Abstract
Briar Mountain is an appropriate name. Sawbriars, common blackberry vines, multiflora rose, greenbriars, red briars—there is no shortage of plants that cut and rip at cloth and flesh. I struggle, but the dogs seem to ghost through the dense thickets and tangles with relative ease. They slip ahead through spots where thorns wrap around my ankles and wrists, tangle my hair, catch my hat, and try to pierce the lobes of my ears. In particularly, tough places I use the stock of my shotgun to club the vegetation into submission, pushing it down to a level where I can raise my leg and get my boot on the thorny mass. On more than one occasion, a rabbit escapes without a shot because I am too busy struggling futilely with the briars and brush to even think of taking aim. My uncle Roy and I are hunting on a hill farm...
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