As the world progresses around us, towns get larger, cities get grander and the world advances in every way imaginable, Greene County remains a beacon, and a stronghold, of a simpler and more rural lifestyle. Active farms dot our landscape, woods abound on the hills and in the valleys, and traditional ways of life remain supreme.
Perhaps most bountiful here in wild wonderful Greene is our wildlife. Bobcat, white tailed deer, beaver, even bear and bald eagles can be found roaming the hills and flying the skies over our peaceful corner of Pennsylvania. Coyote, too, are found all over the area, and can often be heard yipping and howling on the ridges, adding an eerie atmosphere to an otherwise quiet evening.
As fall begins to surround us with cooler weather, colorful leaves, and crisp air, many are getting ready for hunting season. It’s a time of excitement for many, a time for parents to bond with their children in teaching them the ways of the hunt and old family traditions that relate to the season. Hunting clubs and groups have events and dinners, and many churches and restaurants will have a hunters’ breakfast. These traditional ways are still a hearty part of our local culture, and likely will be for some time to come.
Hunting tales have long been a part of that local lore. In October of 2022, the GreeneScene Magazine shared an early 20th century hunting tale “A Cold Night of Fishing”, and later in January of 2022 a follow up was shared, “Barking Up the Wrong Tree, Jesse’s Hunting Tail”. Both of these stories relate tales of Jesse, a young veteran of World War I and his adventures, or perhaps “misadventures” Coon Hunting with his friends.
So many families retain these stories, recording some in memoirs and journals, but most are solely a part of our unique portion of Appalachian oral history. Thinking of these tales reminds me of all the time I spent in my youth running the hills chasing raccoon with a trusty old hound dog and my cousins and friends.
One incident from the mid 1990’s when I was about 12 or 13 years old stands out as a comedic episode; it’s a story that is still shared when we have get-togethers even today. Tom Gump and his son Tim had been very good friends of my family for many years; our families had been close for well over a century. Both Tom and Tim were avid coon hunters, and as Tom’s youngest son Terry and I, who were about the same age, got old enough to be introduced in the sport, we often joined the older Gumps for evenings in the woods listening to a good chase.
On this specific fall evening, we had gotten together and were going to turn some hounds loose on Eddy’s run, just outside of Brave. I don’t remember exactly what dogs we had at the time, but I recall that we may have had two young dogs, Blossom and Lily, who were pups of a Ranger, champion hound that Tim and Tom had trained.
I remember waiting at home for sunset, knowing that shortly thereafter, the Gumps would be down to pick me up, and soon enough there they were. I hurriedly grabbed my gear and hopped in the old Ford pickup truck with them. Eddy’s run was a short distance from my house, so it was a quick ride to where old Sam Eddy’s corn field was up on Eddy run. We parked, got out and started getting ready.
Youth brings with it an enthusiasm that can often misdirect us from our best performance, and our need to impress can at times hinder our ability to realize our intention. Such was the case for me that night. Tim and Tom were already geared up, having donned their briar proof jackets and their hunting lights, and Terry was ready as well. They unloaded the dogs and cut them loose while I got all my gear on.
All geared up and ready to go, I walked towards the other guys to catch up with them. There was an old farm gate along the side of the road, and the Gumps were just beyond it by about 20 feet. I approached the gate and tried to open it, but the chain that held it was old and rusty and was frozen to the gate with rust, rendering the gate inoperable. Not having paid attention to the others, I assumed they had simply climbed over it to get to the other side.
Not being very tall at my young age and wearing a very large and heavy light with several battery packs, it was a challenge climbing over the gate. I kept getting caught on it, and my gear kept getting tangled up in the process. My dear, dear friends heard my struggles and watched with a fair amount of amusement.
After several minutes of struggling, I had finally succeeded in my venture, and made it to the other side and walked up to my friends, who by that time were laughing heartily. It was at that time, that Terry pointedly said, “Matt, I have no idea why you decided to go through all the effort of climbing over that gate, and getting tangled in it, when you could have just walked around it.” I walked back over to the gate, and realized that the fence that had once met the gate on either side was now long gone, and yes, I could have simply walked around the gate and saved myself a ton of embarrassment.
But, looking back a quarter of a century later, that minor embarrassment paid off with a stunningly wonderful memory that me and my friends will talk about for years to come. It’s events like this, that are always the most fun to look back on as we progress though life.
Mona Moore, a Greene County Native and now a resident of New Jersey has shared another hunting story with us here at the GreeneScene, a tale of a Thanksgiving bear hunt from 1927 as related by her relative Elizabeth King Smith. This is a really fun and exciting tale, written in the form of a poem, but unfortunately we do not have the time or space to include it here… however, keep an eye out for the next edition of the GreeneScene Magazine to read this incredible story!