Author Susan Provenzano provides a hunt report rich with sport at Camden Hunt, South Carolina, recently hosting a joint meet with the Sedgefield Hunt from North Carolina. Susan whips-in on Gulliver, her accomplished Thoroughbred, the pair well able to lead the field as well. / Holly Swartz photo
As foxhunters, we all look forward to Hunt Ball Weekend. For many hunts, it’s a time when the season is winding down, and we try to truly savor the invigorating mornings remaining of another season spent with our horses, hounds, and friends.
Hunt Ball Weekend in Camden, South Carolina, is no different. This year, however, we spread the enjoyment more than a little by inviting Fred Berry, MFH and huntsman, Sedgefield Hunt (NC), his hounds, and the Sedgefield members to join us. We spread the fun with three days of things to do and places to go—two hunts, one for each pack, and a hunt ball.
The Sedgefield guests—humans, horses, and hounds—arrived on Friday, settled into their quarters about town, and partook of a welcome party at our clubhouse in their honor. A fire roared in the fireplace, cheering and warming us on this misty night. The food and drink was delicious and plentiful, and we all exchanged favorite hunting stories and looked forward to a busy weekend.
Saturday morning, trailer after trailer rolled into our host Dave Washer’s Plantation, and as the Sedgefield hounds arrived, they sounded eager and ready for their day of adventure in new and strange country. As local staff, we all hoped our coyotes and foxes would be in evidence and on their toes. After a lovely stirrup cup, hounds were brought to the first draw with Fred hunting his pack and Camden’s professional huntsman, Melissa Rice, accompanying him as trail guide and game advisor.
I moved off to my usual position as whipper-in on my trusty and speedy OTTB, Gulliver (Gully, to his friends), accompanied by Fred’s wife Elaine. Hounds hit within ten minutes and flew, screaming, across the railroad tracks. We had to detour around the quicksand swamp across which hounds had scampered, zigged and zagged, and quickly caught up to the hard hunting pack. Our “station” for the day was the gas line—a two- to three-mile stretch of wide, cleared path, where one can see and hear a lot in our country. The Sedgefield pack was not deterred by the fact that they were in new, strange country, and their noses and voices were true, working a line hard through some thick underbrush in our pine forest. They pushed game back and forth through the pines, their big Penn-Marydel voices making beautiful music.
All three fields enjoyed a wonderful morning out, with some long runs and short bursts. With their own whippers-in accompanied by ours as well, the country was well covered by staff. I truly enjoy my job, being on the outskirts of things one minute, then in the middle of a turned pack the next. We covered many miles, and hearing the voices of a new pack work our country was fun After close to three hours, Fred collected hounds and accompanied by Melissa drew once again, making their way back toward the meet, where an al’ fresco luncheon awaited.
In the afternoon our Sedgefield friends could not resist the lure of shopping at The Tackroom, and kept themselves busy until it was time to dress for the Hunt Ball. We are so very lucky to have a historic and elegant place to hold our event and, as always, the meal was ‘to die for’ delicious, the Silent Auction items widely varied and fun to peruse, and the band played on. Our Hunt Ball evening was warm and friendly, everything one could hope for, thought in truth some of us ‘oldies’ slipped away a bit early, anticipating yet another day of hunting the next morning.
A misty day on the gas line for all three fields of the Camden-Sedgefield joint meet / Melissa King photo
Sunday arrived and with it the rain. Our meet was postponed for an hour (for the rain and maybe the wee little more sleep for all). We hunted the Camden pack from the kennels. I have just one hunt horse at the moment, so one of our generous Masters lent me one of her young horses to whip off of. Now, I *am* a senior citizen, and catch riding was something I never blinked at twenty to thirty years ago. But off I went, on a lovely little bay Thoroughbred, who turned out to be an angel He carried me around for the next three-and-a-half hours as we chased our now familiar coyote population up, down, and around Little Pine Tree Creek, Condon Swamp, and the railroad tracks.
The largest coyote we chase—we call him Big Brown—knows every inch of this country, and uses his know-how to advantage. I have had the pleasure of meeting him dozens of times, and writing about him in our local magazine. He brings life and action to many of our hunting days, and this year, as a result of extensive timbering, he has enlisted friends to help him.
Hounds hit within minutes, and off we went for an exhilarating non-stop flight around that end of our hunt country. Everyone was kept busy. Huntsman Melissa’s pack ran true and tight. Fred rode up with her and enjoyed watching the spectacular work of our mixed bag pack of American, English, and Crossbred hounds. The whippers-in—both mounted and road whips—rarely stood still. In one of those rare moments, as Elaine and I stood quietly in a meadow I murmured, “He usually pops at corners, this one here in particular.” Within three minutes, out he ran, up from the swamp, across the meadow, and around a pasture, making a huge loop, only to turn back into the swamp, with renewed screaming from our hard hunting pack.
Around and around they went—one loses count when Big Brown is up and about—as to how many times he took hounds from end to end, meadow to swamp to creek, then back across the tracks to yet another swamp for a big loop, and back into the home swamp. One day I watched this brazen young fellow tippy-toe for a hundred yards on the iron rail of the railroad tracks, then hop off, run up the hill, disappearing, then down and back across the tracks back into the swamp, our hounds hard behind. He thinks nothing of leaping off the edge of the tracks thirty feet down into the swamp and bringing hounds along. Their music is indescribable.
On another day this season, I watched Big Brown running with what I’m guessing is his mate, a small grayish coyote. They were together running up the tracks, then took a hard left up country. They were on the hypotenuse of a triangle; I took the vertical. He crossed ten feet in front of me and was alone. He’d stashed his girlfriend and was drawing the pack back into the deep swamp away from her. Amazing to see. I did actually see him last year with my own eyes look down from the railroad bed into the swamp where hounds were and leap into middle of the pack. They squawked with surprise I have no other word for it, and he ran them hard for forty-five minutes before disappearing. This day, Big Brown had friends to help. A small gray made her appearance and took the pack for a loop, then Big Brown reappeared, did a bigger loop, and two more were sighted across the tracks.
The end to my day came as I trotted my lovely little bay alongside one of the most beautiful coyotes I have ever seen. We trotted together for three to four hundred yards. She was tri-colored with reddish cheeks and brow, a mane of white, silver, and black, all blending into the beautiful, thick, rich brown of her body. She was trotting, not running; the pack was about 150 yards behind her in full cry. We looked at each other and said, “Hey,” then off she scampered, into a hidey hole somewhere deep in the swamp.
All the chasers—hounds, humans, and horses—were whupped, and we called it a day. I think Fred and Elaine (who had two up-close and personal views) and all the Sedgefield members went home smiling from ear to ear, tired as one can only be from a morning like that. What a day, what a weekend, as it came to a close with a good bye luncheon at the clubhouse. I think we all realized that this sport, this game, this thing we do is so deeply ingrained into our beings. We live it and breathe it and are so very very grateful for the chance to participate in the chase, the traditions, and the camaraderie of what it is we do that remains such a mystery to so many non-hunters. Here in Camden, South Carolina, we are a mix of native southerners and transplanted northerners, but we are united in the unwavering love for this amazing sport
Posted March 4, 2019