My first year of college wasn’t particularly pleasant. I was homesick, I was overwhelmed with studies, and I missed my family, friends, and the rural Aroostook countryside where I enjoyed outdoor activities several times a week.

To be raised for 17 years within 100 yards of the Prestile Stream, a wonderful limestone wild trout water, and within a 10-minute walk of duck ponds, partridge covers, and whitetail woods, and then to be uprooted to brick buildings and books left a terrible void in my life.

Vacations were scarce and travel plans difficult to arrange, but I made the best of school holidays. Our annual family Thanksgiving deer hunt restored my will to live with friendly faces, great camp food, and a long-tined 8-pointer on the last day of the season. Christmas and New Year’s break was filled with smelt handlining in warm shanties, tending tip-ups for trout and salmon on remote lakes, and tramping around on snowshoes trying to outsmart a rabbit or two. It all made returning to university even more difficult.

More than three months would pass before April’s spring break brought me another furlough, and the time seemed interminable. John and Will shared a room at the end of my dorm wing, and as luck would have it, they, too, were dyed-in-the-wool outdoorsmen, and as a Canada goose finds its way south each winter, we found each other. Exchanging stories of past outings and talking about shooting, reloading, fly tying, and other age-old outdoor topics kept us sane amidst the daily grind of classes, homework, and exams.

The invitation

Will came directly from the phone booth to my room. His uncle, Frank, had just called and asked if he was interested in a rabbit hunt on Saturday. Always thinking, Will mentioned John and I, who his uncle remembered from previous family conversation, and got us invited along. It was the second week of March and, despite still-plentiful snow, the weather was fighting to act like spring. Will and John were sophomores and each had their own vehicles, so the hour drive to Frank’s home would be no problem.

For John and I, the really exciting news was that Frank had rabbit dogs, and it would be our first time hunting with hounds. My usual style was to strap on snowshoes and head into a likely cover, walk a little, look a lot, move on, and repeat the process until a snowshoe hare made a break for it or one was spotted hunkered down. Will had only been out with dogs twice himself and was just as wound up as we were.

His uncle Frank had mentioned that mating season was under way and the rabbits were very active all day long. From all I’d read and heard, hare-and- hound outings were akin to a three-ring circus, so much action you don’t know where to look or when.

Frank had promised to provide guns, ammo, and extra gear, and his hunting buddy Galen would join us as well. Since they each had snowmobiles and trail sleds, we would be able to ride right to the hunting area. Will’s aunt was even going to have breakfast ready, and pack us a lunch for the noon break. Uncle Frank allowed that taking a lunch showed little faith in our ability and he planned on limiting out in the morning, when Will called back to confirm our visit. “Dress warm; you can always take clothes off, and don’t be late or you won’t get fed,” were the parting words of the phone call Will happily repeated for us.

As we piled into John’s truck, well before dawn the following Saturday, it was chilly enough to see your breath. Bright stars and a quarter moon lit the sky with no clouds to speak of as we headed off campus toward the turnpike. Regional weather reports promised a sunny day with moderate temperatures. There was very little traffic and a whole lot of tall tales, and before we knew it the truck was on the long driveway into Frank’s farmyard.

As we bailed out of the truck, an uproar of yelps, growls, barks, and yodels greeted us from the barn and announced our arrival. Lights were on in the kitchen and so was breakfast. We were actually a few minutes early, but as we came through the door, both Frank and Galen checked their watches and inquired if all college boys were on city time. The tone for the day was set already.

Breakfast, introductions, and hunting plans were an integrated affair that had us heading back outside in less than 30 minutes. Two snowmobiles were hooked to tote sleds which were already packed, thanks to Galen and Frank. One hunter would ride with the guns and gear on one bobsled, while the other held three comfortable straw filled travel kennels, which currently seemed to be filled with small, noisy tornadoes of brown and white fur. As the machines growled and the dogs yelped, we headed toward a woodlot and fir thicket on the back forty, and the first fingers of dawn pulled at the tree line on the far hillside.

Going to the dogs

Twenty minutes later, the snowmobiles stopped on a field road with the woodlot on one side and a second-growth field of brush and fir and a cedar swale on the other. Frank opened the traveling dog boxes while the rest of us began to unpack the tote sled. Suddenly what seemed like a dozen dogs, but was actually only three beagles with severe hyperactivity and major attention deficit, were everywhere. Tearing through the snow they buried their noses like a snowplow, sniffed everyone, irrigated several nearby trees, woofed, whined, and shook like a man with the DTs. Galen pronounced them aired out, wound up, and ready to hunt.

Well-trained beagles are tenacious hare hounds that will locate and run rabbits from dawn to dusk if allowed. A snowshoe hare has a specific home territory that it’s loath to leave even when chased. Once found and put on the run, a hare will keep circling back near its home ground during the chase. Hunters take up positions with fairly open shooting lanes and wait for the dogs to chase a hare within range.

The sound of a dog’s baying changes when a scent is found, and while in hot pursuit the changing levels and speed of the dog’s voice sound like a strange but exciting symphony of sound. The chase can be followed by the sound, and as the volume increases and nears, the gunner prepares himself for a shot at the hurrying hare. It all sounds so simple in theory.

Now you see ’em

Frank explained how we would set up our skirmish line, about 25 yards apart in sight and voice contact, and all shots would be kept toward front or back, never to either side. He and Galen would anchor the ends and keep the rookies alerted to approaching game, just in case we didn’t understand the beagle bugles. From this point on, the day took a nasty turn for our trio.

John stepped off the edge of the road and immediately sank to his hips in snow. Thinking it was just a depression, Will tried another location and did the same thing. Frank and Galen just grinned as they strapped on bearpaw snowshoes. Rookie mistake: We forgot snowshoes. Although the snow dropped to knee level inside the wood line, getting to our hunting spots and tramping down a small shooting area was a chore.

Within 10 minutes the dogs had a hare on the run and heading our way. Galen let it pass and hollered, “Get set, here he comes.”

Will fired three shots from his .22, John let off both barrels of his 20 gauge, and my single-shot 12 added its bark as the blur of white ran the gauntlet. Frank cartwheeled the big hare with one shot from his Browning Sweet 16. We made no excuses, but the muttering was extensive. The silence, other than a few chuckles, from the old timers was abusive. Rookie mistake No. 2: Not spotting the rabbit until it’s right in front of you with your gun still at your side is way too late!

While waiting for the beagles to pick up another scent, it occurred to me that I needed more shots and Will needed fewer. An unfamiliar single barrel wasn’t the best choice for a novice, and marksmanship, not multiple shots, are a must for using a .22. Further consideration was interrupted by the fast approach of hare and hounds from behind us. I stumbled around in time to see a white blur of feet and ears pass right between John and I. We turned back to our original position and when safety allowed, each took a going-away shot. This only caused the rabbit to find a faster gear and make a sharp right turn toward Galen, who effortlessly tumbled the quarry in a wave of snow.

Several opportunities later, Frank’s tally was three, Galen accounted for two, and we boys in the band hadn’t a hare between us. Frustrating? You bet. Discouraging? Not for a heartbeat. Exhilarating and challenging?Before noon I was hooked for life on hunting snowshoe hare with hounds. Just before lunch the dogs herded a rabbit head-on toward Will. It was amazing to watch it cut left and dodge right while moving so fast the snow flew from its back paws. The hare zigged one way as Will fired where it used to be. The second barrel must have been very close because the rabbit made about a 6-foot leap, changed direction in mid-air, and ran right at me, passing so near I could have hit it with the gun barrel if I hadn’t been so mesmerized. I probably should have tried considering the way I’d been shooting. Continuing down the line, the hare almost ran over John as well. We couldn’t fire for fear of hitting each other – that’s our story and we’re sticking to it!

I swear when the first beagle whizzed by me a few seconds later, it actually looked to see if I had a gun, probably thinking; less gawking and more shooting would be good, rookie, not that it had made a difference thus far.

After lunch we changed location and stirred up even more rabbits than the morning. Day’s end totals were old pros 8, rookie college boys 5. Best-learned lessons are often through mistakes, and we learned a lot that day, and I’m still learning with each hare- and-hound outing. The sound of baying hounds still gives me chills; the speed, maneuverability, and cunning of a snowshoe hare still astounds me; and the thrill of the chase never wanes.

Waiting back at the farmhouse was a warm wood stove, rabbit fricassee, scalloped potatoes, fiddleheads, and homemade bread. Reliving the hunt, planning the next outing, and exchanging good-natured taunts made the drive back to the dorm pass quickly.

There are a lot of things I don’t recall about my freshman year in college, but I’ll always have warm memories about my rookie hare-and-hounds hunt and the two- and four-legged hunting buddies that made a difficult semester better. Every time I hear the music of rabbit hounds in hot pursuit, I think back and smile.

Maine’s rabbit season ends March 31, so there’s still time to enjoy a hunt this year. Join a friend who owns dogs or contact one of the many regional guides who run rabbit hounds and set up a hunt. Don’t forget to take one or two buddies along, because there’s only one rookie rabbit hunt behind hounds, and it needs to be a shared experience. By the way, despite all the years and many hare hunts since my premiere outing, I still make rookie mistakes, and laugh just as hard as the first time.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com

I swear when the first beagle whizzed by me a few seconds later, it actually looked to see if I had a gun