The Trifecta in North Alabama
We drove up north to see the Coonhound Cemetery. It is the only one like it in the world. But before we left, I discovered that Helen Keller’s House and Muscle Shoals Music Studio are all in the same area. I won the trifecta.
Alabama Belts
As we drove the back roads, the terrain became more of a roller coaster. This was, after all, the foothills of the Appalachians. Coming from flat Florida, this was a lovely sight indeed, especially in Spring. Camellia and honeysuckle had already bloomed in our neck of the woods, but Eastern Redbud was in its full glory the farther north we went. There was a sign that read. “Entering Alabama Timber Belt”. This was evidenced by numerous flatbeds hauling big bundles of pine trees and other trucks transporting finished lumber. Alabama is a heavily wooded state. Beautiful.
At the town of Eutaw there was a sign that said, “Alabama Black Belt”. I had no idea what this meant. I said to Maureen, “Is this because Black people live here?” She said, “No, it can’t be. It must be some kind of stone or maybe coal”. It sounded strange to us. So I looked it up. The Black Belt is “a cradle of African American Heritage” and it also has a rich tradition of quilting. I was right! The official designation is something new, however.
This quilt was made by Helen Keller’s aunt. The large stitches were indicative of who made the quilt. Stitches were personal creations.
Alabama North Country
Shortly after this I caught sight of a groundhog nibbling on something at the side of the road. This was at Bear Creek, to be precise, which is located just down the road from Murder Creek.
(Interesting name for a small body of water, I must say. I will have to research that one. Thank God the truck didn’t break down here.) It was at this point that I knew we were definitely entering the north country. Florida does not have groundhogs. But, murders at creeks, I’m sure we’ve had our fair share of those.
Florence, Alabama
Six and a half hours later we reached our destination of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. We drove over the Tennessee River to take a quick look at Florence the home of the University of North Alabama. The buildings date from 1830 when the university was founded. Also in Florence is McFarland Park, a long tract of land stretching along the river with concrete picnic tables, tall pines and a fresh breeze off the river. We happened to park right beside a little egg that had fallen out of one of the tall pines. Maureen picked it up. I think it’s a Robin’s egg. Just in time for Easter.
Coon Dog Graveyard, Tuscumbia, Alabama
The next morning we rose early to find the Coon Dog Cemetery. It was about 30 minutes from our hotel in Muscle Shoals. We drove up a winding road past blonde cows, a few fine houses and finally reached a plateau in a very remote area of the woods. The cemetery is on top of the ridge. It was morning, the forest was hushed except for the sound of a woodpecker working very hard for his breakfast. I stood still with the fallen friends looking off into heavily wooded ravines, and imagined wild chases full of dogs barking and baying, men yelling and cursing and branches breaking underfoot. Does it remind you of a fox hunt without the horses?
.
What would October, November and December be without this sport? Then, if ever, come perfect nights when you fill your lungs with the vigorous air and down the breeze the chorus of your dogs like “the horns of elf-land faintly blowing!”
The Coon Hunter’s Handbook by Whitney and Underwood, p.20.
A Good Thrashing
So what is a Coonhound, anyway? There are Blue Ticks, Redbones, Black and Tans and Treeing Walkers. They are all American dogs, some dating back before the country was even formed. And, according to my trusty Coon Hunter’s Handbook written in 1952, in order to officially be one, the dog must have one witness to its actually treeing a coon and three witnesses if it is not certified.
If the dog chases deer or squirrels, it is disqualified. How do you dissuade a dog from chasing a squirrel? I’d like to know that one. Again, I turn to my handbook and it says, along with other things, “a good thrashing” will do it. That’s grim. They were tough in those days. A 21st-century Snowflake would perish on a 1930s forest floor as quickly as it had fallen.
Troop
The first man to bury his dog here was Mr. Key Underwood. (Is the Underwood author of “The Coonhunter’s Handbook” any relation, I wonder?) The dog’s name was Troop. This was in 1937. They had been together for 15 years and everyone agreed that Troop was the best. He buried him in a cotton pick sack 3 feet under at an old hunting camp. Now there are 300 more graves one as recent as 2023.
No Waltzin’ In
Don’t think you can just waltz right in and have your little Fifi or Pickles buried here. Don’t even go there. This hallowed ground will not be “contaminated by the likes of lapdogs or poodles.” These coonhounds are more than just pets, they are equal partners in an exciting adventure where nobody knows what will happen and nobody knows where or how it will end. Not only that. Raccoon pelts are valuable. America was built on the backs (on the fur from the backs) of raccoons and beavers, too.
A Partial Gallery of Fallen Alabama Coon Dogs
Cats and Monkeys
And you can make a “delectable” dinner out of this animal according to my handbook. Just as long as you cut up the roast because they tend to look like cats or monkeys. So serve it in pieces especially if there are children around. Also, don’t forget that someone is sure to bite on the BB shot and that will start the conversation back to the coon hunt and before you know it all the gory details are coming out. That’s when you’ll get a few sensitive souls leaving the table so remember:
We should try to make the occasion of eating coon meat, which is really very delectable, as pleasant as possible, remembering that we do not describe the slaughter house every time we have lamb for Sunday dinner.
Whitney and Underwood, The Coon Hunter’s Handbook, p. 159
Razorback Red Makes a Break for It
Whenever Moe gets in the backcountry she gets a little wild. You can see the mischievous glint in her eye right before she hightailed it into the bush. She sort of reminds me of the elusive razorback up there in Arkansas. At times I saw what I thought were tusks but it was only the way the sun’s rays glanced off her blonde highlights.
It took me more than an hour to track her down, “hog” tie her, and throw her into the bed of the truck. After she lay there for maybe 20 minutes, howling to beat the band, she asked me for some water which I, as her mother, dutifully gave. Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Ma?” I said, “Yes, child?” “Ma, don’t nobody love me the way y’all do, Ma.” I said that was right and even offered to let her run around a bit more but she declined.
She had had enough. The family curse had run its course. The blood of the hound runs through all our veins and we run with it. Literally.
Adieu my Sweet Fellows
We bade farewell to the illustrious group gathered on the hill. It’s been a long time since I had a hankerin’ to see this place. The peaceful, isolated setting deep in the woods suited these dogs well. This is where they longed to be while alive and now they rest together in the lonely woods, their spirits happy.
