Leaving the cornfield, the Huntsman dashed through the woods to the rim, hollered, "C’mon!", touched heels to his horse, and plunged over. As my horse reached the spot, I clapped my legs tightly. The little horse never hesitated. Down, down, down (truly, this was worth three downs) he butt-slid past saplings and trees, descending the pathless ravine slope courageously. He slopped through the muddy bottom, bounded into the stream, haunches gathering to charge the opposite side. Halfway up, we clattered over a broken culvert to lunge finally out onto a dirt roadway. "OMyGod!!" I gasped. "Get to them!" he bellowed, giving me no time to wonder about what I’d just ridden. Hounds needed stopping and the little horse gallantly got me there!
The day was warm and whatever scent had long since risen. Little enough remained that hounds could pickup. The fox were no doubt cool in their dens but deer might be near, hoping to catch a breeze. A hound opened occasionally but not enough for any other to honor. Finally, in the large swamp, their voices rose, sweeping towards us. Whips moved to cover different points. Just behind the Huntsman, I got that whip’s feeling thinking somewhere else needed covering. Somebody should have stayed at the far end where we’d just been. I started back as the hounds turned our way. I pushed my horse into a canter, wanting to get ahead of the hounds should anything break. Indeed, out jumped a buck, our hounds coming along. I needed to get on that line!
Just after 8:00 A.M. a most beautiful sound rises on the air. It’s a new season; the hounds have hit! Their voices lift gloriously above the trees with the horn an underlying accompaniment. Such a joy to finally hear this song again! My horse’s ears perk forward listening to the pack’s progress. Crows complain heartily along the treetops while the hounds rustle deep on the line, picking their way. On the dirt road, easy work, my horse is content to stand while we listen.
Although it was brisk, the wind wasn’t strong enough to muffle the Huntsman’s voice, which carried easily. Eventually I heard that soft surf sound hounds make working through underbrush. Several minutes later one hound opened. Then another honored the first and soon all joined! At the old rail trail the first hound came flying from the covert. The Huntsman and the Field galloped out of the woods in time to see the hounds work the pines before slipping right towards the coverts between here and town. They lost the line along a dirt roadway but not before giving the field its first gallop of the day and the folks in the vehicles a chance to see them work.
Hounds went into the small swamp and almost immediately we heard them speak; the music rising above the treetops as they tracked the scent through the swamp. A Halloa! followed from the far side. A whip viewed the gray coyote our hounds had pushed out. Away we went, along the wood line and over the next field, listening to the hounds, finally to check but not for long.
It had been cold when we had started some three hours earlier but now, topping the rise, a winter front truly set in! The wind that had been torturing us all day brought out the heavy artillery, a hard driving sleety snow that we had to face directly. As snow collected on our coats, our helmets, there was no question about being time to go in! One member remarked that a glass of port or hot buttered rum was the remedy needed for the cold. Such was our luck that both waited for us!
Poised to fly after his hounds, alert to hound voices, he paused asking if the Field was far behind. They were hungry, I replied. For a moment he looked crestfallen but the hounds were running and I swear I heard: Food? Let them eat common .... We’ll dine with the gods! Or some such thing, I’m sure what he said was as flowery in its own way. He galloped off, following the cry.
Now our hounds ran an amazing fox, racing along the dark wooded shoreline. Crossing broad corn-stubble fields where cannonballs once flew, the fox took flight before the hounds. Slipping through culverts and ditches slowed the hounds some but never did they lose the line. Past Jubilee’s stark grapevines we rode, over muddy creeks and steep little ravines. A run over two hours that took us into territory not covered in years.
....exclamations of Whoa Dammit and similar endearments as the Huntsman’s horse crashed out from the corn up onto the roadway, its sides heaving. It is not easy to gallop pell-mell through a stand of ripened corn. The Huntsman was barely hanging on, covered in chaff, corn stalks sticking out from under his legs. Dammit, (this isn’t a common horse name near you?) evidently didn’t like cows. We both burst out laughing....
