One time when I was temporarily horseless, the huntsman offered me a mount. The horse, an ex-chaser with a lovely disposition and a big confident jump, was for sale because, according to the huntsman, “He won’t go in front.” After a vigorous day of hunting during which the horse in question certainly acted as though he wanted to go in front, I soaked my sore, stretched arms in liniment and remained curious about the huntsman’s assessment.
Not long after riding the ex-chaser, I had the privilege of hunting up front with huntsman Tony Gammell, where I got a lesson in the meaning of “going in front.”
It turns out that “going in front” doesn’t mean the same thing to a huntsman as it does to your typical member of the field. “Going in front,” to me, means leading over a three-foot chicken coop or being the first to negotiate a creek crossing. “Going in front” to a huntsman means jumping a five-foot padlocked gate with a herd of cows behind it, or exploring the previously unknown depths of a vertical ditch upholstered with thorny brush.
Here I should note that many American huntsmen are not really “American;” they are actually either Irish or English. All those scary stories you’ve heard about hunting Over There are true, and the Irish- and Englishmen who come to America to carry the horn are completely without fear or good sense. Hence the need for a horse that will “go in front.”
I had ridden with Tony before and knew he was true to his roots. Following with some reservation, I nevertheless soon found my own brave horse carrying me safely over the countryside in the huntsman’s pocket.
After a couple of hours and one short run to warm us up on a bitter day, we entered a trail bounded by a rising cliff on one side and a river on the other. A rain-filled ditch ran along the trail, separating it from the cliff. It was four or five feet wide, wide enough to make me think it was deep, too. However, the ditch-creek did not seem threatening until I noticed the trail narrowing and the cliff softening into merely a steep hillside. When the hounds, feathering across the face of the hillside, finally struck with confidence, the challenge of crossing the ditch became real.
As hounds headed up the hill and away, Tony rode to the edge of the ditch and legged his horse on. The horse patted the soft edge, then, even as his hooves were sinking in the mud, launched himself most of the way across the water and promptly sank into a bottomless bog up to his eyeballs.
As the horse floundered in the muck, clawing his way to firmer ground, visions of vet bills for hock injections and pulled tendons floated before my eyes. Nnnnope. Not gonna do that. Plus, I don’t really trust Obamacare to inject my hocks and repair my tendons.
I stood there agape, first at the horse’s initial leap and near-disappearance in the muddy depths, and then at the wild splashing as the horse wallowed in the water and lunged up the knee-grabbing, melting mirage of a bank. The horse ended up on his side briefly, and Tony, unhorsed, scrambled to find his own footing while holding onto the reins. But the horse’s exertions pulled the reins away, and the animal, apparently none the worse for the wear, got to his feet and walked off.
The funny thing about the whole scene was that neither huntsman nor horse seemed to think anything was terribly amiss. Just another day at the office. The horse wandered up the deer trail to the top of the steep hillside, pausing occasionally to look back at his erstwhile rider without any apparent animosity. Tony made a few efforts to call the horse, whistling and speaking to him as though he were a hound—Come along, lad—but then turned his attention to the necessity of finding a better crossing for me, as though anyone other than a crazy person or an Irish huntsman would attempt that.
I assured him his search was unnecessary. “You go on with the hounds,” I called selflessly. “I’ll take care of myself.”
I turned and trotted briskly away from the “crossing” before Tony could protest. Maybe my horse is the type to go in front, but I didn’t want to find out.
Posted October 15, 2018
Robin Traywick Williams is the author of “Bush Hogs and Other Swine.” Rita Mae Brown calls her “the country Seinfeld.” Visit Robin’s website for more of her books and blogs.