How I Lost My Guts - Behind the Scenes with the Longreen Hunt
by Mary Dickinson (FrostyM)
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My family was living on Arrow Crest Farm. Every morning I woke up thinking, here I am where I was meant to be. Today, I was riding my bay hunter, Sivad, in the pasture next door to Bart and Mary Muellerıs farm, where the Longreen Fox Hunt and hounds are based. Bart was the founder of the hunt and was Master of Fox Hounds. He had been my first trainer and sold me my first pony, Frosty Morning. There was always some excitement at
Longreen. Sivad and I were moseying through the woods that backed up to Bart's barn. I spotted Susan Walker and Patty Wood, two whippers-in, and Bart saddling up their horses. "Where are you going?" I asked. Patty said, "We're taking the hounds out and youıre coming with us." "I am?" I said. "Oh, great." There was a sturdy fence between the farms. No problem. This is fox hunting country. Most of the fences for miles around are bridged by horse jumps called chicken coops. Imagine two wooden rectangles the size of doors laid on their sides, leaning on each other at the top, making a triangular shape with the barbed wire fence between them, safely covered. Over the years the hunt has put in more than 200 coops, giving us freedom to ride like lords in all directions over six thousand acres. There was a coop about 3'8" high and five feet wide in front of Sivad and me. I trotted him in a circle to set him up, and we jumped the coop. The hounds bolted out of their kennel, floppy ears and long noses to the ground, busily sniffing. Sivad and I followed the Master, whips, and hounds up the hill toward the road, staying back out of the hounds' way. Some horses want to lead, but Sivad was striding easily, not pulling or dancing, calm. He didnıt know how to be bad. He was a dream to hunt. This type of jumping was as natural to him as breathing. When we first moved to Arrow Crest Farm, Bart's small herd of hunt horses jumped over the coop to check out Sivad and Molly, the pony. Soon, Sivad was following them back over the coop. I laughed to myself, thinking I probably had the only hunter around trained to jump by other horses. We crossed the road and went through the gate into the tawny fields and brushy woods of Twin Hills Ranch. Scenting conditions were perfect. The ground was damp, the air humid and still. The hounds took off, baying into the distance with their distinctive, bell-like voices. Susan had ridden over here earlier, towing a canvas bag soaked in foxes' scent. Itıs called "laying a drag" for the hounds to follow. The pace was blazing fast. We kept up with the hounds by galloping over fields, taking the jumps in stride. After scrambling through the fence on the other side of Longreen Valley, the hounds veered in another direction. Bart and the two girls moved in on them instantly, cracking the long thongs of their whips around the hounds, shouting, "Leave it, leave it," until the pack resumed their original line. "Susan put down deer scent, too." Patty explained over her shoulder. Wow! I felt honored to be with the hunt staff up close, as they trained the hounds to stick to foxes' scent, not to chase deer. Finally, Bart took out his horn and blew the melancholy notes that called the hounds home. How happy we were on that misty day to be riding in beauty, enjoying God's blessings of horses, hounds, and Mother Nature. Sivad didnıt put a foot wrong, except at one tall coop which he refused. When I saw the big mud puddle in front of the jump, I must confess I lost my nerve. Bad footing! Sivad was only being polite when he stopped. We circled around and approached the coop again, ignoring the water. Hands down, heels down, my head high, my heart high, we sailed over the jump, landing lightly on the other side, ready for whatever adventure came next. Twenty-three years later, sweet Sivad has gone to horse heaven. Patty doesnıt ride anymore, but Longreen still hunts. Susan is MFA, now. Bart retired after sixty-four consecutive years as Master of Fox Hounds, which is a record of service in the United States. Our afternoon ride has long-since faded into history. If no one remembers it but me, that is enough. |