The best view is from the back of a horse!

Crows chased a bald eagle across the silver sky as we headed to school this morning, cawing and diving three against one. The girls said “aaah!” from the back seat, turning to watch the airborne game of tag.  That’s freedom, I thought, that’s freedom on the wing.  Just like the weekend, it flew by. 

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 the master.  We follow, our horses knowing, 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 that off as we pick up a canter.  Running down a well groomed path, then waiting by a lily crowded pond, we pause, listening.  Then the pack is moving on, and we follow along the edge of the field where it borders a wood as the huntsman works the hounds, talking and whistling, saying their names, “Jubilee, hup, Ranger,” and blowing his horn.  

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.  We freeze, silent, and a red fox streaks low and long across the field toward us, then veers off and makes a line for the covert.

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 love 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 trail becomes an old road, long unused, but still bordered by a stone wall, and the going is clappy, mud thick with pieces of the wall that must have broken down.  She takes high quick steps and moves cleverly around the worst of it.  Ahead of us the field is turning to jump over the wall.  One by one we jump over, and as we go too, everyone on the other side has stopped, so my horse lands squarely and halts abruptly, which makes me laugh.  I rub her mane as she blows out her air in a big snorty exhale.  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 butt of 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 and flicks her tail agreeably.  They gesture softly to each other with their noses and ears.  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 he 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 break from woods to field, jump three more coops, some low walls, and soon we are again seeing country we saw  an hour ago, as the fox circles.  When the fox goes to ground the hounds are praised for finishing their task.  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 she was following so close I didn’t see there was a jump coming up. 

With less urgency 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, work our way through it single file, and then turn back down to the road.  Over the wall again, into the field to head back to the meet.  Our path homeward has taken us over the same country we hunted, and all the while the huntsman calls hounds, blowing his horn, and talking to the hounds that are with him, “come along now”, and “get up there.”  At the corner of a field, we pause, all in a line, and watch as the huntsman jumps over the wall into a bordering field, calls, and a hound comes trotting along the top of the far wall to him, like “hello there, here I am!” As the hound joins them, the huntsman says to the pack, “let’s go then!” and they all turn and jump back over the wall towards us. 

We walk at a nice pace, 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, a view of rolling fields with bordering trees all around.  The huntsman stops here and gathers the hounds to him, blowing his horn every once in a while, doffing his cap while his horse stretches out and cocks a back leg at rest.  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 covert, 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 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.