It was a thing that he had a love/hate relationship with - being a guide.
Thankfully, though, he only had to do it for the bigger hunts when people would come from 3 or 4 states to participate.
Coon hunting was not as big a deal as it used to be around there.
Back before the internet and 500 cable channels, people had to find ways to entertain themselves.
Coon hunting was as much of a social event as anything else. People got together, swapped lies about how many they had treed and how good their dogs tracked, ate grilled hamburgers or sausages... It was a very country thing to do on a Friday or Saturday night.
But that was a pastime that was quickly falling to the wayside.
The old timers weren't hunting much anymore. There were fewer and fewer young bloods.
Hunts had mostly become dog shows with a little hunting thrown in.
He took on the role of guide because his uncle could do it no longer. He did have a few good places: the McCranie place at the head of the mill pond, the Hall place off of Fire Tower Road, and the place where the big coons were down on Little River.
That was the place everybody like the best. It was the place he like the least.
After the dogs were released everybody stood around and made small talk until one or more of the dogs struck trail then treed. The hunters would make their way into the woods to find their dogs.
He would stay back with the trucks to honk if needed so they could find their way back.
But these woods were somehow different. They were deeper, darker. They held some secret.
The barred owls would start making their monkey cries and something else would start moving through the woods. Something not quite human. Something malevolent.
He never saw them but he could sense them watching him.
His uncle had told him on more than one occasion, "There ain't no such thing is bigfoot, but there are buggas out there."
He wasn't afraid of the dark or even most of the things that were in the dark.
What he was afraid of was meeting up with a bugga... again.
