A sift of rain smudged the woods when, a week ago Friday, I turned into the driveway of the Gouldsboro Point Rod and Gun Club. As usual, my arrival was announced by the bellowing of hounds, some kenneled outside, others living inside the main lodge. On entering the lodge, which actually is the log home of the club’s head guide, Galen Ruhlin, I was greeted by Bandit, a Bluetick; Champ, a Walker; and Keely, a chocolate Labrador retriever. Not until their backs and ears were scratched to their satisfaction and several handfuls of dry dog food fetched from the bag in the coatroom were scattered on the floor did the welcoming committee settle down.

Allowing that Galen and a visiting club member, Tom Sitler of Berwick, Pa., were out rabbit hunting, I dropped my duffel in a bunk room and relaxed amid the woodsy ambiance and rod-and-gun decor of the lodge. An hour or so later, the dogs cocked their ears and bounded into the chairs arranged by the picture window facing the road. Whining and groaning and wagging, they steamed the window until the appearance of Galen’s truck set off a commotion that a cat wouldn’t have caused by strolling across the yard. Seconds later, while shaking hands with the head guide and his guest, I asked, “Any luck?”

“Five,” Galen answered. “We didn’t hunt hard, though.” Grinning, Tom sat on a kitchen-counter stool and shook his head saying, “He couldn’t wait to get back here and check out all his electronic gadgets.” Pointing through the sliding glass door to a 180-yard-long corridor cut through the woods behind the lodge, Tom continued, “He’s got a bait and an electronic camera rigged out there. It takes a picture of anything that moves in front of it.”

Lighting a cigarette, Galen smiled through a swirl of smoke. “Well, sir,” he said, “now that I’m an animal control officer I have to keep a close eye on things, particularly coyotes. Just call me the high-tech redneck. Trouble is, though, the motion of the trees blowing in the wind keeps setting everything off. I’ve got some real nice pictures of trees.” He also has a candid-camera album of up close and personal pictures of bears, deer, foxes, porcupines, fisher, raccoons, squirrels, and, of course, coyotes.

When asked what he was using to shoot coyotes that came to the bait, Galen pointed toward two scope-sighted rifles: one, a .22 magnum propped in a corner by the door, the other a .22-250 resting on a rack of antlers. “All I have to do is crack that door open and let one sail and I’ve made another contribution to restoring the Down East deer population.”

“That .22-250 is the best varmint gun going,” said Tom Sitler, an expert rifleman and avid varmint hunter. “It’ll send a Nosler ballistic tip bullet whistling along at 4,100 feet per second. A 200-yard shot is a piece of cake.” My mention of Ruger’s new 204 rifle, which fires a 20-caliber bullet at 4,225 fps, brought a smile to Tom’s face. “I’ve got one ordered,” he said, “but I probably won’t get it until May or June. They’re back ordered; everyone’s after them.” Then, still smiling, “I’ll bet I can step that bullet up to 4,600 or so.” Like many varmint hunters, Tom reloads his rounds.

In concluding our conversation about varmint rifles such as the .22 Hornet, 220 Swift, 257 Roberts, and 218 Bee, the Pennsylvania sportsman made an interesting comment regarding coyote control in that state. He explained that local fire departments organized fund-raising hunts. The proceeds from $10 entry fees are donated to charity organizations. Why wouldn’t it work in Maine?

“Speaking of coyotes,” said Galen, “you guys ought to go out and sit on those baits just before dark, while I get supper ready.” So it was that, handy to 5 o’clock, I climbed a 23-foot ladder to reach an enclosed tree stand perched atop a spruce stub located about half a mile from the lodge. With the .22-250 positioned so that the barrel protruded through a small opened window, I waited for a coyote to approach the carcass of a road-killed moose that Galen had placed in a clearing 200 yards from the stand. About a mile away, Tom Sitler eyeballed a bait from inside a blind. As it turned out, though, the coyotes hadn’t read the script. Dusk was drawing the curtains of night when we arrived back at camp, where we tucked away a supper of beef stew and biscuits. Listening to Galen and I reminiscing about hunting in the 1950s and ’60s, Tom said wistfully, “Y’know, if I had come up here back then, I never would have left.”

Later on, Harry Brown and his wife, Jennifer, stopped by to gab about guns and dogs and the next day’s rabbit hunt. Although Jennifer elected to leave the hunting to us, by no means is she a bunny hugger. To the contrary, she’s addicted to duck hunting and, I’m told, is no slouch with a shotgun.

Time was when vespers celebrated at the lodge lasted into the wee hours. But owing to the wisdom of the years, Friday’s service ended early and the darkened lodge was soon quiet, save for the contented snoring of men and dogs. So began another grand time at the Gouldsboro Point Rod and Gun Club.

Dawn was announced by a drum roll of rain, but it didn’t dampen the spirits of the Orland outdoors addicts who, along with Harry Brown, began arriving within the hour. Hunters by heritage and houndsmen by choice are Paul Hopkins, whose Orland Bait Shop attracts schools of striper fishermen when spring runs of the sporty fish enter the Penobscot River, and Don Eldridge and his 12-year-old son, Tyler, who tagged his first bear last year. Don Eldridge’s kennel also houses bear hounds. Also on hand was Leo Grunwald, who had a beagle mauled by a bear on Dec. 23, 2003. Small wonder Leo hasn’t forgotten that date.

If you’re guessing that the ensuing conversations about guns, hounds, tracking collars, rabbits, bobcats, foxes, coyotes, deer, and bears were in-depth and insightful, you’re absolutely right. Accordingly, the forthcoming referendum to prohibit bear trapping and hunting bears with baits and hounds was shot to shreds. If the referendum had been voted on then and there it would have been killed and field-dressed in short order. Don Eldridge was on target when he said: “Who in hell do these people from away think they are? Coming here and telling us how to live our lives. This isn’t about banning bear hunting, it’s about banning all hunting.” Amen.

When the gabfest got around to coyotes and deer, the name Strout immediately took center stage. “Those boys have been smokin’ it onto ’em,” said Galen, referring to Mark Strout, his brother Gary, and Gary’s son, Jeff, all of Harrington. The brothers Bob and Kevin Beal and Bob’s son, Richard, plus several other local gunners have been hunting with the Strouts. “They’ve all got good dogs,” Galen emphasized. “Bruiser, Apollo, Riley … I can’t remember all their names. When I hunted with them last week, they’d killed 52 coyotes. They’ve probably got more by now. Most of those guys are lobstermen, so they don’t start hunting until they’re done fishing in the fall.”

At midmorning, under a sky that was dripping dry, we drove on woods roads soupy with mud. On reaching our destination, sprawls of spruce and jack fir thickets cut by trails, five beagles were turned loose: Harry Brown’s Lee-Lee, Don Eldridge’s Tracker, and Leo Grunwald’s trio, Blaze, Boot, and Dammit. Typically, the all-business hounds hit the ground running and quickly disappeared into the woods.

Truth be told, the hunting conditions left a lot to be desired. Because of the drenching dawn rain, the rabbits were sitting tight in their storm shelters of spruce and fir. Consequently, scent was scarce, which meant the hounds practically had to step on a rabbit to start it. It wasn’t long, though, before one of the beagles sang solo and the others charged in that direction. Seconds later, the canine quintet filled the woods with yodeled and bugled hound music. And if you’ve ever heard such chorusing you know it’s enough to pop the rivets off your Levi’s – especially when it’s coming straight at you.

Scattering to take up positions along the trails, we slogged through slurries of mud, snow, slush, and water, and shuffled flat-footed on rain-slick ice. When Tyler stepped knee-deep into a water-filled hole, Galen informed the young hunter: “That’s one of those otter holes – you hadn’t oughtta step in it.” Simply put, the trails and woods were miserable to move around in.

To the uninitiated, it would seem that a rabbit pursued by eight hunters and five hounds would be headed straight for the stew pot. But the fact of the matter is, the snowshoe rabbit, a.k.a. varying hare, can be a cagey customer, especially if it has been hounded a time or two. So it is that hunters waiting on roads and trails are often foiled when the rabbit, approaching the edge, turns and bounds back into the concealing thickets rather than expose itself by crossing the open corridors. At times, of course, a rabbit will streak across a road or trail, but seldom is it within shotgun range of the hunter who sees it. Such was my luck twice that day. Clearly, the business of bagging rabbits ahead of hounds depends on being in the right place at the right time. And, as you may know, that’s easier said than done.

A late-rising northwest wind was stretching and yawning loudly when, at mid-afternoon, the hounds were leashed and led from the woods. At the trucks, the tally of rabbits – their shedding coats of winter white showing patches of summer brown – came to five. That’s a far cry from the accusations of mass murder and wholesale slaughter trumpeted by the anti-hunting crowd. Furthermore, several of us, myself included, didn’t so much as draw a bead on a rabbit that day. But were we skunked? Not in the least. The pleasures of spending time with guns and dogs – hounds, retrievers, bird dogs, whatever – are not measured by the weight of the game bag. So it was that, slightly sodden but fully satisfied, we turned our trucks homeward. And so ended another grand time at the Gouldsboro Point Rod and Gun Club.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. Tom’s e-mail address is: thennessey@bangordailynews.net. Web site address: www.tomhennessey.com.