Animal Magnetism

Gimme That Old-Time Religion

The last part of 2008 and the first few weeks of 2009 witnessed some of the largest temperature swings ever recorded in the Mid-Atlantic. I’ve never seen anything like it. January 18, the mercury read minus 2 degrees Fahrenheit at 5:30 A.M. The cold remained bitter for days, then an ice storm sent us beauty and broken bones. After that, the mercury started bouncing. You’d wake up and it would be seventeen degrees. By noon it would be forty-five. The next day you’d wake up and it would be twenty-four degrees; by noon it would be sixty-two. Just about everyone I know, including myself, hosted a virulent respiratory bug complete with fevers, chills, and a racking dry cough. It felt like you-know-what. For some people this lasted two full months. Luckily I sweated and shook for two days, then pulled out of it. Well, not quite, as I was still coughing. Voice faded out, too.

Seneca said, “Scorn pain. Either it goes or you do.” I live by that. I did, however, not attend mass at St. John in the Woods, a beautiful chapel Patricia Kluge built. She invited some of us to attend mass held by Father Gregory. He gives you much to consider, and in a way that brings out the best of you, none of these fear messages.

Missing mass is one thing. It was easy to make that decision as I didn’t want to be close to people and risk giving them the bug. Not taking out hounds is another. They needed to go, and people have paid money to belong to Oak Ridge Hounds. Plus I could do it without getting close to people so I felt it was safe. I went out, even on bitter days, with not much by way of padding since my fever kept me warm.

February 8 we met at Cherry Hill, an estate built just before the Revolutionary War. Simple, not gaudy, and so lovely, people flock to hunts at Cherry Hill. The owner, Miss Anne Henderson, welcomes us each time, always acting as though we are doing her a favor by hunting her land when it is quite the reverse.

Not for the fainthearted, Cherry Hill tests hounds, horses, and riders. The land around the house undulates, then quickly rises to the top of Turner Ridge, perhaps twelve hundred feet above the highest pasture. From the ridge you can look down and see the Upper James River, pastures hugging its banks, still in winter garb. Now that the bald eagles are back, you occasionally see them, too. In fact, you might see them at any of our fixtures north of the James. So far, we’ve sighted none south of the James.

Trying to suppress my cough, I threw my leg over Dodger, a sixteen-hand Thoroughbred/Oldenburg cross. I’m not a big warm-blood fan but I do understand why other people are, and Dodger has taken the best of both. Marion Thorne, MFH of Genesee Valley, hunted him with a broken collarbone using one hand. Marion’s tough. Dodger’s kind. I’m in love with him. He’s still making up his mind about me, although after yesterday I may have won his heart.

When we started at ten A.M., it was already fifty-seven degrees. It had been cold that morning (another big temperature bounce), which kills scent. It was the day before a full moon, a promising omen as all animal activity peaks around the full moon, but those that rushed out too early could now be sound asleep in their dens. You can’t get a fox up the day after a full moon: too much partying.

Hounds cast on the north side of Cherry Hill, moving through Anne’s herd of Angus cattle like the pros they are. A little feathering (tail-wagging) but no one spoke. I told the field it would be a quiet day. I lied, but I didn’t know it at the time. If you read the books, this should have been a zip day, and the last two weeks sure were. Hey, I’m not complaining. At least we went out. Many hunts were idle for two weeks because the snow and ice would start to melt, then freeze up during the bitter night. The next day would be worse.

Dodger and I popped over a log jump, not really big, maybe three foot two if that. Hounds had opened. Hooray, at last! We were on Judge Whitehead’s land. The judge and his pretty wife, Sandra, allow us to hunt this chunk except during deer season. Foxes like it there, so we usually get something going. Did the fox use the lovely trail our members had cut for him? No. He ran up the hill through the nastiest stuff. My face felt the thorns, one found its way into my ear. The ones in your nose really sting. Anything that sticks out can stab you. But hey, you have to follow the fox. Right when we got into the worst of it, he vanished. Great. Now what? Orion, one of the best hounds I have ever hunted behind, a draft from Deep Run (thank you, thank you, Deep Run) came back to me and looked up. “Well? What do you want me to do?”

I told him to stick with me, blew the three long notes that mean “Come to me.” Wiggling through underbrush came the rest of the pack, down some, since most of the girls were in season, plus the hounds with high metabolisms can go out only once a week. They run off too much fat if you take them out more than that. It’s cruel to take a hound out that doesn’t have enough fat to keep him warm.

The only way out, and it wasn’t inviting, was up. It’s not too steep but it’s thick. Dear Dodger kept his head down and pushed through. Behind me I was receiving blessings from the field. It was Sunday. Hey, the fox took us there. It was not my idea.

We finally pushed out into the cemetery of the tidy Bethel Brethren Church. Dodger had never been to church before so his ears swiveled. Maple, Cheerful, Orion, Zachary, and the others stopped in their tracks. The pack that had visited Trinity Episcopal are mostly gone now, as that was over a decade ago. Plus, an Episcopalian service differs markedly from a Brethren and the few hounds that were on that adventure are now retirees working with puppies, so there was no made hound who could say “Keep going.”

Inside it was that old-time religion. The hounds wanted to join in. I couldn’t blow the horn and disturb the service, so I kept whispering, “Pack-in to me. Pack-in to me.”

With the help of Emily Schilling, honorary whipper-in, and Karen Osborne, whipper-in in training (which means neither of them gets paid for one of the hardest jobs in foxhunting), we managed to convince the hounds not to attend the service. The door was closed, which helped. Years ago the vestibule door had been open at Trinity. Ever see a pack of hounds filling up a church vestibule? Impressive.

We crossed Variety Mills Road and Emily hopped down to open the gate. Bet we’ll be putting a jump in that fence line in the future.

Willie was missing. Karen Osborne returned to the churchyard. A lady was visiting a grave. Willie sat with her. Karen dismounted and quietly called him. He came, then returned to the lady. Finally, the lady took him by the collar and walked him to Karen.

Karen apologized, but the lady, obviously a dog lover, said she liked the company.

Karen Osborne walked him back to the other side of the road.

Willie smiled. Most of our members recognize him because of his big smile. He made the lady smile, too.

You have to love Willie.

“That’s it,” I thought to myself, once we were all together. “It’s in the mid-sixties. I’m sweating bullets and I know my fever’s gone. We aren’t going to do squat.”

But the field was ready. Many of them wore trophies of what we’d fought through: twigs, pine needles, thorns. Everyone had risen between four and five-thirty in the morning for this. The hounds were ready. The worst that could happen was that we’d enjoy a ride in stunning weather.

For an hour I was right. We crossed a creek; the coop (a jump like a chicken coop) sat in water, lots of water. Fortunately the gate was open. Since I’m huntsman, I usually take the jump first unless a whipper-in has preceded me for some reason. But when you have water or deep mud, each horse that takes the jump deepens the hole, so to speak. We call it “poaching out.” No one minded missing that jump.

A cool air current always swirls down at a low spot. Didn’t do us any good. The hounds worked steadily. Up at the sunken farm road, Orion, at the top, paused as I dipped down to cross the creek again. I called. He kept his nose to the ground.

Trust your hounds.

He opened. All the hounds flew to him.

The chances of getting a run on a day like this are about the same as being hit by a meteorite.

“Watch out below. One’s coming.”

They all opened and shot straight up, parallel to the creek that tumbles amid boulders and large rocks down from Turner’s Ridge.

We went straight up too. Dodger comes from territory with deep non-red clay, some very good soil as well, and some deep ditches, not exactly ravines but you need to ride down them and then ride back up. They are too wide to jump. This was new to him, I think, but he’s a trouper. Up and up we climbed, finding creative ways around the narrow path where saplings had fallen in the ice storm.

The hounds sounded great.

At one point, I lost the last part of the trail up. The rains and ice had obscured our path. We had to move around the large rocks churned up thanks to the glacier.

We forged a new path. Dodger was breathing a bit hard, but not as bad as he might have been because he’s kept in good condition. He’s a strong horse, too.

I looked down to view the field as hounds slowed for a moment. In particular, I noticed two lovely people who were in their second year with Oak Ridge. Since I’m forward I rarely have the opportunity to turn around and see how the field rides. Mary Jane and Tom Timmerman were up in their stirrups right over their horses’ center of gravity, which makes it easier on the horse. You’d think both would be grimacing, worrying about the climb, the narrowness. Big grins. A few other members were smiling, too. This sort of climb separates the sheep from the goats, literally.

Four years ago we had visitors, flatlanders. The fox ran the same pattern and a goodly number of them suffered the vapors. Bob Satterfield, not yet a joint MFH, kindly gave up his day hunting to turn them around (not easy), walking them back to the trailers where a stiff drink revived them.

I don’t think it’s so bad, really, but I’m used to it.

A pause, some air, then Cheerful and Maple opened again with Orion right there. The fox ran just below the top of the ridge on the western slope. We followed on the ridge. He crisscrossed over and back twice, then thought better of it and headed down on the Upper James River side. I called the hounds back. They came. We walked and slid down on the western side on a better path since we’d already traveled quite a bit.

Once in the high meadow we sat and caught our wind. I had a couple and a half up there and called them down. They did return after we’d moved off.

I may have told you, you always count hounds in couples. Been doing it that way since the Pharaohs, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

The hounds tried some more but the mercury now registered seventy-one. My truck has a thermometer, and once we were back I checked it.

Hounds, horses, and humans shared a wonderful day. Everyone’s spirits were high, and some of our members had not had an easy time of it lately. Two of them had undergone serious operations; one, still at home, received the full report via telephone. The other one, John Loughlin, with his wife, a doctor who could have been a runway model, came on foot. Nothing can dim John’s spirits, but the recounting of that day made him giddier than usual. Other members have lost their entire portfolios. We don’t have many people with lots of money, but even someone with money doesn’t want to lose it. Some of our members worry about keeping their jobs, since so many firms are letting people go and small businesses are shutting down.

That great day gave everyone a respite, reminded them what’s really important: health, companionship, nature’s beauty.

Lifted me right up. Didn’t even mind my cough.