Somewhere in my neighborhood someone owns a beagle. And from what I’ve seen and heard of it I wish my name were on its collar. One day last summer, for instance, I listened to the beagle bugling and yodeling in the woods between my house and the river where, in spite of development, snowshoe rabbits (varying hares, actually), played games of hide and seek with hawks, owls and foxes. Minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised when hare and hound bounded through my back yard. Impressed with the beagle’s ability to trail on sod, I imagined what it would do on snow.

So it is that, each year, when Ol’ Man Winter arrives to wrap the naked woods in ermine robes, I wish my kennel contained a beagle or two that would roust rabbits from their beds and fill the woods with hound music. Exciting music it is, as old as the hills and as soul-stirring as the calling of geese and the laughter of loons. And like old songs, hound music evokes images of people, places and times past. Accordingly, when I hear the blaring crescendo of a hound starting a rabbit nowadays, I recall Pete and Tally, a pair of handsome bluetick-beagle cross hounds that were owned by the late Atwood “Bootch” Jameson.

Forgive the digression, but I have to say a story about Bootch would fit nicely into the Reader’s Digest section titled, “The Most Unforgettable Character I’ve Ever Met”. Of the many outdoors addicts who took me under their wings as a fledgling hunter and fisher, Bootch was one of the most memorable. Not only for his knowledge of hunting, fishing, trapping and the outdoors in general, but for his patience and kindness. If I broke a paddle, Bootch would let me take an “old one.” Likewise, he’d have a bait bucket that he “wasn’t using.”

Moreover, with the arrival of winter he’d say to me, “Any time you want to go rabbit hunting take Pete and Tally. There’s plenty of rabbits in the woods behind the farm.” Then, straight-faced, he’d add, “The only thing is, the dogs run those rabbits so much they’re awful skinny – you’ll have a tough time seeing one if it’s coming straight at you.” So it was that on many a Saturday morning my grandfather drove me to the farm located on the Johnson Mill Road in Orrington. Today, the farm is owned by Bootch’s brother, Arthur “Peewee” Jameson, and his family.

Talk about great days and grand times. It got so that when I showed up, Pete and Tally would greet me with a few bell-toned notes before taking to the woods. Dropping a shell into the chamber of my single-shot, 16-gauge, I’d wallow after them in snow that was often knee deep or deeper. At the time I didn’t own a pair of snowshoes; and because of my propensity for breaking things Bootch wisely thought better of loaning me his. But that was no reason to pass up the canine concert that provided all-day entertainment and usually a couple of rabbits.

Owing to their bluetick blood, Pete and Tally were long-legged. Consequently, the rabbits they started didn’t pause often or long. It’s interesting that some rabbits are sprinters and others are hoppers. The former waits until a hound is within a few yards of it before bounding away at full speed. When started, the latter might put 100 yards or more between it and the hound, thereafter maintaining that distance by hopping unhurriedly, often pausing to nibble bark or buds. Contrary to common belief, especially among people who have never been rabbit hunting, a hound doesn’t run a rabbit in a circle. However, because a rabbit tends not to leave its home turf – the exception being bucks during mating season – it usually returns somewhere close to where it was started. Therefore, it may appear that the hound is running the rabbit in a circle.

Could be you’ve heard stories about a hound that runs rabbits to where the hunter is waiting. Well, all I can say is I hope that hunter brings a lunch. Think about it: After charging into the woods ahead of the hunter and starting a rabbit, say, a quarter of a mile away, how does the hound know where the hunter is? Let’s face it, a hound can only follow a rabbit’s scent trail.

Because Maine’s rabbit season opens Oct. 1 and closes March 31, it may appear that the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife is staffed with people who own rabbit hounds. Truth be told, however, that long season can be woefully short of hunting opportunities – weather, of course, being the controlling factor. Last winter’s prolonged wind-chilled, sub-zero temperatures, for example, would have intimidated the abominable snowman, let alone rabbit hunters. Crust is a curse, pure and simple. Aside from not holding scent well, it cuts the feet and legs of hounds bounding and breaking through it. Even when stout enough to hold a hound or a hunter on snowshoes, crust makes for miserable hunting. A day spent slipping and sliding, stretching muscles and ligaments while trying to stay upright, will sour the sweetest hound music. Not to mention hound and hunter awaking sore and lame the next day.

Although the large hind feet for which the snowshoe rabbit is named enables it to run on soft snow, the critter’s ability to cut and run is somewhat diminished by crust. Several times I’ve seen rabbits’ feet go out from under them when attempting to sprint or change directions on the icy seals.

Hounds run well when every branch and bough is burdened with fresh wet snow, which holds scent. Trouble is, though, you can’t see anything. Consequently, a hunter may not realize a rabbit has passed within a few feet of him until the hounds do. And you can’t hear a heck of a lot, either, when the woods are smothered with snow. Maybe you’re familiar with the muffled whump of a hunting partner’s shotgun fired only a few yards away in a snow-mantled cedar swamp. Or for that matter, the snow-silenced report of your own shotgun. Additionally, wet snow sticks to snowshoes, adding weight and sagging the rawhide babiche.

From what I’ve seen of it, the ideal time for hearing a medley of hound music is on a mid-February day after a fresh snow has settled and Ol’ Sol is smiling warmly and stepping higher in his stroll across the sky. At such times, the snow is spongy, the scent is sticky and a hound is so full of itself that it will bellow through octaves and trumpet up and down the scale while running off track. But as enjoyable as it is for hunters, late-winter rabbit hunting can be unpleasant for hounds: The thawing days and freezing nights create granular snow – skiers refer to it as “corn snow” – which chews and chafes into a hound’s feet.

Obviously, there’s more to fetching the main ingredient for a meal of hasenpfeffer than turning a hound loose in the woods. Especially for a single hunter. Because I followed Pete and Tally into the woods alone more often than not, I learned early on that the term “hare-brained” was a misnomer. For instance, my charging, floundering efforts to head off a rabbit bounding toward a railroad track or a power line usually ended with me panting and cussing as the rabbit, instinctively shy of clearings that exposed it to hawks and owls, turned back into the woods. Granted, it’s difficult to deny the urge to head off a rabbit, but if it sees or hears the hunter moving, it will change directions and hit high gear with moves that would leave NFL running backs slack-jawed.

It’s no secret that the snowshoe rabbit’s brown summer coat changes to white come winter. Relatively few people, however, realize that snow has nothing to do with the camouflage that occurs in mid-November, normally a month of scant snowfall. The biological process that produces the concealing winter coat is activated when diminishing daylight is transmitted to a gland via the rabbit’s eyes. Conversely, the arrival of springtime and increasing daylight produces the hare’s summer coat.

Like all hunting, success in rabbit hunting depends largely on being in the right place at the right time. At times that happens quickly, other times it takes a while, and, of course, there are times when it doesn’t happen. So be it. Skunked or otherwise, I bring home a limit of memories that, sooner or later, will color paintings and columns. In what is truly a winter wonderland, I see tired stone walls sleeping beneath quilts of snow, brooks peeking through panes of ice and shadows blue with cold shivering in the wind. I make mental notes of the white berets worn by stumps and fence posts, admire the brevity and clarity of nature’s stories written on the snow and marvel at squirming masses of snow fleas. All embellished, of course, with the rising and falling melodies of hound music that haven’t changed since I followed Pete and Tally into the woods a long time ago.

As memorable as those times are, I have to say that heading out of the woods when dusk was drawing the curtains of night was never disappointing to me, and for good reason: All I’d eaten since breakfast was a doughnut sliced into circular halves that were stuck together with peanut butter and jelly. Wrapped in waxed paper, I carried it in my hunting coat. A mouthful of snow helped get the sticky sandwich past my tonsils. After trudging along the trail leading to the Johnson Mill Road, with Pete and Tally trotting ahead of me, I’d meet my grandfather at the farm. Suffice it to say that my thoughts were warm with the knowledge that, only minutes away, a supper of baked beans, lean salt pork, biscuits or yeast rolls hot from the oven and tea the color of claret was waiting to be served. Topped off, of course, with a wedge of warmed apple or mincemeat pie.

The trouble with being young is you think times like that will last forever. But in no time at all you realize they’re gone forever. Have a happy and memorable New Year in Maine’s magnificent outdoors.

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: www.tomhennessey.com.