A mixed pack of Epp Wilson’s Belle Meade hounds from Georgia and Bull Run’s home pack showed sport over five days of hunting to all who gathered for their season-ending March Madness week. / Lori Brunnen photo
My timing was perfect. With Bull Run March Madness now history, I managed to hunt Saturday, go to work on Sunday, and get sick on Monday. During the days before we left for Virginia, with my nerves activated by a recent snow, my anxiety focused on the fear that I would get sick before, or even worse, during our trip. So I am very content to be sneezing and stuffy now. Worse thing is hubby Rick is also now sick. Sicker than me. He is always sicker than me, even if he has the same thing. But this time he really is sick.
Before the trip, my field hunter Ozzy had recently recovered from a bacterial infection, but not before having lost some weight. Not being a good traveler, I did not want him to lose any more weight. So my pale, borderline pony Frankie was pressed into service for this trip. After picking up Mary’s mare Spyder, Mary followed me in her car to our staging area in the Walmart parking lot. Alas, no one thought to grab ourselves a quick Starbucks for the road ahead of time. Traveling solo, Trish’s horse was rocking her trailer, so we moved out pronto. Our four trailers would caravan to Virginia from there following Mary in her car. Mary needed to head home a few days early to put on a bridal shower so she had to drive separately. It is a pretty straightforward trip to the Funny Farm in Reva, Virginia. Plus we have done it before. As the convoy rolled along I was struck again with how beautiful this part of Virginia is. During our trip every time the mountains came into view we would point and exclaim, “Look, a mountain!” Reminding us why we come here.
This being our second trip, it was a breeze settling in. Our stalls were ready but we all chose to turn out instead till evening. Frankie turned out with Spyder. After the two-hour haul he was well versed in her body language which said, “I told you to stay over there.” If she had fingers she would have pointed. He stayed over there.
With the nags settled it was time to unload their stuff. Bending to peer pressure I unloaded our hay out of the pickup and stacked it in front of our stalls. Seemed redundant, all this loading and unloading. Personally I would have driven around with it in the pickup bed for the entire week. Most everyone seemed to have trunks and carry-alls. Most of my hunt stuff had been riding in the truck box with me all year so I just left it there with the cat Missy’s ashes. Unable to decide where she should rest permanently I just let her remain there. It is cozy and I see her all the time. I like to think we both like it that way.
Carefully placed in the tack room just so was my pink bucket holding my essentials: Show Sheen, mane comb, towel, shampoo, and one brush. Turns out that with giving Frankie a warm bath every day, I could have left the brush home. When we were planning the trip Mary asked about an equine first aid kit. Did I have one? I told her I had a tube of Banamine, a bottle of Ace, a roll of vet wrap, and a can of Blu-Kote. If that doesn’t fix it, I take off their halters and turn them loose in the woods. She scaled her kit down to something that would fit in her car.
Then the more arduous work began: schlepping golf cart loads of ratcatcher and formal jackets, tall and short boots, vests, shoes, barn coats, bulging carry on bags, and splitting plastic grocery bags full of sundries. My bag containing the three layer dip was an early casualty, landing face down in the driveway. Most of the good stuff on top, the scallions and olives, fell off. If they fell on another scallion or olive and not the gravel, I picked them up and put them back on top of the dip. Stealthily, scanning for witnesses. If successful none would be the wiser. Worse case scenario, someone might break a tooth.
Once inside Sue and Trish sprinted upstairs to “their” loft where soon Sue’s clothes would be hanging over the rail making coordinating outfits a breeze. Sue likes to have everything where she can see it. Exactly like last year. Mary and I chose the room with “ensuite” bath with whirlpool tub. What we did not know at the time was that in order to take a shower you had to kneel in the tub and use the hand held spray attachment. Sort of felt like I was back in the hospital bathing patients. Compared to bathing out of a basin this type of shower would feel like heaven to them. It was fine; it worked. The hardest part was getting down on your knees. Second hardest was getting back up. The other problem with the tub was that there was not enough hot water to fill it for a good steaming soak. It is hard to relax in your own lukewarm water when, as you are filling it, you can hear screams from both up and downstairs from your house mates who are being pelted with cold water in their own respective showers.
Darcie would arrive later, after work, so it was just the five of us until then. We had a barbeque to go to at six p.m. By the time we unloaded it was almost time to leave. Choosing to arrive a little late, we spread out in the living room to relax with some wine and snacks. No one noticed anything amiss with the dip. No one grabbed their jaw screaming or anything.
The “Pig Pickin’ and Oyster Roast” was held at Locust Hill Farm. Getting there was a group effort combining both correct and incorrect memories of the drive from last year, bolstered by the GPS. The decibel level within our vehicles this week probably came close to the sound of a Boeing 747 taking off…while standing directly behind it, touching the tail. Multiple conversations raged from back to front while the driver and navigator struggled to hear each other and the GPS from the close confines of the front seat. Every so often someone would attempt to be heard above the din with a “Be Quiet!” or a resigned “They are not listening.” The barbeque was being held in the same place as last year, but I missed that one. Instead, at the time, I was busy spending three grand, having a pebble removed from my dog’s nose. Owner Betty also hosted another party at her beautiful and historic home last year. The barn has a chandelier.
A few leftovers / Lori Brunnen photoThe pork was perfect and plentiful. Counting pig heads we had two pigs worth of pork on hand. Taking a picture I vaguely wondered what happened to their eyeballs. A local winery provided wine. Several people looked familiar to me, either from last year or from just hunting in general either locally or on trips. By chance, we met Ashley Twiggs (wife of the new MFHA Executive Director David Twiggs) when we just happened to ask her randomly to take a photo of our group. An extremely open and friendly lady, I put together who Ashley was when she recounted their recent moves, the new headquarters in Middleburg, and her husband’s role of educating the public about and promoting our sport. Despite relocating with young children, Ashley seemed to be meeting the challenge with a quiet cheerful optimism. We graciously declined her offer to meet her husband who was immersed in conversation nearby. Obviously they both have plenty on their respective plates, and I am not just talking pork.
Despite adamantly and repeatedly insisting I was going to give Frankie a bath when we got back, I chose to trust Darcie who said hot rags would remove any spots post-haste in the morning. Hoping it was true we tucked the horses in and took to our beds.
Monday’s fixture was Cedar Mountain Farm. And it was a mountain. “Look a mountain!” Luckily I chose to start in Third Field because there was one point while climbing where Frankie seriously considered letting everyone else run on ahead. ‘Catch up with you later,’ he was thinking. Like maybe tomorrow. Footing was greasy and deep, and we climbed up and over through the woods. Once on the other side I thought I recognized the area and we were indeed near the kennels. Crossing the road while dodging dump trucks from the quarry, we rode through the kennels—hounds within lined up on their hind legs like bar patrons watching us pass. Beyond the kennel was some pretty trappy ground. Crossing the creek I thought for a minute that I may “buy it.” Frankie skied down the bank on both front feet but his momentum almost toppled him headfirst when he stalled reaching the bottom. Although I still consider him green he usually shines at crossings and running in a group. Having no compulsion to pass anyone you can just place your hands on his neck and relax. On the way in we crossed a plowed field at the walk, choosing not to risk an injury in the deep clay. Wonderful day, just missing a view at the trailers as we rode in with mud covered boots and my pony muddy to the elbows. I believe I got muddier than most. Being lower to the ground my boots just plowed through like pontoons on the side of a houseboat.
Tuesday was hunting at Bending River. When we arrived I thought it looked familiar and realized it was part of Quiet Shade where we hunted the last day last year. Here I rode behind Second Field Master Greg, “the smoking man.” Since riding behind him I have now developed a fondness for the smell of cigarettes in the field. The smell of diesel fuel in the fall also triggers that instant going-hunting feeling. Greg realized where we were headed. With obvious resigned disdain he told us we were on the way “to the swamps on a coyote.” Adding, “I hate coyotes.” He looked somewhat grim. Running up and down the gravel roads was not my favorite thing but I was impressed with Frankie who was barefoot and galloping easily within the group. Ultimately a group split off to head in and wanting to quit on a good note I started to follow. At a run. I pulled up and said to Darcie, “I am not going to gallop in. If I had the energy to gallop in I would not be going in at all.” Darcie looked skeptical probably flashing back to the time we had to navigate home while riding using my phone’s GPS. She asked “How are you going to find your way back?”
Luckily, we joined Amy’s group going in at a walk. At this point I just dropped my reins and let Frankie power walk in. He had been a good sport about being checked all day to keep him behind the Field Master. For a 14.2- to 14.3-hand pony, he has an incredible walk probably developed while having the Amish flog him from behind. We quickly outpaced the rest of the group. The best part of my trip even after three more day’s hunting turned out to be this hack in. Shortly I was joined by four hounds. This was a Joint Meet, the pack being made up of Bull Run and Belle Meade hounds, fifteen couple of each. The hounds following me included a mostly red Bull Run bitch with the number 92 still fresh on her side from Bull Run’s win at the Belle Meade Foxhound Performance Trials. It was also possible the other three hounds might have included some venerable Epp Wilson hounds. As they clustered closely around Frankie’s hindquarters I did not think it could get any better than this…just sitting on my pony marching homeward followed by four hounds who were happy to follow us. Even as it was happening I knew it was a special moment for me, and alone was worth the cost of the entire trip. The photo taken of us from behind is my favorite photo ever.
The author’s favorite moments / Amy Savell photo
That evening was a cocktail party at Inskeep Hall near the kennels. A school built in the 1930s, the hall was purchased by Bull Run Hunt in 2002. It is a great place for a party, decorated with hunting items and odd little nooks left over from when it was a county school. We sat at a big heavy wooden table in a dim corner and I felt like a Quaker. Belle Meade huntsman Epp Wilson and Bull Run Huntsman Charles Montgomery stood in front of the fireplace and reviewed the day for those gathered before them. These post-hunt briefings always fascinate me when some of what I experienced is clarified and I discover some that I missed entirely—often only experienced by the staff.
Wednesday was a planned bye day for our group. Three of my lady friends from New Market Middletown Valley Hounds would be arriving in the afternoon, and I wanted to be at the farm to greet and help settle them. Karen I knew, but I had never met either Robyn or Marcie. We toured nearby Montpelier Mansion, and while I returned to the farm alone using Mary’s car the rest of the ladies continued on to Charlottesville for shopping and lunch. Before leaving, I scored an excellent gift shop find at the museum—a twenty-seven dollar silver and platinum necklace. The pendant was in the form of a fox head. Made up of her initials the design was actually Marion duPont Scott’s racing silk logo. Marion duPont Scott was a Thoroughbred horse breeder for both the flat and steeplechase and the last private owner of the James Madison estate. The property had been purchased by the duPont family in 1901. In 1934 Marion and her brother William founded the Montpelier Hunt Races, a tradition which continues to this day. At the time of her death in 1983 she bequeathed Montpelier to the National Trust for Historic Preservation along with a ten million dollar endowment with the stipulation that it be restored to the original James Madison design. During the major restoration between 2003 and 2008 the mansion was reduced by demolishing the two wings and shrinking the house from fifty-five rooms to the original twenty-two rooms. Marion made one change to the mansion after her parents passed away, redecorating the music room in an Art Deco style and adding a weathervane showing the wind direction for hunting with hounds.
Back at the farm, Robyn, Karen, and Marcie arrived and the unloading and schlepping between barn and house began anew. By the time Mary, Trish, Darcie, and Sue returned home from shopping it was almost six p.m. A vote was taken and the decision made to skip the cocktail party. Everyone was content to relax. As the new arrivals headed downstairs for the night, the rest of us were watching “Babe.” Music was playing downstairs, and the newest arrivals could be heard laughing, while upstairs we were quietly weeping over the tragic life of a pink talking pig. No film for kids. At least this time I got through the entire film. When Rick and I tried to watch it, the minute the slaughter house appeared we shut it off, totally traumatized.
Thursday we hunted The Hill. Or rather some of us did. It was the newest arrival’s first day to hunt. Sue and Trish wanted to stop at some of the antique stores they missed and visit “Trump Winery.” Karen and I stayed with Charlie (and Ellie) in Third Field. Karen was worried about her horse’s fitness and Frankie still had two more days to hunt. Plus she was recovering from a nasty virus and had to stop every so often to spit. This is nonfiction, and I cannot sugar-coat it. We had an absolute blast. Charlie would say, “Now we could go over there but if we just stay here…,” and we had a long magnificent view of a fox crossing the hill. The same view the other fields had. From where we checked we were able to see a lone hound working out the line, followed shortly by the rest of the pack.
Frankie was wiggly in the trailer after the loss of Spyder who was loaded on Darcie’s trailer for the trip home. So I sort of sprinted into the breakfast just in time for the spigot repair on the Bloody Mary dispenser, then left.
When the New Market ladies returned I was sprawled on the couch, covered in a layer of crumbs, surrounded by the wreckage of crab dip, artichoke dip, crackers, cheese and an unlikely cup of tea. That evening we went our separate ways for dinner. Karen, Robyn, and Marcie met up with a local friend. Sue, Trish, and I blew through Mad Tack, a consignment shop in Madison, on our way to dinner at the Bavarian Chef, also in Madison. Sue scored a beautiful Pytchley coat, while I left with a very pedestrian riding fly mask. Poor Frankie’s transparent eyes had been constantly blinking in the sun in a painfully obvious way. The closest I could get to a traditional look was a white mask which attached to the bridle and only covered his eyes.
Dinner? It was “fantastisch” in the words of my Opa. Having been raised on sauerbraten gravy almost in my baby bottle, I thought I knew sauerbraten. This was not my Oma’s sauerbraten. This sauerbraten had a thick savory gravy with plump raisins gently dancing in it. Familiar, but cranked up a couple of fancy notches. And then when Trish actually had something to box up, our perky waitress with her adorable dirndl dress revealing a surprising glimpse of cleavage added full portions of spaetzle to the box! Whatever Trish asked for! Not just what you had left on your plate! As Opa would have said, “Ach du lieber!” Before he pounded his chest, belched, and fell asleep behind the couch after every holiday dinner of my childhood. At 8:45 p.m. the loft went dark except for the ghostly glow from Trish’s tablet. With Mary gone, I had the room to myself. Settled in bed with my Sleepy Time tea and book, I realized even before taking a sip that resistance was futile and turned out the light. Shortly after, Karen crept in to find out what time we needed to leave in the morning. Untouched, I gave her my tea. Obviously I did not need it.
Friday we hunted The Preserve, owned by native Virginian Bill Sanford. He actively farms his land, and he has set a little over two hundred acres into a conservation easement. As a youngster, Mr. Sanford says, there were plenty of quail to hunt. Although a popular game bird since colonial times, the Bobwhite or Virginia Quail has declined in the past few decades. Probably partly due to urban sprawl along with changes in farming methods. Quail require dense cover for protection and feeding. Today’s fescue pastures block out the required seed producing weeds, and hedgerows have been eliminated in many cases. The percentage of land devoted to agriculture in Virginia has declined from eighty percent in 1900 to around thirty-four percent today. Mr. Sanford does not plan to hunt the birds currently and simply hopes to offer a safe haven for quail to live and reproduce. He is quite confident that at the present time there are five coveys on the property.
The hunting fields started out on the wide paths in the woods and then moved into the fields, some of which were plowed. It was at one of these checks that Frankie simply dropped out from under me without warning and rolled in the freshly plowed red clay. And despite a few solidly placed kicks to his ample buttocks he managed to wallow 180 degrees at least twice like a common barnyard hog. As if that was not enough embarrassment for one day, there was the minor shit show of attempting to mount as the other field galloped by. After struggling aboard we were able to see hounds marking where the fox had gone to ground. In the background was a breathtaking view of the mountains. After taking a couple of photos of my friends, Bull Run member Amy offered to take my picture with the mountains as a backdrop. Of course she wanted Frankie’s posed with his dirty side towards her. Later that day someone was overheard saying “She did not come out like that did she?” My explanation will be that we fell jumping a large coop. That is my story and I will stick with it.
The man and her mustache / Trish Apple photoFriday night was an informal cocktail party with a Mexican theme at the home of the Marco family. I found it frightening to discover that when wearing a false mustache and a sombrero, I become a very attractive man.
Saturday at Quiet Shade ended up being a mercifully quiet day. Our convoy arrived rattled, only ten minutes before moving off. I had erroneously entered 8221 in my GPS instead of 8001, so I was fully responsible for the scramble to get mounted in time. That is always disruptive. Much later, when the fields headed off to the “swamp” again with it’s gravel roads, I chose to go in and get an early start for home. Last year we had a blistering day at Quiet Shade at the end of the week and never did get into the swamp.
Before I left I told our host I would be back again next year for March Madness. How many will come with me I have no clue. The people are genuinely friendly and the country is beautiful. All those mountains! At only a little over two hours from home, it is a safe choice with ten other horses at home. In the event of an emergency it is possible to get home relatively quickly and maybe even come back to salvage the week.
Frankie hunted five out of six days—more than any of the other horses in our group. Agreed his color—pinky white—does add another level of preparation to the process, but we did manage to tighten up the bathing routine to a tolerable time frame. Despite being barefoot he had no issues whatsoever with his feet. He suffered no inner turmoil due to travel and settled right in on his first road trip. Compared to traveling with Ozzy, an anxious Thoroughbred, the lack of drama was a decided relief. Despite my concerns over his fitness he had plenty of gas each day. By the third day he had developed what looked like a skin reaction to the metal of his bit, but by applying cream and switching to a Happy Mouth he was able to be nursed through the rest of the week. He proved to be a wonderful travel companion. Short in stature, he again rose to the occasion. Hope for the best and sometimes you get it. White and round, Frankie’s a good egg.
Posted April 25, 2017