man breathlessly running behind them. He waved hello and tipped his orange hunting cap, but he carried no firearm. "Getting our run on, ma'am!" I was too far from the campsite to see the commotion this surely must have caused, but it made me feel wonderful to see a young man with his dogs out for the Sunday run.