Here are two hunt reports from Harriet McFadden, a member of the Longreen Foxhounds. The kennels are located just outside of Memphis in Tennessee, but all the fixtures are located in Mississippi. I have had the pleasure of hunting with Longreen and Susan Walker, MFH and Huntsman. Her Penn-Marydel foxhounds are some of the finest in the country. Enjoy!
Burning Ring of Fire
Longreen Foxhounds
Birdlands fixture in Como, Mississippi
October 14, 2023
The beauty of a cool October morning in Mississippi saturated with yellows and reds is like seeing a ring of fire around the fields. The ring of fire extended to the sky where there was a total eclipse of the sun just beginning as we headed out with the hounds. The colors were dazzling against the trees. Goldenrod, yellow tickseed, and white aster flowers dotted the edges while the fiery pomegranate red of poison ivy strangled the tree trunks as it wound to the top. Even the sweet gums, maddening in their proliferation all over open land, were having a moment with their striking iridescent oranges and reds flashed against the backdrop of the oaks still in green leaf.
As it happened, the star of the hunt was a hound called Furnace. Furnace, out of Longreen Future, was drafted to another hunt as a puppy, then passed along to a third pack where her hunting instincts were almost destroyed. Luckily for Furnace, a friend of Susan’s recognized the hound as being from Longreen and thought Susan Walker, MFH and Huntsman, might want her back. Of course, Susan wanted her back. The first year Furnace was home, she stayed by Susan’s side where she felt safe and would not hunt because of the training methods she was subjected to while she was away. The following year, the gentle hound was next to Susan, when her instincts were ignited by the rest of the pack baying a coyote close to her. She sniffed the intoxicating scent and fell into the “burning ring of fire,” known among hound people as displaying drive.
On this cubhunting Saturday, three generations of the Kriegel family rode in front where we got a view of their youngest, Eviee, age six, on her firebrand barrel-racing pony, Jelly Bean. The two of them contended with loose running horses and the herd of sheep along with the pack of hounds as they rounded the barn paddock. It seemed like a ring of fire surrounded this tenacious rider as the pony pranced about leaping about with every step. We rode on around the pasture watching the hounds make the rounds of the pushup piles with tiny Eviee being jerked around atop Jelly Bean. Evie’s mother, seeing that the Bean was not settling down, mounted the pony, where size and experience trumped pony antics, and Jelly Bean was brought to heel. When Eviee remounted, her mom, who loved being out in the country on this blazing October day, was heard saying to her family, “And don’t even think about going in!” All those in earshot nodded in agreement. This prompted Louisa McConnell to quote her father, adding some encouragement for the tyke, “This ain’t no hill for a high stepper like you.”
We rode into the brisk, north wind, leaves flying off the trees and the sun pouring onto the dry ground until we got to Twin Lakes. Hounds Polo and Ozark gave tongue in some grass and the other hounds honored the two by rushing to their call. They found the scent again along the damp rim of the pond where the pale lavender of Joe Pye weed bloomed. As we neared the old cistern, a source of worry being a deep hole, the hounds struck again. This time carrying the scent due north into the wind. In that moment, Furnace, “bound by wild desire” was in the lead! After all she’d been through, Susan had nurtured and encouraged her back to her birthright as a foxhound, kindled by the scent of a coyote.
We listened to the hounds running circles in the recently clear-cut property that had grown into a jungle of treetops covered in kudzu vines. It was a treacherous place for a horse, but a haven for a coyote. Meanwhile, the Field, listening to the music from an old-growth forest, noticed the understory of pawspaws [a fruit tree native to the south] still in leaf and the last of the buckeyes clinging to their branches. We stuffed our pockets with the smooth toffee-colored orbs for planting in our gardens. In the end, with the hounds under the kudzu, Susan, John McClure and Mark Harris dismounted and drove the trailer to the hounds who were in the next county. Now that she was in closer proximity to the pack, they could hear her horn which encouraged them to raise their heads and come to her.
With the hounds and horses watered and dozing in the sun, the equestrians went to the screen porch for lunch. Here we got to talking. We got all the elements of the hound work straightened out and then we heard about Louisa’s horse, who would have gotten a Most Valuable Player award, like Furnace, if we doled them out like football players do after games. It seems Rocky had gotten his rock-solid good sense being ridden by her father hog hunting around the delta from Greenville to Vicksburg to Fort Gibson. In those hunts, Rocky was required to spring from a walk to a run, like a Ferrari, then stop, spread his forelegs, and lower his head, so the hunter could get a shot at the feral hogs that litter the delta. These steady horses are rare these days. Revealing the source may cause flocks of buyers from across the northeast to descend on us in search of these hacks, but stay away you nag hunters, we need them here.
Johnny Cash had that deep voice reminiscent of a hound. When you experience a day like this one you can’t help but hear Cash’s baritone voice, “The ring of fire The ring of fire The ring of fire”
Johnny Cash was born in Mississippi County, Arkansas. He’s one of our own. “And it burns, burns, burns…”
The flora, October, the sun and moon, the ponies and the hounds, and creation itself were in blazing glory. Today we fell into the burning ring of fire.
Opening Meet Toast
Longreen Foxhounds
Birdlands fixture in Como, Mississippi
November 4, 2023
November 6th was picture-perfect for the sixty-sixth Opening Meet of the Longreen Foxhounds. The first formal hunt of the season is a festive ceremony when we turn out in our best livery. We are clean and polished from boot to a tidy coif, often held in place with a hairnet, to gleaming horses with braided manes. Three French horn musicians were on the front porch of the house at Birdlands blowing merry hunting tunes. The priest, The Reverend Myron Lockey, from Holy Innocents Episcopal Church in Como, came to bless the hounds, horses, and riders on the lawn in front of the stately old home of Birdlands. His red stole over his white alb complimented the white house with the red roof and the red coats worn over white breeches by the Masters and Whipper-Ins.
Enjoying the countryside includes using all your senses to experience it. One man, new to Como, said, “I moved here to experience the night sky.” On a cold night you can still see the Milky Way, as long as you don’t look north toward the lights of Senatobia and Memphis. This changing palette of a new season kept our senses on alert.
Photographers Thad Lee, Huger Foote, and Brooke Ballenger recorded the hounds and the people from landscapes to portraits of horses and hounds. Thad’s abstract photographs of the wild evoke a new way of looking at the world. Huggy’s are sharp with detail and saturated with color. They can place the day in time and space for our memory banks. Brooke ran along beside the hounds with lenses flapping around her neck, and like the others, captured the action of hounds and horses.
While mingling on the grass during the traditional stirrup cup and distributing the St. Hubert’s medals, the many professional artists began to discover each other. They were an outgoing bunch too. They chattered away and found connections and common interests typical for this part of the world. In the prior few weeks, they had been launching books, opening exhibitions, teaching children, writing music, painting, and assisting authors in selling their books. The rest of us had been legging up our horses, having our coats let out, sewing buttons on, and wrestling with the tying of the stock ties we wear around our necks in case we need a bandage.
Allison Crews, one of three women riding aside, was on her gray mare, Forte, in Mrs. Stovall’s side saddle that was used in the 1930s, hunting around Clarksdale. The Stovall family gave me the saddle in 1973. I gave it to Allison in 1974, along with a wool habit made in England. Fox hunters can pass their sturdy, timeless hunting kit around for years. The styles are not part of the problem of fast, throw-away fashion heard about in the news of late.
Allison was accompanied by two other women aside, Jennifer Sells and Emily Evans. There is no doubt about the elegance of a woman in a top hat and veil, wearing a well-cut black hunting jacket and apron. A side saddle has two leather hooks that serve as the pommel. The lower one keeps your left leg from popping up. Your right leg grips the upper one and holds your body steady. The rider sits square on the horse using a long whip hanging down the right side to substitute for a leg. This contraption keeps the rider solidly on top with almost no ability to evacuate in an emergency.
The day ran like a well-oiled machine. Our Master and Huntsman, Susan Walker, had schooled her helpers on the proportion of port to add to the stirrup cup and given the check-in team a spreadsheet with who to expect and importantly, who had paid the capping fee, since this is a fundraiser for the hounds. She notified her whipper-ins of the route to take and pulled out a map she had drawn complete with red lines and arrows indicating the path to follow. Likewise, the three drivers of the hay wagons got their marching orders so they would intersect with the riders to view the proceedings.
Susan thanked us. She warned us we were riding at our own risk over ground that included armadillo holes. She blew sample notes on her horn and explained what the different calls meant for the benefit of the crowd. She blew, “Come home,” “Draw this covert over here” and “Here I am hounds, if you are looking for me.” The hounds, still in the trailer, answered her as a chorus, getting cheers from the congregants. With that, the whipper-ins and Susan fetched the hounds and brought them forth to be blessed.
When the ceremony finished, the horn players on the porch gave us a rousing send off before they jumped on the last tally-ho wagon puttering down the drive. The sound only faded when we turned the corner at the end of the driveway. Following Susan’s red lines, as instructed, we arrived at the meeting place with the spectators. She blew the short note on her horn releasing them to draw the pond covert in the sheep pasture.
Miraculously, the hounds found there and gave us the sight and sound of a pack trying to work out the night line of a coyote. The scent was a little stale. With the dry ground, the hounds could not carry the line, but it sounded good to hear their deep voices opening with such clarity on what scent they smelled. Out here, deep in Panola County, there is silence. The only breaks in the quiet came from the prehistoric squawk of the blue heron, the whir of a covey rise, and the bellow of bulls down the road. This general quiet amplifies the voices of the hounds and lets you pick out the pitch of the individuals and the harmony of the pack.
After more mucking about in the hay fields, we headed towards Twin Lakes where the hounds found more scent along the bank. At the same moment, a group of spectators in Jake McFadden’s ATV in another field viewed a coyote. Jake said he was glad Jake Crews was with him because he notices every animal and can identify all the birds no matter the distance. Thad and Huggy got photographs and the others were astounded at their luck in spotting game. They commented on how beautiful the country was and how clean it smelled. Their senses were heightened.
Hearing of this sight on the radio, Susan lifted the hounds from the pond side and took them to the place where the coyote was spotted. Within seconds, the hounds gave tongue with strong conviction and tore off to Butterball Creek. A few hounds followed one coyote out of the creek and into the buckeye woods while the others were on a second one who exited the creek further west. The hounds checked in the hot sun, although Leaf was still sure she could track him, based on the feathering of her tail and her long low voice identifying the strength of the scent.
Instead of continuing to hunt, we joined the hay wagons in the horse pasture, and I dismounted Skeeter. The spectators were jumping off the wagons to pet the hounds. While I stood by Skeeter, stroking his head, a young girl appeared by my side, introduced herself as Marion, asking if she could pet my horse. She said horses and dogs were easier to get to know than people. I sensed some despair in her voice. Then she locked her eyes on mine, and said, “They know the truth.” She was filled with reverence for Skeeter’s quiet solid stance, his low head and soft eye, indications of his peacefulness. Her insight into the horses’ nature was extraordinary and beyond her years. She had tugged on the veil of awareness giving her a connection many people never make.
The riders took care of their horses and then reunited at the cabin. The musician and songwriter duo, Julie and Billy Chadwick, strummed guitar and sang a toast to Susan that went like this:
A toast to Longreen, finest hunt club in the land!
A toast to our Susan, she’s the heart of this band-
To Longreen! Happy Hunting to you!
Our hounds are the finest, our huntsman’s the best
They make our hunting dreams come true
Those hounds are a wonder, Susan’s part of the pack
Biddable, bold, win 1st in shows, there’s nothing they lack…..
To the PennMarydel Hounds! A special toast to you!
If the coyote gets too raucous we’ll just call on Allison Crews!
Our whips they are daring, bravehearted, and skilled
But their greatest virtue may be in fulfilling Susan’s will
Here’s to the Whips! Pass around that flask!
You always look so dashing in your pinks when you go galloping past!
Birdland’s our heart- THANKS TO HARRIET AND JAKE!!
From Blytheville to the Delta our hounds they give chase
To Longreen!! A toast to you!!!!
Here’s to the 23-24 Fixture (our 66th year!!)
And Susan says to pay your dues!!!
When the cheers for these two died down, the breakfast was served outside at the old tables and chairs we’ve used every year since my grandparents’ day. Almost every time someone sat on the dry rotted cane ones a cry went out as the seat split underneath them. Luckily, a woman in Nesbit still practices the art of caning and they can be repaired. The traditions of the opening meet are a work of art, experienced by ninety -six attendees, who were artistic creators in the way they used their senses to take in the details and remember the day.
Goodnight,
Harriet McFadden
