Foxhunter/Pony Clubber Kristin WarringtonKristin is the winning author in the 2014 Hildegard Neill Ritchie Foxhunting Writing Contest sponsored annually by the United States Pony Club. The contest is open to all D- or C-rated Pony Club members, whether or not they have hunted. Kristin is a C-1 from the St. Augustine Pony Club, Delmarva Region, and here’s her winning story.
The Fox
The grass is frosted over in the shady areas where the woods touch the long sloping fields. As I trot along, tense and listening, I notice the familiar trails through the trees and undergrowth are wearing recently made hoof prints and accessorized by a lone, twisted horseshoe that seems to have come off an unlucky rider’s mount. They have already been through this way several times, but that is part of my plan. I like to lead them in monotonous circles, repeatedly using the same paths, and drag it out until they are almost desperate enough to call off the hounds and begin a new search, then I take a sudden sprint through an open field allowing them to see me long enough to call out, “Tallyho!” and try desperately to gather up the hounds who are still off in the woods sniffing out my scent. I decide upon this familiar strategy and take a sharp turn up into a large field. I take a quick survey of the surroundings, and feel a sudden gust of courage take over me. Heart pounding with thrill, and my mind marveling at the sheer cleverness of my evasion from my predators, I dash madly between the crowd of horses’ legs.
The Hound
That ridiculous fox. He thinks he’s so sly, leading us off into the woods far enough for him to disappear, then sneaking up next to the huntsman, leaving us to fumble through the underbrush, trying hard to recover our mistake. Finally breaking free through the labyrinth of thistles, I charge up the hill ahead of my pack. I hear the rest of them baying along with me as we catch the strong scent of the fox once again. We scatter the horses, dodging in and out of the riders and their mounts. My heart is thundering inside my chest like a freight train. I press my nose to the ground to follow the pungent smell, but what is this I am smelling instead? A deer? Irrelevant. A new smell, perhaps a coyote? Forbidden. I have it now though, there’s the right smell. The fox. I reach the summit of the hill and take off. My body flattens, my neck reaching forward. My legs are coiled springs underneath me, carrying me toward the bushy tailed fox. My pack is with me and we streak across the hilltops of Fairhill, Maryland, quickly gaining ground on the fox who can’t seem to make up his mind on the route he needs to take. I hear the thud of horses behind as they keep pace after us. I hear our huntsmen’s Irish brogue, ringing out in praise. Our group of hounds has only been together for a season or two, but we are working more like a team than ever. The combined chorus of the other yodeling hounds and the wind rushing past me is becoming deafening, but I am solely focused on the fox, trotting indecisively just a few yards ahead. Without warning, I lose the scent. The fox has gone into a rough patch of thistles, and escaped again.
The Huntsman
I reach down and pat my horse’s sweat streaked neck. The whips and I gather the hounds in to search farther into the next field, as the hounds are trying and not succeeding to pick their way through the thick briars the fox has escaped through. Urging my horse forward again I hear a nearby rider call out, “Tallyho!” and raise my eyes toward the hillside up ahead. Spotting the fox, I move the group quickly forward into the next field and use a sharp command to tell my hounds to get to work. They find the scent, and off howling. Over time, I have learned to distinguish the deep baritone of one hound, the high cry of another, and a mournful whine from one of our oldest hounds, all mixing in with one another to create a sound like no other I know. My mount is moving freely beneath me and I hear the multitude of horses behind me and their rider’s eager cries, when they think they have caught a glimpse of the fox who has once again managed to evade us. But the hounds haven’t given up chase and seem suddenly to pick up their pace. The music of the hounds gets louder as they find a heavier scent, they are closing in. I aim my horse toward a low coop that stands alone by a hedgerow and jump in perfect rhythm with my horse, never taking my eyes from the hounds ahead of me, flinging themselves down a steep slope. The thunder of hooves and the barking of the hounds has grown steadily louder and louder behind me. We reach the corner of a large field, and view the fox sprinting flat out, the hounds running like mad behind him noses jammed to the ground and wailing all the way. Then, quite suddenly, as if he was never really there at all, but just an illusion, he goes to ground and disappears. I take the horn from its holder and blow an extra-long signaling the end of a successful day. We turn around and head back toward the trailers, with the familiar sound of the horn still reverberating through the fields.
Posted June 26, 2014