Hunting and fishing tales are common in the library of past experience here in Greene County. Some of these narratives have withstood the tough test of time and been passed on through written form or word of mouth. This story was related to me many years ago, and involves three gentlemen: Hiram, James and Jesse.
One chilly November in the early 1920s, Hiram, the leader of this little posse, got the idea that he and his friends should go on an adventure to hunt raccoon with their bluetick hounds down near White Covered Bridge. Coon and fox hunting was a favorite pastime of the men from the more rural parts of the county, and the bounty brought in by various types of hides was a source of income that could help these folks get through the tougher winter months.
Well, Ole Hiram was fortunate enough in his circumstances to have an old Model T Ford stake-bed that he and his pals could use to haul around their hounds and get into trouble. Hiram loaded his hounds up in a crate in the back, gathered his friends, and with a big old chew of tobacco in his lip, set off a couple hours before dark, so they would arrive at the White Covered Bridge right after sunset.
In those days, it took much longer to get from Ole Hiram’s farm in Pine Bank to White Covered Bridge near Garards Fort; those Model T’s just didn’t have the speed we’re used to now. James, the second oldest of the group and in his early 30s at the time, was the excitable one of the bunch. Hiram and Jesse were both veterans of the Great War and were of a more serious and sober stock, but the group complemented each other well. James spent the whole ride to the bridge talking of his plans for his hounds and the high times he hoped to have in the future. Hiram and Jesse both listened; they also looked forward to all of the adventures that awaited them. Coon hunting was and is a huge sport, with competitions and events; if these men could train their hounds well enough, there was a great chance that they could win some of these competitions, make a little money, and perhaps most importantly, make names for themselves.
By now, you might be wondering how this coon huntin’ tale came under the guise of a fishing story. Well, we’ll get there very soon.
Hiram, James and Jesse arrived at the bridge. Back then it wasn’t game lands like it is today; the area was a series of scattered farms beautifully situated along Whitely Creek. There were small patches of woods and larger stands on the ridgetops. James had his hound Suzie ready on the bed of that infamous Model T and was grooming her while Hiram and Jesse got ready. Jesse, the youngest and in his mid 20s was perhaps the most serious of the bunch. He didn’t have a hound with him that night, he had just come along to spend some quality time with his old pals and listen to the sweet song of a bunch of old bluetick hounds echoing through the hills as they chased a wily raccoon. Being the only one without a hound, Jesse was in charge of carrying the rifle.
This rifle was something special. Hiram had just bought the brand-new Winchester Model 94 earlier that week and it was his pride and joy. Having a brand-new rifle in those days was a sign of status, and Ole Hiram with his Model T and new Winchester rifle was certainly one who had done quite well for himself.
They cut their hounds loose along the banks of Whitely Creek not far from the covered bridge and as soon as the hounds got out of sight they heard a giant splash and the dogs singing the song signaling that they were on the trail!
The men, being strict adherents of the philosophy of “work smarter not harder” decided to head after the dogs and cross Whitely Creek on an old fallen log in lieu of turning around, crossing the bridge and heading back up stream.
They progressed on and James in his unbridled enthusiasm was calling every move of the hounds. “They’re running hard now, they’ll be getting treed real soon!” he cried out. Before too long, a great song in soliloquy raised through the barren trees and echoed over the cold frosted hills and James with all the excitement of a young man stealing his first kiss cried out, “They’re treed, they’re treed!”
James started scurrying across the ancient log that bridged the banks of Whitely Creek while Hiram and Jesse were a few paces behind watching as he made it to the far bank. Hiram followed after James, and Jesse trailed behind making an effort to not show too much excitement.
Jesse had a habit of being a bit too dignified and his hard efforts would often backfire, leaving him in a very humiliated situation. Our dear friend Jesse made it across the log, and as he was stepping onto the far bank, he very gracefully placed his right hand on a dead tree stump on the bank to help him up the remainder of the creek bank. This old tree stump had seen its better days, and as he placed his weight on it, it fell apart, causing Jesse to lose his footing. Jesse fell and landed face first onto the very log over which he crossed the creek, and the rifle he was carrying in his left hand became airborne and the new Winchester Rifle hit the water, and much like the ill-fated Titanic, found itself sinking to the bottom of icy cold water.
Jesse, no doubt, thought to himself about the pickle that he had just gotten himself into while Hiram and James looked upon his pathetic state. Jesse had managed to not fall into the cold water, but the new Winchester now seemed to be lost forever.
Jesse, never being one to accept failure, knew that he had to remedy this situation rather quickly. He knew that he would forever be at the mercy of his companions’ jokes if he couldn’t retrieve the rifle and restore it to its rightful owner.
Still laying on the log, he hatched a plan. Being at a slight bend in the creek, he knew the water would be fairly deep where the rifle landed, so he couldn’t just reach in and get it, and being November, the water was far too cold for him to jump in and scour the creek bed to find it.
So Jesse stood up, looked at his friends, and exclaimed, “Watch and learn.” He found a big long stick, got back on the log, and with his friends holding him by the legs, he leaned out over the water using his stick to drag the bottom hoping and praying that he could find the rifle. Eventually, he hit something solid. Now, Jesse forgot his stoic demeanor and yelled “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” and carefully drug this solid mass closer and closer to the creek bank and into more shallow water. His efforts I am told, were carried out with near surgical precision, and the instant he felt it was within reach, he plunged his hand into the water and, flooded with pride, he pulled the now battle-tested Winchester rifle out of the cold November water and recovered his dignity!
His old pals were amazed – not a one thought he would be able to fish that Winchester rifle out of the cold water on that November night, and Jesse with his pride restored, led his pals on to the tree, and they got themselves a coon.
Many of the details of this story after the rescue of the Winchester have long been forgotten, but, as was said to me when I first heard this story, they didn’t matter much anyway. The memories of Jesse falling and fishing that rifle out of the creek were remembered fondly by these men for the rest of their lives. I’ve heard it said many times, “It’s not where you are going that matters, it’s all about how you get there,” and I think that is the way these gentlemen felt on this chilly November night nearly a century ago.
This is a great story, and so colorfully retold. I could hear the narrator’s voice clearly in my head. What’s great about this story and the rest of Greene county history is how close and relatable the events still are today. When you are here, the past, present and future all seem to blend into one experience. Stories like this this, exemplify Greene County’s awesomeness.