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The year was 1977. Hurricane “David” was coming through South Florida and I had just moved to West Palm Beach from Tyler, Texas where I was born.

My Dad and Paw-Paw and I coon and hog hunted all my life. Dad and Paw-Paw have since passed on. Dad always kept a handful of old fashioned Blueticks. Very expensive, highly bred hounds according to him. I’ve heard my great granddad talk about these hounds. This particular bloodline traces back over a hundred and fifty years, judging from all the info my mom could dig up.

Well, in 1977 my dad and a friend had been hog hunting and when they got back the friend asked to keep his dog “Bull” over night. Bull was a Loxahatchee bred red-nosed Pit Bull. During the night, Bull got out of his pen and got in with Dad’s best blue tick gyp… that happened to be in heat. The result was three pups of the Bluetick/Pitbull cross. I was only 7 years old and had to have them.

Dad called them mutts, but I called the “mine” … and that’s all that mattered. They were my own pack of hounds.

Well, one morning during a hog hunt with Dad, his ol “Roper” dog must have had 40 pigs at bay! The old dog just kept running around in a circle, keeping the piggies in the middle, they were all small pigs. I jumped on one and put it in the dog box. Dad was not happy about this but I wanted a little pig to start training my “mutts” with. When we got home, Dad and I got the dog box down and Dad said, “let’s see what those no good mutts of yours got.”

The pups were about four and a half months old at the time. I think even my dad was amazed when “Duke”, “Dolly” and “Pearl” immediately attacked the dog box. They were pretty worked up and eventually had to be dragged away.

For the next 8 years those dogs and I trailed and bayed coons and hogs and our fair share of “heavy” game. My dad was some proud and would brag to his friends about having a boy that young that could go out, by his self and his own “mutts” and bring home the bacon. During these years my mom and dad took trips to Alaska every year and I was the one that had to stay home and take care of (and hunt with) all the dogs. In 1985 I was 15 years old and dad said I could go to Alaska with them. He also said I could take my “mutts” along and see if they could handle a black bear. He handed me a bottle of bear scent in this conversation. I got right to work. I went straight out and got a pig, sprayed bear scent all over him and started working my Bluetick/Pitbull mutts on pigs with the bear scent for a whole year. Finally the day came and we all flew to Fairbanks, Alaska. Me, my mom and dad and those dogs had a fine time. Dad and I treed many bears in the first week with those mutts. But dad wanted to fish during the remaining week.

We were staying at a little town called {Palmer with mountains and wilderness all around. It was common for bears and moose to walk right down the street in broad daylight. I decided to go bear hunting by myself. Mom and Dad didn’t like the idea, but I went anyway.

There were patches of snow all over the place and armed with a 54 Hawken black powder rifle, I set out to the east of town with those Bluetick/Pitbull curs in search of bears. We hadn’t gone far when Duke struck a track and away all three dogs went… with me trying to keep up the best I could. Near as I can guess it was about 6 miles when I finally for within earshot of that bunch of curs. The Pearl gyp has a very loud triple-chop when bayed or treed. Dolly was a “rattle head” and talked all the time. You could never heard Duke on tree or bay, cause he was usually busy biting, catchin’, or trying to chew down the tree. So Pearl was how I could tell what was going on… normally. She sounded like they were treed or bayed. I walked another 3 miles (seems like it anyway) and came on the scene. My good ol’ Bluetick/Pitbull mutts had a bear at bay and he was clearly very angry. What a bear! It took a few seconds for it to sink in that this was not a black bear at all, but a GRIZZLY!! The biggest bear I ever saw. I jumped behind a tree knowing that if Duke saw me or heard me he would immediately try to catch the bear. That’s the way he was. Remember, I was only 15 years old and armed with a single-shot black powder rifle. I was praying that my powder had stayed dry and several other things and that is the first time I can recall that I was really praying. This grizzly was big, mean, and putting a mighty beating on my dogs. I had to do something. I peeked around the tree to survey the situation one more time and Duke saw me and went in for the kill. Oh Lord! He caught the grizzly by the nose and the bear went crazy. I stepped out from behind that tree and saw that Duke’s back already looked like hamburger and there was blood everywhere. The whole scene was blood stained because of the snow.

The bear threw ol’ Duke off but would come right back, catching the grizzly by the nose every time. I started to cry, scream and yell, all at the same time. “Duke! Release! Release!” But the Bluetick/Pitbull cross was too gritty and just wouldn’t quit. Pearl was biting the bear on the butt and Dolly was baying like mad and the bear was killing Duke. I finally remembered I had the rifle and drew a bead, but Duke was in the way and not giving up for anything. I finally realized that Duke was probably going to die anyway… he was in awful shape. So, I fired at the bear’s head with ol’ Duke still attached to his nose!

I saw the right side of the big bear’s head turn white, then red. I had shot him in the eye! He threw Duke off at once and charged after me! Now all three of my mutts were locked on the bear’s backside and shaking (or trying to), but the grizzly kept coming. I threw my rifle at him, turned tail and made for the nearest tree, which was the one I’d been hiding behind just a few minutes earlier. I barely made it to the tree with the grizzly right on my heels. I was about 14 feet up the tree when the bear, with three dogs attached to his rump, pushed the tree over and down I came, hard. I was so scared I didn’t even notice that my pants needed changing. The bear just laid there on the trunk of that tree. He died right there, no more than 3 feet from where I hit the ground. My mutts still locked and shaking with all their might.

I leashed the two gyps to trees and looked at Duke. The mutt had no ears, only one eye remained, no more hair, his intestines were hanging out of him and he was still trying to catch that ol’ grizzly, even as I skinned out the bear. When I was done with the skinning, I made a makeshift travois to pull along and carry ol’ Duke and the skin out of there. Duke couldn’t even stand anymore, but he wouldn’t stay in the thing and I had to carry him.

Then it came to me… I was lost! I had no idea where I was. Since I had started east out of Palmer, I headed west. I came to a road after a while. The first car that stopped didn’t want a fresh bear skin, three dogs (one all torn up) and me sweating and bleeding all over their car (City folks, go figure!). So I waited some more and a truck pulled over. Pearl, Dolly, Duke and I caught a ride to the nearest vet. The Doc didn’t know what to do with Duke. He was in bad shape. Real bad. I told him the story as he called my mom and dad. Well, he just plain didn’t believe me. I had to take him outside and show him the skin where Pearl and Dolly were tied.

A Game Warden showed up shortly after that and gave me a $2500 fine and released me into my dad’s custody. Me and dad went back to the room where Duke was and the old dog just looked up to me as if to say “So long friend, it’s been fun,” and died then and there on the table. I cried over that dog for 2 weeks and still do from time to time. My dad never called Pearl or Dolly curs or mutts again. He declared them the Lowell Johnson Bloodline and considered them to be purebred, high priced hunting dogs. Later on I bred Pearl and Dolly back to their sire and have kept the line going all these years.

At the present time I am doing time in the Florida State Penitentiary for some acts I committed as a result of having a couple of dogs stolen from me. I sort of lost my mind when those men stole my Bluetick/Pitbull Lowell Johnson hunting dogs. When I found out who they were I made them pay. My heart was right but my method was wrong. I’ll be home and back in the woods again soon.

Although I’ve done plenty of breeding, I still haven’t come up with a team like ol’ Duke, Pearl and Dolly. With Duke’s ability to catch, Pearl’s triple-chop on a bay-up or tree and Dolly’s rattle-head I knew where they were and what was happening at all times. Who knows? Maybe the Lowell Johnson hunting dogs will be a registered breed one day.

Nobody should feel sorry for ol’ Duke. That dog died for me and was doing what he loved to do. He bayed many a hog and treed many coons and was always trying to catch when I showed up. He’d like nothing better than to have that bear for a roommate in his doghouse. He did all his hard work to please me. I bred ol’ Pearl twice more before she passed on. She was found dead, doing what she loved… she was found under an old oak tree with a lay-up coon in it. She was a good dog to the end and had the loudest chop I’ve ever heard. Dolly was also bred twice and my dad of all people kept one of the entire litters. A big boar hog killed Dolly. Just like the others, she died while doing what she loved. I treasure those three dogs and the memories they keep giving me. They were my “foundation” stock and around these parts I can’t produce enough pups to supply the demand. All the local area hunters insist on getting their hog dogs from me… even if they have to wait a while. Some of the guys that hunt with my dogs ask me why I don’t register them. I’ve never considered it, but sitting in this little room gives me lots of time to think. If any of the readers have info I could use on this subject, please write to me about it. I know every dog in the bloodline all the way back to “Bull” (the Pitbull) and my dad’s Bluetick gyp, Upson-Blumoon bred. I’d appreciate any photos and hunting dog stories, as there is very little to do here but look forward to the mail. I should be home and back in the woods in about 28 more months. I may try the competition-hunting scene. You nitehunt guys better watch out!!

By the way, we never found the carcass of that grizzly but three years later a friend of dad’s called from Alaska. Keith Miller was out running his dogs on an old Indian game trail and found a tree down across a path. You guessed it… when he walked around it there was the skull and the bones of my grizzly and stuck in the tree was my old Henry hunting knife. I thought I’d dropped it while walking out, carrying my rifle, Duke, and 150 lbs of wet bear hide.

He asked if he could keep the skull and I said “Sure”. He mailed my knife home. Thanks for taking the time to read my story. I’m now thinking about hunting jaguar down in Mexico. If I were to own another breed it would be the big blue Gascon/old fashioned Blueticks. Mine had a little extra grit added from that cross of PR Grand Champion Ragin Hull, (the Pitbull) and PR Grand Champion Johnson’s Blu-Flame (the Bluetick gyp). I’ll never forget what my dad said that night after I got the grizzly. He gave me my first beer, told me I was a grown man now and deserved to also be regarded as a real houndsman. I sure miss those three dogs though. God Bless ‘em.
Thanks, Lowell Johnson


If any of you readers would like to write to this fellow houndsman
while he's waiting to get back to the woods, his address is:
Lowell Johnson,309419- W/C
Madison Corr. Inst. C21185
Rt. 4, Box 2695
Madison, Florida 32340



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