It won’t be long now until we hear the birds singing tra-la, tra-la, and watch robins tow earthworms up and out of the finally yielding soil. The hammering spin of tillers will once more temper the earth in gardens throughout the Twin Tiers. But first, winter-weary men of the big woods are motivated to spend an early spring camp, back in and higher up, and alone with nature. There are finally some dry spots around the fire, so pull up some ground and set yourselves down; the coffee’s rich, black, and hot. Drink all you want while I reminisce about an early spring camp of long ago.

Aside from being a fanciful name for womenfolk, April is a fickle month in the high country. It was a sunny morning several Aprils ago when I strolled to the poultry house to feed and water my flock of broilers and collect a few dozen eggs from the laying hens. A short distance beyond the chicken house, stretched out on the new spring grass and sunning his belly, lay Seaward, my redbone hound. I filled his water pail and looked him over while scratching behind his shaggy ears. He seemed bored, almost sad. I tried cheering him up with small talk, but he wasn’t buying into my usual banter; he faced the woods and a muffled cry came out in spurts, pleading with me to do something and go somewhere. I, too, stared into the woods and suddenly was overtaken with an undeniable urge to get higher on the mountain and spend a few days there.

I said to the old redbone, “Okay, you talked me into it. I’ll inform the goodwife and grab my camp gear; you’re going, but we’re not hunting coon.” From his jumping and tugging on the chain that bound him to his raggedy house, I knew he understood. His sadness vanished; we both knew these little forays were seldom boring. Little did either of us know just how un-boring this trip would end up being.

A blanket rolled up inside some canvas made up my bedroll while a haversack slung over my shoulder carried what possibles I’d need for a day or two in the woods. Of course, my long rifle, Simon, was cradled in my arm as I headed for my canine camp mate. I stopped at the broiler house and collected a nice bird for roasting over our campfire that night; I field-dressed our supper and looped its legs under my belt, then made my way to Seaward. Unhooked and free, the coonhound shot into the woods and ran about like a ricocheting bullet, bounding from one brush pile to another with his nose dragging the ground. The dog was in his element, as was I.

After a half-hour climb, I found a flat spot on a ridge that looked down on a stream a thousand yards away. After fashioning a dome-shaped shelter from the well-worn canvas I’d brought along, staking it down and propping it with a five-foot stick, I butchered our fare for the evening meal. For a campfire, I simply scooped out dirt, creating a basin over which two forked sticks of green wood supported another length of green wood running through the hefty fowl that could be turned over the coals below. The fickleness of early spring and the mixed bag of weather it manufactures borders on the phenomenal. This mild, sunny day was chilling down as the redbone and I dined by the fire. A volume of charcoal-gray clouds smothered what was left of the sunshine while what daylight remained slowly faded. Seaward snuggled on my thigh as I sipped hot tea and watched my worldly cares drift away with the daylight. How often, I wondered, had my eighteenth-century mentors experienced this feeling of contentment? How often were they free of hostile Indians and enemy soldiers? Were they able hush the brush and sleep soundly?

It had turned surprisingly cold when I crawled into my handmade tent and invited my now-shivering dog to join me for the added heat. My little hovel was cozy and snug; my eyes were heavy and I wandered off to sleep with Seaward pressed beside me snoring peacefully. Maybe he dreamed as I did of the things we’d see and learn in the woods tomorrow.

I was startled awake in the blackest of black; canvas covered my face, smothering me. I pawed blindly for the dog, the center pole, the entrance, anything that would give me direction or reason. Seaward wasn’t with me; I could hear him baying, howling sharply some distance from the camp, running and getting farther away. “That dumb hound,” I thought, “must’ve scented a coon and brought down the shelter in his haste to catch the bandit!” I managed to find my way to the outside on hands and knees; the ground was cold. And wet. And white. The flashlights of today are not part of my gear and, with no fire to make a torch, I was literally in the dark. My dog had ceased baying and would probably trail that coon into New York state before realizing where he was. I rooted out my blanket and crawled back under the canvas, curling up and falling asleep wondering just had what happened.

It was all there in black and white when I crawled out at daybreak. Embedded in the one-inch carpet of April snow, just spitting distance from my canvas nest, were the unmistakable tracks of Ursus americanus; a black bear had wandered through camp and set in motion the chain of events that brought the snow-covered tent crashing down. In an apparent frenzy to confront the intruder, Seaward took the center pole on his way out. I struck a fire and made coffee, took stock of this early spring episode on the mountain, and hoped that dumb hound didn’t catch up with the bear. After rebuilding the jumble of canvas into a tent again, I sat close to the fire sipping the remains of my coffee pot. Lo and behold, threading his way through the hemlocks, came a frazzled, burr-covered, tired-and-hungry redbone coonhound It appeared Seaward didn’t catch the bear but certainly gave good chase. He plopped down beside me, rested his head on my thigh, and began to snore peacefully. A fluorescent April sun burst through the slate-gray sky and created diamond-like crystals around the bear tracks in the snow.

You can contact Roy at mountainman@mountainhomemag.com. Someone will walk up into the hills and make sure he gets the message.