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Dragging myself out of the sheets at
5:30 Wednesday morning, begins the ritual, but without the rhythm
- 5 months since I last rehearsed this drill: tan britches, red
shirt, tie (damn it, where’s my favorite tie?); coveralls and
clogs to tack up. OK, pack accessories in truck: hard hat, spurs,
boots (Oh my God, look at that - 10 minute boot rehabilitation
delay). On to the horse: throw hay to the other two and catch
Norm, my bay TB. Nine years old, this is his third season. 6:30
(need to pull out at 7:10): I’ve wiped down my tack and am
searching for a saddle pad when I notice that my hands are
shaking. Literally shaking. Across the street I hear hounds over
at the kennel where the trailer has arrived to collect those
hunting. There is a quality to their voices I haven’t heard all
summer: a certain intensity, almost hysteria. I look up and there
is Norm, my usually Perfectly Polite horse, slamming his
hindquarters back and forth, throwing his head and stamping his
front feet, clearly expressing the same anxiety afflicting me.
Forty-five minutes later we’ve made it to the meet, said our good
mornings, mounted and set off with 22 couple of hounds, including
8 virgin entries. "Pack Up" is a euphemistic request this morning,
but we survive a ½ mile hack out without blatant puppy mutiny when
Master/Huntsman Lynn Lloyd nods her head in a quiet indication to
the Whips that she is ready to cast. Up comes the horn to her lips
and the air is split with that short double blast that signals
freedom. Norm automatically responds to the hounds, and we spill
up the sandy rise ahead, hounds and horses exuberant, leaping and
dodging sagebrush, crying out with irrepressible anticipation of a
new season. I’m just worried about keeping an eye on young entry,
looking ahead for potential sources of riot, and tuning in my
rusty psyche to my Huntsman’s wavelength that tells me what she
wants before it happens.
The day unfolds with promise. We work along the crest of the
Pinnacles and hit a cold line that gives the older hounds a chance
to introduce the youngsters to their admirable work ethic.
Dropping into the green belt, we move through the cows grazing in
the willows along the stream bed. Quigley and Nimrod lead a brief
heifer foray, but are quickly reprimanded by a Whip and
demonstrate apparent contrition that I observe with skepticism.
Then it happens. Not a tally ho, not a riot, nothing that
dramatic; something much more important. Norm and I are walking
along an old fire road, paralleling the hounds well above us. I am
watching Lynn move along quietly with hounds fanned out ahead like
a vibrating parachute, older entry diligently working, youngsters
alternately appearing with heads down, sterns up or bounding along
behind an older hound, temporarily confused but nevertheless
delighted just to be there. A couple of these happy pranksters
break off and come tumbling down the hill toward me, leaving the
pack behind. As they approach a million things go through my head:
I should have spent more time with Lynn helping this summer - look
at this, the puppies don’t even know what a pack is - how hard
shall I be with them when they get to me - we’ll never have a good
pack this year - my horse isn’t fit - and then the puppies are
there, 50 yards away and my mind suddenly is silent.
Instinctively, I begin the ritual I’ve repeated so many times
before: I turn Norm quietly to face the puppies, I raise my right
arm, whip coiled in my hand, and point up the hill toward Lynn as
I speak deliberately to the culprits.
"Puppies, try back." As if hit by a cast iron frying pan, two
little heads snap up, feet skid to a stop in the sand and four
amazed eyes stare at me. "Where did she come from? We thought is
was clear sailing to adventures unknown," I hear their little
minds say as Norm and I sit there, unmoving, silent, pointing
Buddah-like up the hill. |
Time is suspended. And then it
happens. Don’t ask me why, don’t ask me how, but it happens just
like it has so often before as through me flows an intense wave of
peace and certainty and understanding of the un-understandable.
The puppies look back up the hill toward their mates, look at me,
look up the hill once more, then turn and resolutely trot back to
the pack, falling in behind older hounds and returning to school
where they are just beginning to understand how much fun there is
to be had in that group of wise campaigners. Everything has
tumbled into place. My hands are no longer shaking, Norm is
walking along on a loose rein, his head rhythmically swaying from
side to side. The rest of this opening day goes by in a blur, as I
ride out the high of hunting, reconnected to the place where I
love to be, to the wild order of life, and to a sense of peace
that accompanies the music of hunting with hounds.
November Fixture Card
All meets at 10:00 AM
Sunday
2nd Sue Cliff's
Wednesday 5th
Campbell Springs
Friday
7th Ross Creek
Sunday
8th Gildone's
Wednesday 12th
Sand Hills
Friday
14th Sue Cliff's
Sunday
16th Seve Ranch
Wednesday 19th
Ross Creek
Friday
21st Ross Creek
Sunday
23rd Ross Creek
Wednesday 26th
Campbell Springs
Friday
28th Seve Ranch
Sunday
30th Hungry Valley
Come soon and worship with us in
the Red Rock Temple - where monks are hounds and the nuns wear
britches.
(And pay you’re membership dues - Guido’s looking for work.-
A note from Judy Vose, Hon. Sec. )
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