Purely American hunting after the fleet coyote over the Big Sky Hounds country / Gretchen Pelham photo.
It is not something you expect to see in Montana. You’ll do a double take and rub your eyes the first time you round the bend in ranch country and catch a glimpse of a pack of foxhounds followed by a bunch of people horseback, some wearing scarlet coats and hunt caps, some Carharts and cowboy hats. You’ll want to stop and watch as some sail over a haphazard jump put across a barbed wire fence in the middle of a cow pasture. You will probably hear the huntsman’s horn and the hounds screaming. And if you look way, way ahead, you might catch a glimpse of a very nonplussed coyote. Not a fox.
This is foxhunting, Montana-style. Even though there usually isn’t a fox involved, and without a rifle it’s not really considered hunting out here, but for those of us who ride to the Big Sky Hounds, it is a helluva lot of fun.
Summer hound exercise: (l-r) Carlie Peterson; Amanda Weber; huntsman Renee Daniels-Mantle, MFH; Jack Sanford; Kasey Fallang / Rick Baldwin photo
I first became blushingly enamored with the sport when it came to Montana twenty-two years ago. Master and huntsman Lynn Lloyd of the Red Rock Hounds (NV) brought her foxhounds from Reno to hunt ranches surrounding Three Forks, where one of her members owned the historic Sacajawea Hotel. Hundreds of people from all over the world flocked to the annual April three-day event in the middle of Cowboy Country, USA.
We mounted those who did not bring their own on our breediest dude horses, pulling them off winter pasture a few weeks early. They were rough-haired and didn’t look at all like the “fancy horses,” with their evening attire and slick, clipped hides. But, they knew the country, were fit from being out on range, and really didn’t care what kind of saddle we threw on them.
Like any loyal western rancher, I tried very hard to maintain a stoic suspicion of the tiny tack, ridiculous clothing, and excessively long-legged thoroughbreds with entirely too little hair. But, fast forward fourteen such affairs with Red Rock and there I was sitting at the Sacajawea having dinner with Lynn and the rest of the intrepid gang, consuming my share of scotch and a bit more to make up for those who don’t like the stuff.
Staff, hounds, and field in the sagebrush; (l-r) Sydney Lessinger, Rich Pye, huntsman Renee Daniels-Mantle, MFH / Nancy Brown photo
Lynne turned to me and said, “I think you need a couple hounds.” I, of course, responded, “That is a great idea.”
The next morning, I woke up with a headache, two hounds, and the beginning of Montana’s only Masters of Foxhounds Association (MFHA) recognized foxhunt. And that’s a big deal if you’re a hunt. I was utterly powerless against it.
Eventually, the group endeared itself to the community. Ranches opened across Montana. Locals frequently join the hunt. If nothing else, foxhunters are the most accepting and accommodating people I have ever met. They are exceptional riders and die-hard sportsmen. They have grit and they are game. It didn’t take long for us, and all our ranching neighbors, to gain respect for this mostly female, fearless group of crazy people, mounted on fire-breathing Arions, hell-bent on covering country as fast as possible in pursuit of a pack of intensely proficient hounds.
Kayla Kae Dusenberry (left) with her Mom, Lisa Slover. / Gretchen Pelham photo
But, building a foxhunt in Montana, under the tutelage of a forty-year veteran huntsman from Nevada and a 113-year-old association in Virginia was not without its difficulties. First, no one in Montana knows what foxhunting is and we’re all a little suspicious of outsiders. Try explaining it to the type of person here who could enjoy it. The concept of “just plain fun” isn’t in most Montana horsemen’s realm of understanding. They equate riding with a purpose, or at least an economical gain. The resolution isn’t readily available to most neophytes and it takes a while for some to loosen up to the idea of self-indulgence. Plus, who pays to ride?
Then, there’s the unusually harsh weather that most clubs do not deal with. We hunt from when the crops come out of the fields (September) to when the crops go back in the fields (April). Normally in Montana, we pull shoes, turn out, and go to the National Finals Rodeo or the Bahamas for a rest. Now, we put on sharp shoes and snow poppers, keep the horses close to home and in shape, and spend our free time and money in the elements—grinning like idiots because it’s exhilarating.
And then there’s the obvious – I had no idea how to hunt hounds, blow a horn, or be in a club, let alone build one. Luckily, Lynn did. She was always at the other end of the phone to talk me off the ledge or impart some sage advice.
I learned quickly that a Western hunt is a whole lot different than most. We have enviable vast tracts of huntable land and a healthy respect and proprietary right to hunt it. Here, we decide we’re going to do something and we just do it. Elsewhere, the remnants of the caste system still cloud the minds of the bold. Montana is of the American mind and, as is the case throughout foxhunting families worldwide, hunt savvy has been passed along over many generations. It’s a perfect fit for the people of the West.
So, we plowed forward. Not aware that we could possibly fail, we opened our first season with four hounds and forty-five people following. We had cowboys, Indians, and English-clad ladies (and all sorts in between) sipping from the same flasks at a check. We didn’t have one red coat.
Now, our pack numbers around twenty-five hounds (twelve-and-a-half couple). It’s distinctly suited for us, made up mostly of Walker hounds that scent well in our extreme conditions and have a personality we like. Many riders see the benefit of that English saddle, especially going over a jump and to stay out of our horse’s way when we’re trying to keep up with the hounds. Most embrace the useful parts of the tradition. Some are complete converts. The rest of us are a hybrid, practical if nothing else.
Hunting hounds isn’t a whole lot different than moving cow/calf pairs, just sometimes a little faster. Anyone who understands livestock can help with a hunt. It’s a poker ride on steroids where everyone discovers they were dealt a royal flush at the end of the trail. And it’s still all about the hunt. We’re looking for that Easter egg in a garden that goes to the horizon, with the help of some furry friends who speak the local language.
Master Lynne Lloyd and hound / Gretchen Pelham photo
It is not hard to see why Montanans, fiercely individual and pragmatic, take to foxhunting so completely. It is inherently Western: pride, accomplishment, excitement, camaraderie, challenge, purpose, respect. It’s about revering the beautiful country in which we live, our magnificent Western horses that are so perfectly suited for this, the other bold souls in our tribe, and pushing ourselves just a little further than we thought we could. Plus, we love telling Wild West tales. The jumps get higher, the temperature gets lower, the hounds run faster, and the distance covered gets longer with every recount of a meet. It is intoxicating.
Big Sky Hounds is currently in its eighth season. This year, I’m proud to announce that the nationally respected Lynn Lloyd joins me and my Joint-Master Lori Dooley as the newest Master (which just means “manager,” but sounds really cool). We’ve opened up some of the most arresting hunting country in the world, all over the state of Montana. Best of all, we’re eager for new converts. We invite you to join us at Big Sky Hounds.
Posted September 23, 2020