Crows chased a bald eagle across the silver sky, cawing and diving, three against one. I look up to watch the airborne game of tag. That’s freedom, I thought, that’s freedom on the wing.
It’s the month when the large orange moon blinks between fleeting clouds, her bright eye blessing the beasts that shiver in the fields. Thrill seekers and bon vivants, we brace up with stirrup cups in the broken dawn, then cast off at a brisk trot to the sound of the huntsman’s horn. The hounds wag and weave, crowding like a school of fish around his horse. We follow, our horses fresh, ears up, keen to the business at hand. My mare is coiled tight and I do more harm than good by feeding her my own nervous energy. She feels it on her mouth through the line of the reins, gripped tightly. Her flanks were quivering before we got to the meet, but now she’s shaken it off as we pick up a canter. With quick bursts of running, then waiting, listening, then moving on, we follow the edge of a field bordering a wood as the huntsman works the hounds, talking and whistling, saying their names, “Jubilee, hup, Ranger,” blowing his horn in quick bursts they understand.
When the first hound sings, it’s a piercing, solo, and the pack answers with a baying chorus of joy, and that’s when I make sure my feet are at least half way home in the stirrups, and I have a good grip on the reins. But as we wait for the hounds to lead us off, we are frozen by the master saying, “tally ho” quietly, and the fox is headed straight towards us. We freeze, silent, and as it sees us, the fox veers off and makes a line for the cover behind us.
The hounds give chase, in full cry, and we follow the fox through a rolling densely grassed hay field, whose growth from the heavy rains had been cut late, leaving blunt chopped tufts. At the fence line is a coop, and our field master always takes a careful, long approach. No matter how I try, the mare wants to be right on top of the horse in front of her, but I manage to have at least a horse’s length. She jumps high and close, with no finesse, unlike a low, arching thoroughbred’s jump, but I know her. Her self-preservation and herd mentality keep her from knocking her legs or being left behind. I never approach a fence with any fear, unless I don’t know what’s on the other side, and then the only fear I have is that I won’t be able to stay with her.
We land in the woods and run after the hounds, far ahead of us now, on a trail that takes us winding through trees, slowing to a jog only for steep descents, then trotting quickly up the trail, breaking into a canter. Dodging and gasping, “dear god!” as we slalom trees within inches, it’s a miracle I haven’t been peeled off. The wooded trail becomes an old road, long unused, but still bordered by a stone wall, and the going is thick, mud peppered with pieces of the wall that have broken down. It’s deep and clappy, and she takes high quick steps to get through. Ahead of us, the field is turning to jump over the wall. When we jump over, everyone on the other side has stopped, so she lands squarely and halts, which makes me laugh. I rub her mane as she blows off the run. In the chill, her glossy black haunches have beaded up with sweat, and I place my hand on her rump, leaving a wet print. I have to leg her over and back her off, as she’s practically resting her head on the horse in front of us. It happens to be her pasture mate, and she nudges her in the flank, and the other mare looks at her kindly. When we are waiting, all the horses have their ears attuned to the presence of the hounds. They know where the hounds are, and respect them when they come from behind to get up with the pack. A hound can dodge inches from my horse’s feet and she will freeze until it passes safely. She knows if he can’t do his work, she can’t do hers. When the hounds gather again, and the whips have weeded the stragglers and wayward from the dense trees, again we follow.
We jump three or four coops, some low walls, and circle the same trails, woods, fields, and creeks, and the hounds eventually put the fox to ground. My legs are aching, my gloves covered in my horse’s sweat, and I’ve ducked branches and grabbed mane and said “oh shit” when I didn’t see there was a coop coming up.
But we pick up and go again, and this time the hounds lead us over a low wall, and across a road where cars are stopped, and some drivers have gotten out to watch. We trot into a cornfield, looking for a stray hound, then work our way through it and then turn back down to the road. Over the wall again, this time the cars have gone. Our path homeward has taken us over the same country we hunted, and all the while the huntsman calls, blows, and talks to the hounds, “come along now”, and “get up there.” At the corner of a field, we pause, and watch as the huntsman jumps over the wall into a bordering field, and calls, and there comes a hound, trotting along the top of the far wall, as if to say “hello there, here I am!” The huntsman says to the pack, “come on then!” and they all jump back over the wall towards us, and we are on our way.
The homeward walk is at a nice pace. We walk with loose reins and have conversations in low voices as we navigate the terrain. We come to a hilltop above a large pond, with a beautiful farm in the distance, and rolling fields with bordering trees all around. The hounds rest, and the huntsman, doffing his cap, talks to his staff, counting couples of hounds. The field gathers around the hounds, and flasks come out, are passed, and a bit of mingling ensues. The hounds, knowing they are done, roll happily, kicking their feet up, or turn about in circles and lay at the feet of the huntsman’s horse. Some are still curious, and search out the bordering cover, until the whip rides to them, calling, “come out of there,” then back they go, looking up expectantly at their master.
I sit on my horse, having dropped my reins and propped my knees over the front of my saddle, and am completely content. She tosses her head and swishes her tail, and I give her a pat on the neck. It’s only nine o’clock and my day is complete.
