The Hangover Hound (Page 1 of 1)

"Ain't seen a yeller cur dog, have ye? One blue eye?" The man in camouflage squinted against the sun and swung a beeping antenna behind us, in the direction of the Smokies.

"No," I replied. "But I just saw a brown dog bolt down Deep Creek."

"Yeah," he said. "They's probably 20 dogs in here. Mine run off last week. She's still movin', so I know she ain't dead."

He held up the antenna again.

We were standing on the Hangover, a bald heath in North Carolina’s Joyce Kilmer-Slickrock Wilderness, and two hounds lay curled and panting at his feet. He said they weren't his.

"What are you hunting?" I asked.

"Bear."

"Any luck?"

"Ain't seen no bear," he replied. "But we kilt an old hog yesterday. They's been one bear shot this week that I know of." He pulled a two-way radio out of his cargo pocket and told the other end that he was coming down.

"Is it safe around here for hikers?" I asked.

"Wear some orange — you'll be alright."

Good advice, I thought, looking down at my dark blue shirt.

"What should I do if I find any dogs?"

"Lead 'em out to the trailhead, if you want. Leave 'em there." And then he hooked a brindle cur to an orange leash and disappeared down the trail, the other hound limping along after them.

My dog Fish and I were alone, and the 360-degree panoramic views were as clear as I'd ever seen them: To the west, I could see all the way across the flatland valley to the wall of the Cumberland Plateau; to the east, the wrinkling mountains, including the Smokies, spread into the horizon uninterrupted. I spent the next hour turning in slow circles, gazing at the fall-speckled treetops. Fish lay at my feet, napping in the warm sun, his hind legs occasionally twitching in pursuit of dream-squirrels.

The Hangover is one of my favorite spots within a gas tank of Maryville. The drive to get to it, though, down the winding, roller coaster section of 129 South, known as The Dragon, is irritating.  Crotch rockets zoomed past us in the corners, knee-dragging the double yellow line like it was a Slip-N-Slide.  Little sports cars, too, sped full-throttle through the curves, scooting over into oncoming lanes, and sometimes, even, scooting over into the ditch: Fish and I had to wait 30 minutes while Butler's wrecker service pulled a Mini Cooper, nose-down and crunched like a beer can, onto a flatbed tow truck.

Once you leave the swarm of speed freaks huddled around the gas pumps at Deals Gap, though, the payoff is killer: Combined with the Citico Creek area, there's more than 33,000 acres of designated Appalachian wilderness. The Hangover Lead South trail, which Fish and I have hiked a dozen times, leaves the Big Fat Trailhead parking area on Forrest Service 62 and climbs steadily along the spine of a ridge to the Hangover. It's a moderate-to-strenuous, three-mile climb.

On the way back down, I nearly stepped on the brindle hound curled in the middle of the path. The man who'd clipped her to the orange leash must have given up on her. She flinched at my approach. Her hipbones and ribs rolled under her thin skin as I coaxed her to her feet to follow me down the trail. It was slow going. She stepped like she was treading on broken glass. Every hundred yards, I stopped and slapped my leg: "C'mon girl." When we came to steep descending sections of the trail, she hunkered low, her head swaying near the ground, and slid down on her belly.

Back at the Big Fat Trailhead, I picked her up into the bed of my truck. I unwrapped a peanut butter Powerbar, but she only sniffed it. I poured my last 24 ounces of water into a coffee mug, and she smashed her nose against the cup's rim to get the last drop. Driving slowly down the gravel road, the hound balled in the back against the tailgate; I wondered what kind of pet she would make. She was wearing an orange collar riveted with a tag that listed her owner's name and phone number.

I stopped at the Bear Creek Hunt Camp. No one was at the campsite, though a black, healthy hound dog tied to a tree howled incessantly at us. The brindle cur couldn't make the leap out of my truck bed, so I set her down on the ground. I led her to the rippling stream and her tail began wagging. I could hear her lapping the water as I walked away.

Dust flew up in a cloudy train behind me as I drove down FS62. I passed two more dogs, jogging up the road, these two at least still carrying some weight. I stopped at the approach of a white 1980s-model Dodge truck. A man in an orange hat leaned out of the window and spat a stream of auburn tobacco juice.

"You lost a dog?" I asked.

"Yep."

"A brindle?"

"Yep."  He spat again.

"Female?"

"Naw.  Mine's a male."

"I left a female up at Bear Creek," I said.

"Probably a good idea," he replied, and then he spat once more and drove away.

Once I was back in cell phone range I dialed the number from the brindle's tag.

"Is Tommy there?" I asked.

"Who's this?"

"I found his dog up on the Hangover."

"He ain't here, but I'm his cousin."

"I found his dog," I said again. "I left her at the Bear Creek Hunt Camp."

"Why, she run off Friday when we was a-huntin' on the other side of the mountain.  I sure do appreciate it," he said.  "We'll go fetch her later on."

* The views expressed in Commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Knoxville Voice.