We enjoy publishing hunt reports. The emphasis may be on humor, a unique hunting country, the horse, or the substance of venery, but rarely all that in one package. Epp’s report covers every base, especially substance. In the course of one exciting hunt, the reader is there as the huntsman conjures the best place for the first draw; reads his hounds as individuals; reaps the fruits of hot summer work in the country; assists the Field Master; uses his road whips to advantage when chasing the wide-ranging coyote; makes quick but necessary decisions—right or wrong—to maintain the pace of his hunt and the safety of his hounds; all the while, tuned to the problems of his mount.
Day’s end. / Ed Maxwell photo
The drought in the U.S. Southeast made September, October and November hunting in Georgia some of the most challenging we and the hounds have had in many years. Dust everywhere. Most of the streams long dried up. In others, just pockets of water.
It has been so dry and dusty that the puppies and even some of last year’s entry were tempted to run deer and pigs. Long, boring days where hounds cannot find a coyote to run tempt all but the most deer-broke dogs. We had two days that scent was so bad they could not run a freshly viewed coyote—even when we got them to the view in less than a minute.
Over the last week the Good Lord has brought the rain His countryside needed so desperately.
So, I feel like hunt season started only last Saturday. With moisture in the ground and cooler temperatures, we had the first good day of the season—a brilliant coyote run through the old country lasting over forty minutes. Long enough to qualify as a “rough rider run.” And yesterday, Wednesday, was even better.
Wednesday, December 7
The day dawned cool and cloudy. No rain predicted, but the air was so heavy with humidity that moisture was still dripping off the tin roofs of the barns well after 10 AM.
Hounds met at 3 PM: fifty-five degrees, cloudy, winds light and variable, ground damp, trails slick. It has been so long since a good rain that we have lost practice running on slick trails.
We made the first cast in George’s Woods, right across the Race Track Field from the Hunt Barn. We cast there not expecting to find a coyote, but wanting to get the foolishness and possible deer running out of the youngsters. Drawing good covert where there are open fields on three sides gives us a better chance to see exactly what is going on from the beginning. If they flush a deer and are tempted to run it, we have a much better chance of seeing the deer and nipping any deer running in the bud. It also gives us a better chance to view a coyote and cheer them on quickly.
It didn’t surprise or excite me when Canvas started speaking about 100 yards from the initial cast. Canvas can smell where a coyote was hours or days ago. Often she is the only one. And it does not turn into anything we can actually run. It didn’t surprise me when Lilac joined in. Lilac is often mouthy.
It did surprise me that they were so animated and keen about it. The odd thing was that the rest of the pack was not speaking, just feathering. They were going along with Canvas and Lilac. And they were very interested, but none of the other hounds were speaking. Odd. I radioed that they might be working a pig. Then Nicole radioed, “Tally ho coyote headed west in the woods on the north side of Race Track Field.” This was just ahead. A second later the whole pack started speaking, and we were off and running.
Heading northwest toward Hootie’s Coop, hounds were settling on the line very nicely. The new puppies, Pork Chop and Pilgrim, were right in the middle where they should be. Not sure they knew what they were doing, but they were happy they were invited to the party. Turning more north they headed straight for Grand Canyon. Good country. Treacherous trail, though. Probably the worst in our territory. No dirt on that hillside. Nothing but rocks. And it had several fallen trees blocking the already difficult and steep path. I had hoped they would break left or right and we could follow them on safer trails. Not today. Straight down the steep side of Grand Canyon. Oh, well.
“Madame Field Master, this trail is really bad. Y’all probably ought to go back the other way and meet us on the other side.”
Gina Salatino, filling in for Field Master Jean Derrick, wisely turned back and took the field the other way. Lucy and I scrambled, slid, jumped fallen trees, ducked tangled limbs and vines and squawked our way down Grand Canyon. It did get us in exactly the right spot. Hounds were straight ahead, racing over Galded Hill toward Hal Sims Bridge. Then Jim Junior’s Bridge. Bryan W. Hunt Place. L-Shaped House. Brent and Louisa Fisher’s Place. Master Charlie Lewis was flanking us and the hounds in his pickup truck on Ridge Road. He was hearing hounds right where we were, and no others. That was good. No split pack so far. As we galloped up to Five Points to stop and listen, the whole pack flew across the trail in front of us still heading west. And threatening to cross Ridge Road at any moment. We normally do not cross Ridge Road during deer season even though we have permission to go another mile north to Hart Creek—the property line on the north and far side of Ridge Road. The reason we don’t usually let them cross during deer season is that there is no good place to stop hounds if they want to keep going across Hart Creek. Full Cry. Hounds flying. Horses zipping along perfectly, in spite of three inches of rain in the last four days. Many of the trails were greasy and slick, something we had not seen in months. I did not want anything to stop this run. It was already close to being the best of the season.
Damn the Torpedoes
I radioed, “Road Whips, blow your horns. Let’s try to keep the coyote from crossing Ridge Road. But, let the hounds cross if they want to. Don’t stop the hounds.” Translation, “Damn the Torpedoes. Full Speed Ahead!”
Passing behind the Zion Church they were paralleling Ridge Road for the moment and headed toward Boulder Road. West across Boulder Road toward Coweta Hill, then they zigged north across Boulder and zagged west toward the Coweta Road Parking Area. Now they were between us and Ridge Road. Normally we would have wanted to be on Ridge, to try to keep them from crossing, but they were moving too fast to take the nearby trail out. We wanted to gallop hard to get around to the Ridge Road side of them by way of the next main trail, Coweta Road, but that would have meant crossing the line. Possibly messing up the scent. And worse, possibly turning the coyote in a direction we did not want him to go. Patience needed badly. Had to dig hard to find any. “Lord, please give me patience. And hurry!”
Brent Fisher’s reassuring voice told us that hounds had not crossed Ridge Road. That was a big relief.
“Tally Ho Coyote!” Barbara and Lucy saw him dart across right in front of us, headed southwest, right where we wanted him to go. I missed it. Looking the wrong way.… Damn! Glad Barbara and Lucy saw him. Hounds were about fifteen seconds behind him.
Next was a southward turn toward Costly Crossing and east over Coweta Hill. East is back toward home. Nice. Another three miles west and we would have run out of the paneled country.
We are about thirty-five minutes into this hard and wonderful run. The hounds are still in full cry and running well together as a pack. This is the kind of day we work for all year. All the trail cutting, fund raising, and public relations are so we can have a chance at a day like today. A day most people on Planet Earth never get to experience. If it goes on much longer it will be a day like few foxhunters get to experience!
Galloping down the rocky logging road, my good horse, Chief, took a couple of tender steps. Even at sixteen years of age he is one of the toughest, fastest, bravest, longest-winded horses I have ever ridden. He can turn on a dime. He loves to hunt! And I love to hunt him! He is my first choice for the hunts that are likely to have the longest and hardest runs. When he takes a tender step I know he is not faking. He is not a wimp like my Deacon horse who acts three-legged when he loses a shoe. Chief is as tough as they come. Sure enough, he had lost a shoe. A front shoe at that. Damn. Need a fresh horse. Got one tacked and standing in the wash rack at Foxboro waiting for the call. Problem was, the run was so fast and furious, it was difficult to use the phone. Chief is so tough he didn’t care about the lost shoe as long as we were not on gravel. He is still pulling and galloping and wanting just one thing—to go faster. All the while I need him to slow down so I can call Gene Brown for his replacement.
Then Gene’s challenge is getting to me, as we are all following this moving target….
Lucy Bell is my shadow. She is a gifted rider and keeps a stable of mostly Thoroughbreds. Her job as whipper-in is to ride in my pocket and keep up. Keep up she does. I couldn’t lose her if I tried. And I wouldn’t want to try. We have cheated death galloping along together after the Belle Meade Hounds more years than I have fingers. And she has bugs in her teeth every time. Almost as many as I do.
Lucy was riding Artie today, one of the fastest, fittest, best all-around horses in our entire hunt. She offered to swap horses with me. Which she routinely does in these situations. I declined, as I was hopeful Gene could get my second horse to me quickly. He is resourceful as hell. And has a great track record. We have been friends for forty years. And much of that time I have had the privilege of working together with him on all sorts of fun projects. I trust Gene with my horses, my family, and my life. Whether trailering the horse to me, or riding it to me, or some of both, he will figure out a way.
On toward Balance Rock and Grosvenor’s Hill. The brand new trail from Coweta Hill to Balance Rock came in very handy. And the crossing turned out to have a good and firm bottom. Thank goodness. The horses were too tired to deal with a deep or boggy mess of a crossing.
Danger
As we approach Scott Glass’s Crossing, that trail has had terrible erosion ruts for years—some three feet deep. The loggers leveled it pretty well last summer, but all that fresh dirt in the old erosion ruts could be treacherous. The recent rains are the first real rain we have had since the ruts were filled. That fill could give way at any step, and it was impossible to see where the soft dirt might be. As it had all been scraped smooth, it all looked the same. Since most of the ruts had zigzagged pretty much around the center line. We stayed to the left edge of the old trail as best we could, hoping to avoid the soft areas. And we prayed. Hounds were moving on, so walking down that long hill was not an option. We did slow down to a fast trot.
Scott Glass’s Crossing has had a ton of logging all over that area. The loggers used the crossing itself and damaged it some. The north half of it is ok for now, but it really needs more sakrete sand bags soon. Mental note. The south half of that crossing, no joy there. On up toward the L-Shaped House. And Jim Junior’s Bridge. Across Quaker Road. Hounds are running northeast around the perimeter of the new fifty-acre clear cut behind Victoria Gilmer’s. They are paralleling Wrightsboro Creek northeast toward the concrete bridge on Wrightsboro Road.
Tally Ho Coyote!
Terry Cooper, one of the best whippers-in who ever rode, viewed the coyote. “He just crossed the trail to Kenny’s Bridge headed north. The pack is thirty seconds behind him. This looks like the same coyote we have been running.”
Good news. Not only is he going in a good direction, it appears that we have not switched coyotes. This often happens and we end up on a fresh coyote with tired hounds. Not fun. This is now the best run of the season.
The bad news is that Barbara Lee just radioed that her horse had lost a shoe. Damn! Hers, too. That’s a big deal, as Barbara rides as first whipper-in. She is one of most gifted horsewomen and whips in the world. She floats to trouble wherever and whatever it might be. She is also my backup as huntsman. And my horse is missing a front shoe and could be out of commission any minute.
Lucy offered me Artie again. And she meant it. No thanks. Surely Gene will be here any minute. And by now Artie was getting tired, too.
Meanwhile Gene Brown is still trying to get to me with my second horse. I did not know how long it would take him. And I did not want to lame Chief by going any farther than absolutely necessary with him missing his left front shoe. And now, Barbara was not able to back me up.
Deep Team
There are several other very capable whips who could have taken over as huntsman if Barbara and I were both out. But, that would have pulled them off a flank. Not good.
It now appeared that if the coyote kept going this direction, he would run right through Foxboro, my farm, with a stable with many fresh horses. Enough for both Barbara and me, and others if they could tack up quickly enough. I called Oscar and asked him to tack up Deacon or Mocha, whoever was closest, ASAP, and be ready to swap at Foxboro or bring him to me with the Rhino. “OK, Mr. Epp. Got it!” Oscar sprang into action.
The trail behind Victoria’s was fine until we got to a huge blow down—an oak tree directly across the trail. The good news was that the tree trunk was only about three feet high. And there was a small window through the limbs and vines—just big enough to jump through. Ok, Chief, here we go. Even missing his front shoe, he stood back and sailed it beautifully, like a steeplechaser. Everything looked good until I realized the landing was the old foot bridge. Old enough to be slick and, while not rotten, the impact of landing might break through the deck of the bridge. Or at a minimum go sliding badly on the slick mossy surface.
Oh, sh**! This was going to be ugly!
“Whoa Lucy! Don’t jump!” I shouted in midair. But, her great horse, Artie, was already taking off. Thank the Good Lord, both horses landed safely with only minor slipping on the bridge.
Terry Cooper was right behind us and had time to stop and go around. Whew! That was close. More adrenalin.
Hounds turned east across Wrightsboro Creek. Master Charlie and Chuck Terry and Robbi were in perfect position on Wrightsboro Road. Robbi told us hounds were headed east to the Palmetto Hill deer camp. We galloped on up there to see and hear them make a 1,000 foot circle on the thickly forested hillside. They slowed a bit. Lucy took off back to her house to get herself a fresh horse. This was probably the closest we would be to her farm. Might as well take advantage of it.
Gene Brown came galloping up with my fresh horse, Aragon, followed by the first field. I thanked Gene for finding us—no easy task—and asked him to keep third horse Deacon in reserve. By now Deacon was already tacked up and ready. Scent seemed to be the best of the season so far, and if this coyote kept running I would need a third horse. Darkness was over an hour away. Scent still getting better, as it usually does in the evenings.
Hounds were screaming again, headed southeast and up the hill to Major Kindersley’s coop. Aragon was fresh and excited and not wanting to turn or slow down. We skidded left onto the trail to Kindersley’s Coop, and I let him gallop hard up that long, steep, rocky hill. Figured that might take some of the starch out of him and make him listen a little better.
It had sounded like the coyote was headed another half mile back to George’s woods where we had first struck him. So, now we are galloping like hell that way.
But the coyote fooled us. We overran his hard right turn to the west. He was crossing the Rhododendron Trail at the base of Grand Canyon. Like dejavu all over again, as we had run by there earlier.
Nicole and many of the hilltoppers viewed him crossing Quaker Road at Hal Sims Bridge, with Canvas less than thirty seconds behind him and the rest of the pack right behind her. This is the same bitch that was the first to find that coyote, over an hour ago. She is so great. We need to get some puppies out of her!
The coyote turned west toward Jim Junior’s Bridge again. He made it almost to the L-Shaped House, hounds close behind, then it seemed they quit moving. They were about halfway from the L-Shaped House to Chuck’s Crossing in the middle of a large expanse of forest wilderness. I couldn’t tell for sure whether they had quit moving or not. I was alone with Aragon. And he doesn’t say much. No one else could tell either when I asked on the radio. Lucy had not yet gotten back with her fresh horse. My extra ears—the field members—were not there to help listen.
“They aren’t moving. They may have bayed him up. Let’s all get to them ASAP!” I radioed.
In the last two years we have made a strong push to cut new trails where we had major bottlenecks and areas without trails. Last Saturday that paid off with Eichel Road and Bootlegger Crossing. Today it was paying off with the new trail that Barbara Lee and Gary Wilkes cut last summer.
That trail took me to within one hundred yards of the spot. The spot, where it sounded like about half the pack was still speaking. As I got closer I heard something I had never heard so much of before in my fifty-two years of hunting. Lots of muffled hound voices. I have heard one or two hounds speaking underground before at fox dens and at coyote dens. But never so many. Sure enough, the hounds had put the coyote to ground in a tunnel so big that at least nine hounds were in there with him.
There were hounds running in one hole and out the other. It was incredible. It reminded me of Dr. Seuss’s book, Go, Dog. Go!. What were all those dogs doing? They were having a dog party! Big dogs, little dogs, fat dogs, skinny dogs, girl dogs and boy dogs were running in and out of the tunnel.
This coyote had given us such a fabulous run—12.7 miles by the GPS collars—starting right next to the kennel and staying in the country. We decided to save him for another day. We wanted to run him again!
We called hounds out of the tunnel, much to their chagrin. We loved on them and told them how brilliant they were. About half the pack was so covered in dirt and mud that they were nearly impossible to tell apart.
Ed Maxwell was the first to crawl down into the ditch bed first to see what he could see. He took a picture of the coyote crouched on the right side of the tunnel about midway of its length. When I got down there the coyote slowly backed into a side tunnel on the right. Wow! He had found a good place to say, “Uncle.”
This tunnel was in a wet weather stream/drain. There was a bridge or roof of tree roots where the dirt had washed out from underneath, forming a small room just tall enough for the coyote and hounds to occupy. It was probably about eighteen inches high, eight feet across, and twelve feet to the other end. At the upstream end there was a three-foot round hole where hounds were scrambling in and out. The downstream end where Ed, Nicole, and I looked in was about seven feet wide.
The hounds were all happy and proud of themselves. The puppies Pork Chop and Pilgrim were all smiles and wags. Nearly every hound was there. The only ones missing were Kubota, Noble, and Sylas.
A few moments later, here came the south flank whips, Catherine and LuAnne, and the entire fourth flight with Field Master Marie leading them. Well done everyone! A Special Well Done for fourth flight. The run had lasted for sixty-eight minutes, and fourth flight was still there! That just shows that it pays to hang in there. Even on a coyote. He had run one-and-one-half laps of a big figure-eight.
Hacking in from miles away, as we neared the kennel, the hounds still wanted to run. They found some scent and really wanted to hunt, but we were all out of horse. So, we did not let them hunt anymore.
It was time to go home and enjoy Tommy Lee’s campfire and one of the finest Fox’s Den dinners all year—hosted by John McNeill, III and Rhett Bragg and Keith and Whitney Williams—along with another dose of that fine Belle Meade fellowship.
Posted December 13, 2016
Epp Wilson and the Belle Meade foxhounds, obviously shot on another day when everyone finished clean and dry. / Lauren Giannini photo