Author and Oz midst the Spanish moss, away down south
This trip was to be the first vacation I have been on for a long time, thanks mostly to our “special” naked cat Alf. With a tendency to occasionally attempt to have sex with a sleeper’s head, hallucinate, or attack without provocation, there are no house sitters lining up for the job of caring for him in our absence. Likewise, no family members or friends. Prozac or no Prozac. That, along with my employer’s— Kaiser Permanente’s—death sentence for time taken off, has us often traveling separately, if at all.
Staying home has not been a hardship since I am happiest at home, but with our horrific winter this year, this nervous traveler headed south on a trip I had watched people enjoy without me for several years. The bastards.
Thursday
Leaving at 4:00 am it took ten hours to get from Maryland to South Carolina with only one quick stop. When we checked on the horses they looked like we had interrupted them playing cards. All happy travelers. Pretty much had the road to ourselves at that hour. Clearly, a tsunami of drivers must have fled the sight of my makeup-free face and clogged the exits, leaving the roads clear of traffic.
Mary’s son Randall drove the entire way, with Karen, Mary and I running our mouths non-stop the whole trip. Like that old AT&T commercial about “talking for hours about nothing at all.” That was pretty much it. By the time we arrived we could have lifted weights with our jaw muscles alone.
The ten hours passed quickly for the three ladies but the hours may well have dragged for poor Randall. At 2:00 pm we settled the horses at D&D Ranch on Rodeo Drive, the entrance marked with a large silhouette of a bucking horse complete with rider in a cowboy hat and upraised arm. Met by barn manager Kim, a good old girl with a drawl and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, she was more than ready to do whatever was needed to help. I believe it was Mary that was going to address the cigarettes-in-the-barn issue with Kim’s boss. That was until she saw him take a puff off his own ciggy before she could broach the subject. Since they seemed knowledgeable we decided to trust them and hope for the best. This was not their first “rodeo” after all. Then it was on to the Bed and Breakfast to check in and get ready to attend the kickoff party at Airy Hall Plantation that evening.
At the lovely Victorian Old Academy Bed and Breakfast we were met by the wonderful older couple who would be our hosts and the grandparents we had always wanted. Grandpa was hobbling around after a hard-to-wrap-your-head-around accident at work involving becoming tangled in a cable, hoisted aloft and dropped on the cement floor.
Kathy and Fran were just across the street where they had to OMG make their own breakfast and bed. Sue, Trish, Jan, Anne, Bonnie and Stewart were down the street four blocks. Their Bed and Breakfast was very eclectic and cool. But they did not have Grandma or Grandpa there. Joe and Rod were with us.
With the evening temp in the twenties, it was cold by any measure—southern or northern—when we arrived for the party. Unable to tell it was on the Ashepoo River in the pitch dark, it was obvious from the very long drive lined with Spanish moss-draped trees that it would be beautiful in the daylight. A striking thin guy with longish black hair, a beak-like nose (“patrician” as opposed to “big”), a black hat, and a goatee stood out in the crowd when we arrived. Rumor was that he was Australian. Or French. He is actually Polish: Second Field Master with the Mecklenburg Hunt in North Carolina. All this information courtesy of Fran who could have weaseled a life story out of those oysters.
Karen insisted he dyed his hair, that no one’s hair is that black. Fran wanted me to ask him if he had ever heard of Medieval Times. Perhaps ripped right out of Masterpiece Theatre. Jan got to know him most intimately when his horse rammed hers the next day out hunting.
The oysters were piled on a long table with gloved hands—including Karen’s and Mary’s—shucking as fast as they could. I think they were cooked ever so slightly—maybe to make them easier to open. Maybe so you could not hear them scream. Strictly standing room only.
Not being a fan of this particular shellfish (I think they look like boogers), Randall and I went in search of something non-grey and squishy to eat. Falling upon the crackers and brie like zombies on a Walmart customer, we then turned our attention towards locating the bar. Negotiating the people dancing to the live music we came upon what I feared was all that was left of the bar. A table with a half empty bottle of water and an empty cup. My face fell. Luckily a short distance ahead of us hidden by a crowd of jovial individuals was the real bar—a full bar.
I should have known better, and after a second party I would know that these are no ordinary tailgates. Mary added a very substantial splash of vodka to my bloody Mary mix. Bet she was fun in college. It was so chilly that we considered heading back but were glad we did not when the boil arrived, served in a traditional wooden trough. Big fat fresh boiled shrimp, salty and intensely sweet corn on the cob, and sausage. This little piggy made two trips to the trough, Weight Watchers also on vacation.
The rest of our Maryland crew never did arrive at the party after their wild and wooly trail ride earlier that afternoon. The plantation owner’s son said he was on the trail ride (he is a polo player) and that “someone” had come off in the water and, although he was behind, he saw “there was gear flying everywhere.” I looked at Randall and said, “It was one of us; it had to be one of us.” If it was that much of a debacle it was someone from Maryland for sure. I hoped that the reason the others were absent did not mean someone was already in the hospital.
It was so cold I mentioned I sure was glad I would be sharing a bed with Karen. Randall said if he heard a scuffle and thud he would know what had happened. Chilled but full we stopped off to do a bed check at D&D Ranch, in bed by nine at the B&B and asleep by 9:01. No scuffle, no thud. We were some tired buckaroos.
Friday
Our first day of hunting at 2:00 pm would follow a lunch at Hayne Hall Plantation at noon. The timing was perfect, allowing our horses which had arrived the day before a chance to rest a little longer from the long haul. We went to the barn before breakfast to feed and the horses were bright and ready for action. It was at this time that Jan, Sue, Bonnie, and Stewart made their first appearance, bearing wine coolers. At 7:30 am. Oh, yes, I had one, this being vacation and all. The breakfast of champions. Even Kim put down her cigarette and toasted with us.
Everyone was hugging, talking a mile a minute at maximum volume simultaneously, excited to be together again and starting the weekend we had been looking forward to for an entire year. Also sharing the tale of how Fran had become unseated at a boggy crossing on the trail ride the day before and spent some time “rolling around like a turtle” on her back before she was able to be extracted from the knee deep mire. Their B&B bathroom was coated in the black stuff from tile to toilet during cleanup which also required not one, but two trips to the Laundromat.
(Our grandma would have done that for us. She greeted Randall one day with a “Young man, I noticed your jeans were muddy so I washed them for you.” They were folded on an antique chair in the foyer with two mismatched socks on top.)
After the horses had finished breakfast we decided to turn the geldings out to stretch their legs before hunting. Boogie and Cheerio walked out like gentleman. On the other hand, Oz stuck his head and tail skyward channeling his inner A-rab. Following his lead, everyone was soon tearing around like maniacs. Meanwhile Kim was losing her mind and golf carts were being mobilized. Apparently we had mistakenly turned out into the wrong field, and they were dodging farm implements and schmoozing with the little horses on the other side.
Quote of the day from Karen: “Boogie will come right to me.” He did. Eventually. After kicking his heels over Randall’s head. Once Boogie was in hand the other two surrendered with little additional drama. Secretly we were glad they had gotten that out of their systems before we climbed aboard with 150 other horses around.
We arranged to arrive at the meet an hour before mounting to avoid having the horses stand in the trailer longer than necessary. Who needs two hours to eat lunch? Several soups were offered, as well as Carolina stew, which I should have tried, and deli sandwiches. My She Crab soup was rich (no disrespect to Maryland crab) and I limited myself to a quarter of a sandwich, hoping all would stay where it belonged during the course of the hunting day. (It did; it set perfectly). Thank you gastro-intestinal gods.
Setting off down the lane at a good clip we entered the woods. Placing myself literally at the end of Second Field I hoped to be able to keep myself out of trouble. Footing was good with some areas of the deep, sticky black mud that Fran had already experienced up close and personal. She was probably still picking it out from between her teeth. Probably still is. The trails were wide and allowed for long canters. Canters at home usually seem limited to shorter runs due to our hills.
Steadying myself by hooking a finger in the breastplate for the first time in my life, it was possible to just let Oz follow the trail without much direction from me. It seems he does not require my constant micro-managing. At one point we checked just off the trail at a muddy spot. Hounds could be heard to the right as well as huntsman Tot Goodwin repeatedly blowing what we thought was “Gone to Ground.” The front half of Second Field, including the Field Master, had disappeared around the bend in front of us. As we waited, as instructed, a hound appeared from the left, then another, followed by more, and then the huntsman on foot carrying the accounted-for rat-tailed grey fox. The poor animal had contracted mange and was now in a better place.
The huntsman walked around in the woods right in front of us calling in hounds. Sunbeams shone down, and I think I heard angels singing. Hounds were collected, and the huntsman moved on. We didn’t. After standing for a while I rode up front and asked if we had a leader? Time was a-wasting, and I am a New Yorker born and bred. Apparently we were waiting for the first half of Second Field to return. At this point huntsman Tot Goodwin rode by with two whippers-in. Joe Bills explained to me that Tot was huntsman in Tryon, NC with the Green Creek Hounds. He was hunting hounds with Lowcountry huntsman Willie Dunn and had brought ten of his own hounds with him.
Tot asked if we wanted to ride in with them (OMG, yes), and we tucked in behind them. I believe the rest of the Field came in also. Not far down the path we rejoined huntsman Willie with hounds, staff and fields. Staying out till the end we brought the horses back to D&D before returning to the B&B to change for the Barn Party to be held at Hayne Hall at 5:00 pm.
Our whole group was present for this party, and the guest of honor was Pork! Fall off the bone pork. The whole pig. Side dishes abounded but the stars of the buffet were white chocolate lemon balls, each set on a little tiny crystal chair! And the baked brie. And the Boudin sausage which even had vegetarian Kathy eating meat. Speaking to Sue, I gestured with my hands and her plate went airborne. It was all I could to keep myself from picking them up, brushing them off and eating those, too. The chill in the air was kept at bay with an infusion of hot buttered rum.
Saturday
A morning hunt at 9:00 am at Ravenwood Plantation was on the agenda. It was obvious that bird hunting was the sport of choice here with a kennel full of frenetic pointers rivaling the hounds in the noise department when we arrived. Joe was whipping-in and buzzing around in his truck and assisting on the ground. Could not help but notice the long-haired young man riding with him in his truck. Of course it could have been a woman (or an Irish setter) since I cannot see anything anymore. This turned out to be a quiet day of hunting which was probably good after the previous day’s efforts. Time was spent calling hounds out of the swamps which are not navigable on horseback. Our only view was of Tot galloping by the Field hauling on the reins calling out “Whoa big hoss, whoa!”
We started and ended at a hunting lodge complete with a life-sized, anatomically correct cement setter at the door. The definition of the man cave. All male right down to the statue of the dog. Unable to wait another minute, I accompanied Karen to a wide tree away from the assembled staff and fields, prepared to hold Boogie while Karen…you know. Unfortunately the tree was directly on the way in, and before she could dismount the huntsman, staff, hounds and fields were headed directly at us. As they passed I had a feeling they knew exactly what we were up to. And had been in that “position” themselves.
Lunch followed and what I recall most vividly was the strength of the Bloody Mary! After asking if the pitchers had alcohol in them I was assured they did but that more could be added if I desired. As if. I declined. Both Karen and I were remarking how strong they were and I was having some trouble keeping my eyes uncrossed. At about this time Karen and I struck up a conversation with a lovely young lady and Karen began extolling the virtues of “our” Randall. Karen insisted that she just had to meet him. When told how old he was, she remarked that she was “almost thirty.” Karen said, “My husband is seven years younger than I am; that’s nothing!” I added that he is “so good to his Mom!” Now that did impress her. At this point she escaped from us. We made our unsteady way back to the trailers, drooling on ourselves. Back at the Old Academy, Karen and Mary took naps. I snuck around the kitchen and made tea. Randall sewed his dangerously torn breeches which even his under armor could no longer compensate for. Randall your thigh is not always against your saddle! I cannot believe Grandma let you out of the house dressed like that…
The cocktail party at Airy Hall Plantation started at 7:00 pm. As we made our way to the main door I noticed four small ducks laid out on the lowered tailgate of a pickup truck—testament to the sporting heritage of the property, evidence of which is everywhere.
It did not take long for our group to drive everyone else out of the most beautiful room in the house. My gang can empty a room like nobody’s business. The room with the humongous portrait of a lady above the couch and the wallpaper which exists in only three homes: this living room, the White House, and Versailles.
A full bar was set up at the pool, a buffet in the dining room, and eclectic furnishings everywhere: a lampshade made of porcupine quills in the entrance way and a collection of creepy inkwells made of hooves lovingly arranged around a vase of flowers in the living room. Our group made such a noisy production of taking a group photo that by the time we were done people were taking photos of their own groups everywhere. We left at 9:00 pm and were in bed at the obscene hour of 10:00. Asleep no later than 10:01.
Sunday
Another 9:00 am hunt. This time from Airy Hall Plantation. The trailer barely squeezed through the plantation gates. Must be why all the locals were driving in the second drive. Whatever. Everyone turned out for this hunt. Looked like everyone and their brother. Joe was on his new prospect. A line of stepping stone juniors on spotless ponies accompanied fore and aft by calm adults. These surrogate Moms tread that fine line between coddling and drill sergeant. I overheard the one riding heel tell the same little girl, “Good job, honey!” and “Use your reins; you have to steer that pony!” in the same breath. Apparently successful; everyone was all smiles.
Taking up my spot in the very back I found myself jostling for the end position with two other women riding together. Encouraging me to ride ahead of them, they asked why I wanted to be so far back. I answered “So no one can run into me.” They laughed and said that was why they were back there too. This was the second day in a row that we kept getting behind the Lowcountry member assigned to ride in the very back and keep an eye on things. She said she finally gave up trying.
More lovely footing and long canters on wide paths. Ahead we could hear lots of loud splashing. Plenty of black mud and what appeared to be a wide, shallow crossing. Oz dropped in a hole to his chest. Jan was right behind me, and Tequila found a shallow ledge. Layla, with Trish aboard, went down on her knees. Fran’s pony, not wanting a repeat of the trail ride, teetered along the bank while sideswiping trees. Cantering to catch up we lost the juniors at the crossing. They reappeared later—spotless—their wards having taken them around. Watching them run ahead of me in a line with their tiny bottoms solid in their teeny, widdle saddles was the cutest thing I had ever seen…until we ran into the armadillo.
Hounds were working ahead of us in a large field and many had a view which I missed. Ugh. Hate that. Another view was had by all while we checked when the same fox popped out again. A red fox with lots of grey. Hounds continued to work their way around the edge of the field to the other side. While we waited the juniors had a nature break behind a round bale. Modesty protected, all that showed was their helmets sticking up behind the bale and their chaperone holding their ponies. No one would ever know. Except I took a picture.
Making our way across the sandy field we tread carefully avoiding armadillo holes somehow big enough to trip Oz but still small enough that I was never able to see them ahead of time. We crossed a narrow grassy dike surrounded by water on both sides—what the local members called “classic lowcountry.” The water’s edge was covered with tall grass, brush, and the occasional palm tree. We checked on the dike and were able to just see the head and shoulders of the staff at the water’s edge. Hounds had accounted for a coon.
Hounds were allowed to cool themselves and roll in the grass as the rest were collected. Again the Maryland contingent managed to position themselves front and center. Hacking back, I saw the Maryland gang exit stage-right ahead of me. Rather than a group nature break, they were headed to a sighting of the armadillo kind. It was absolutely adorable from his pointy nose and bat ears to his rat tail. Even the odd native southern creatures extended themselves to make our trip perfect. Right around this time Oz decided that I had gotten on his very last nerve. All muscled up and above the bit, Oz decided he was done with “vacation.” At this point we merely needed to hold it together long enough to get to the trailers. Gently handled he managed to maintain his composure till the end, like the gentleman he is.
On the way in we ran into the young lady Karen and I were so taken with. In retrospect, the Port-a-John line was probably not the best place to introduce her to Randall. Awkward.
Breakfast followed around the pool and on the lawn of the plantation. Lovely setting with the very wide river now visible during the daylight. Another full bar. Picnic tables were set up on the lawn as well as tables around the pool. Also ample room to sit on the wall at the back of the house. The perfect ending to a perfect trip.
All of us got together to drive to Beaufort for dinner that last night. With five women crammed in Randall’s truck I can honestly say the noise level was off the frigging hook. Even my ears were ringing. Randall you are a saint. Karen and I are writing that young lady and telling her so…as soon as we get her address.
Can now say from experience that fried pickles really are delish and that, courtesy of Jan and Sue, there is a lot more to hush puppies than I could ever have imagined. Back at the Old Academy we found our hosts still awake. Mary and I oohed over Grandpa’s new splint, and I agreed it was very high tech and a big improvement over the last time we saw his bare foot. Together we translated his CAT scan results for him—lots of words to say nothing was broken. Devastated when Grandma told us we were going to miss the cinnamon apple waffles she had planned for our breakfast with our early start in the morning, Randall later said if she really loved us she would have made them for us at 3:00 am.
Up at 3:00 am for a 4:00 am departure got us home in eleven hours. One hour longer than the trip down. DC will get you one way or another—either with rush hour traffic or construction taking place during every minute between rush hours. Sigh. That is how we really knew we were “home.”
Rod, however, suffered in silence a stretch of terrible luck the entire trip—well beyond missing waffles. A lame horse after the first day of hunting who then managed to cast himself the next morning while I watched him. Lovely horse looked at us upside down with his bottom teeth showing and never moved a muscle while three of us pulled him back. He is definitely not a two person horse. A gazillion dollar transmission job and a truck which, according to Joe, burst a hose and caught fire the first time he started it. Everything but locusts and shingles hit him. This not being his first rodeo either, he no doubt subscribes to the philosophy of hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Luck did not cut him a single break this trip. To add insult to injury, although he probably missed the snow, he still returned home to this hellacious cold. It seemed even nature was against him. I felt bad for him watching it unfold. Hopefully his luck has vastly improved and the week from hell has faded to a dim memory. Here is hoping his next trip is smooth trails. Rod truly had a bad trip.
Posted November 29, 2016