Hunting with Dogs

What an experience. How do you begin to explain something that’s lived in the back of your heart since you were a child? That’s what hound hunting is for me, not just a pastime, but a thread woven deep into the fabric of memory, tradition, and wildness. I know some folks will turn up their noses at the idea of hunting with dogs. I get it, at first glance, it can seem barbaric, outdated, or even unnecessary. But before you write it off, consider this: without hunting, you wouldn’t have that sweet, soft doodle curled up on your couch. Domestication didn’t begin in some air-conditioned training room; it began in the hunt.

If you’re willing to suspend judgment, even just for a moment, there’s something primal and profound to discover in this tradition. Something worthy of saving.

I was raised in the shadows of dog men. My grandfather was one. My favorite book as a child, read when I was barely five, was Where the Red Fern Grows. You don’t read that story and walk away untouched. It lodges itself in your chest and stays there. I remember my grandmother showing me photos of my grandfather with his bird dogs, mule deer, and even a black bear. One time, he set out for a mule deer and came back with both a deer and a bear. My grandmother was stunned. He asked, "Joanie, do you know how to clean a bear?" She said, "A what?" That day, she learned.

Fast forward to now: I train dogs for a living. And I can tell you, unequivocally, you cannot talk about dog training, much less domestication, without talking about hunting. The first wolves who walked alongside man weren’t companions for companionship’s sake. They had jobs. They earned their keep. Their value was in their utility, not their cuteness.

Historically, dogs were not only man’s best friend, but they were also his hunting partners. The modern-day pit bull and Staffordshire terrier, for instance, were brought over to America for exactly that purpose: to hunt. Their strength, tenacity, and drive made them ideal partners for everything from boar to bear. Long before European settlers brought their hounds to the New World, Native American tribes were hunting with dogs. These dogs weren’t pets; they were providers. Tribes like the Pawnee and Crow bred and trained dogs to hunt small game, pull loads, and act as sentinels. These animals were deeply woven into the cultural and survival fabric of the people. They were companions, yes, but companions with purpose.

And here’s the thing: I use lessons from hound training all the time with pet owners. The mechanics of behavior, prey drive, timing, consequence are transferable. We may not be chasing bears in the suburbs, but the principles don’t change.

Now let’s talk about the hunt.

In Idaho, bear hunting with hounds is legal and well-managed. Baiting is allowed, and there’s a good reason for it. Bears are elusive, with noses that can detect human scent from miles away. You might catch one on camera one day and not see them again for a week. Baiting isn’t laziness, it’s strategy. It helps ensure ethical, effective harvests and supports population control. Without it, we risk diseases like chronic wasting in deer and elk, sickness born from overcrowding and unmanaged growth. In Missouri, a deer causes a car wreck every 2 hours and 30 minutes during the fall. That’s not a guess, it’s a statistic. Management matters.

So we bait. Donuts, dog food, fryer grease. The kind of stuff a bear can’t resist. The next morning, we check the cameras. And if you're lucky? You get what’s called a “hot strike.” That means the scent is fresh, and the dogs can track it.

We ran Old English mixed with Blue Tick and one Plott Hound, classic bear dogs. Strong, stubborn, relentless. I’ve seen videos online where hounds tree a mountain lion, patiently baying while waiting for the shot. And then someone’s little terrier jumps out of the truck window and ruins everything. That’s not hunting, that’s a circus. It’s a reminder that tools matter. Breeding matters. Respect matters.

When our cameras showed a big bear hit the bait site early that morning, I said, "Let 'em loose." The GPS collars lit up. The chase was on.

After about 45 minutes, the dogs converged. We followed in the truck, then dismounted and trekked into the Idaho backcountry. Let me tell you, Idaho is no Missouri. The climbs are steep. The woods are dense. We hiked for what felt like hours, but in truth was 30 to 40 minutes.

Then we heard it, the hounds. That ancient, rhythmic holler. We pushed through thick underbrush, and there it was: a mature black bear, 40 feet up the biggest cedar I’ve ever seen, with 13 to 15 hounds raising hell beneath him. Living out their God-given design.

The bear was calm, alert. The dogs were proud. And me? I was smiling like a fool. This was it. The moment I’d pictured since childhood.

I lined up the shot. Fought through the mosquitoes. My scope was fogged; lesson learned. I wiped it with my sleeve. Checked with the outfitter. "Good to take the shot?" "Go ahead."

Boom. One shot. Double lung. The bear fell. A few kicks. Then stillness.

We hauled him out of the mountain with pride, not bloodlust, not ego, but deep satisfaction. I’d honored the animal by making the shot count. By showing up prepared. And by making sure every part of him would be used.

People often misunderstand the elation that hunters show after the kill. It’s not joy over death, it’s gratitude and fulfillment. The expression on my face isn’t because something died. It’s because I did the work. The miles, the training, the discipline. I’m smiling because I could hack it when the world still required grit. I’m smiling because I imagine my ancestors watching and recognizing something familiar in me. The animal’s life is sacred. Its sacrifice is not lost on me. It becomes a part of my family’s story. It feeds us, body and soul.

We owe it to the next generation to teach these lessons. If we don’t, we’re setting them up for failure. Just think about it, how many phone numbers did you have memorized 20 years ago? And how many do you know now? The conveniences of modern life have chipped away at our self-reliance. Hunting and the traditions tied to it help rebuild that lost knowledge. They offer something our screens never will: reality. Experience. Consequence. Responsibility. We must mentor our children and pass down what matters, not just for the sake of hunting, but for the future of resilience itself.

I know some of you reading this aren’t fans of hunting. Maybe especially hunting with hounds. But if you’ve made it this far, maybe something in you is curious. Maybe something old and half-forgotten is stirring.

Not all hunters are reckless. Not all kill for fun. Some of us train year-round. Zero our rifles. Stay fit. Respect the animal. And raise children to do the same.

We don’t hear enough from those hunters. We hear from the clowns. The poachers. The ones who give the tradition a black eye. But there are bright spots, true stewards of the land and of their animals. People who understand the weight of what it means to take a life and feed their family.

And here’s the truth: hound hunting is under attack. Not just from activists, but from bureaucracy. Legislation. Misunderstanding. If you think meat just magically appears in the grocery store and you can’t understand why hunting still matters, you might be in trouble. We need your help to protect this tradition. To keep alive something that has outlived empires.

So maybe instead of writing it off, ask why this tradition persists. Why hound hunting has survived for thousands of years. Why something in the human spirit still longs for the sound of baying dogs and the quiet reverence of a successful hunt.

Because if you look closely, you’ll find that hunting with dogs isn’t just a sport. It’s a living piece of history. And it deserves to be preserved.