Low clouds, mercury hanging in the high thirties, promised a decent day’s hunting this Saturday, January 27, Mozart’s birthday in Austria in 1756. Jefferson Hunt met at Whiskey Ridge, a new old fixture, ten miles south of Chapel Cross. When the hunt was first started in 1887, Whiskey Ridge was an original fixture. Over the decades it remained so until the 1950s, when new owners, opposed to blood sports, ended it. In those days foxhunting was a blood sport, although one rarely caught the fox. But by the 1970s this faded away, until today it’s only a memory for those who are old.
The new owners, the Garnetts, new as in the last twenty years, appreciated the fact that foxhunters did not kill and so the old place came back onto the fixture card.
And it was a ridge. One turned right off the two-lane road, drove through some flat pastures, then climbed about six hundred feet up to the ridge. The reward was gorgeous views in all directions, the backstop being the Blue Ridge Mountains. Cold though it was, it wasn’t piercing cold, so eighty-some people showed up.
Shaker cast east as there was little wind. The field walked down the driveway their trucks had labored up, pulling those heavy rigs. The ground, soft, wasn’t sticky mud. Sister noted it would be slippery in parts but mostly the footing seemed good.
Once in the front pastures, which staff thought of as the flats, hounds began working. Deer had crossed, a rabbit must have wandered out of its warren then hopped back in. Rabbit scent, fragile, wafted up hound noses, which is how they knew this was recent.
“Those little white tails get me,” Dasher remarked.
“Come springtime, this place will be overrun with them.” Dragon kept his nose to the ground.
The flats comprised one hundred and fifty acres on which the Garnetts grew good hay. No one worried about trampling shoots in January, but by mid-April, conditions permitting, delicious green blades would push through the earth. Good hay contains protein and sugar and tastes wonderful to many creatures.
On the hounds walked, intent. Weevil, behind, noted tracks. He leaned over Midshipman, a young Thoroughbred learning the ropes. The tracks, blurred, became clear as he moved along. Huge great blue herons had walked here, no doubt dabbling in the large puddles as the snow melted. Whiskey Ridge’s pond, down low, filled with fish, proved a favorite with the herons, but any body of water, even a big puddle, excited interest. Weevil sat upright again, noticed that a few sterns waved languidly. He decided to move up a bit closer.
“What do you think?” young Aero asked Tatoo.
“A skunk.”
“Ooo, wouldn’t that be stronger?” the young hound asked.
“Aero, this line is old. You need to learn how to tell time. Water changes scent, wind changes scent, and this line is hours old.”
“Well,” sputtered Aero, “what’s a skunk doing out here in an open pasture?”
Tatoo laughed. “Looking for food or a girlfriend. The skunk was here in the middle of the night. No one to bother him. No other animal is going to kill a skunk.”
Aero puzzled over this when Cora opened, others following. It was the end of January. January and February, the mating months, when the weather is half decent, give you the best runs.
This fox, a male, was moving north and moving fast. Hounds, scent bursting in their noses, sounded like nature’s chorus. Bass voices boomed, baritones from darker to lighter, those sweet tenors and then the squeaky yip of a youngster whose voice had not yet changed filled the air.
Thundering over the last pasture, hounds swerved around an abandoned storage building, made from fieldstone so it was sturdy and pretty. Pookah dipped inside to double-check, shot out. No scent in there at all but the young hound was learning to think.
Once around the attractive building they dipped into woods that are called parked out because the underbrush is cleared so the trees stand unmolested.
Pretty as this is to people, it doesn’t give cover to foxes or other animals. The fox blew through it in a hurry to get into rougher territory at the edge of Whiskey Ridge. The heavy woods belonged to people living in New York City. Word was they would be moving, but when, no one knew. The land was untended, woods dense, and the fields choking with broomstraw.
The wind came up slightly so the broomstraw swayed. Heading due north, the fox easily squeezed under old page wire, a curse to horsemen. Even the hounds couldn’t get through, so Shaker blasted down to the road, hounds following the fox. He then urged Showboat forward.
The next decision was where to duck back into the land. No one wanted to risk running into downed wire. No one wanted to lose the fox either. Weevil, slowing so he could study the edge of the fenced-in mess, found a narrow passage, carefully urged Midshipman through it, walked along hoping he could move along a little faster.
Hounds moved through the woods while Shaker kept parallel to them. Seeing Weevil in the woods gave the huntsman time to find his own way without undue risk. Fortunately, an entire section of the page wire had been peeled back, the half rounds used for posts peeled back with it.
Hounds wedged under bushes, slid by downed limbs. For the humans this was harder. Betty wisely kept on the road, as did Bobby with Second Flight. Sister plunged in and took her chances, as did First Flight.
Hounds screamed.
Reaching the edge of this woods, they followed the wire. Finding no way out they went all the way to the road where they could get under. Shaker wasn’t so lucky.
Dewey, not one to hang back, rode up, dismounted, pulled his wire cutters from off his saddle, and cut out a huge section of wire. “The hell with it. When they come down from New York, they’ll never notice.”
Shaker didn’t argue. Dewey was probably right, the absentee owners wouldn’t take notice. If they had intended to refresh this fencing, they would have done so by now.
Everyone eagerly moved through the now wide opening back to the road. Hounds, way ahead of them by now, were heading to Skidby, and Skidby lay three miles north of Whiskey Ridge. Hounds, horses were flying.
Some large, jagged rock outcroppings overhung the road. As people passed it they noticed how much cooler it was.
Sister tried to keep Shaker and the hounds in sight, as did Betty. God knows where Tootie was. Somewhere higher and hopefully outside the page wire.
Hounds slowed, scent shifted. It wasn’t lost but the fox was playing with them. He turned, ran back south for a few hundred yards, then shot straight up toward the mountains.
Shaker followed. As he climbed up, Showboat stopped. Shaker laid on the whip. Showboat wouldn’t move, instead blowing out his nostrils. Shaker, not a hard man, needed to be with his hounds. He raised his arm again. Showboat stood straight up. Showboat had never done such a thing. Shaker slid over the horse’s hindquarters, hit the ground, then his head hit a flat rock hard.
He was out cold. Showboat, terrified, ran for the road.
Weevil immediately rode up, dismounted, let Midshipman’s reins drop. Midshipman blew out his nostrils, too, but he stood as they had been working on what to do if the reins were dropped and his rider was on foot.
Staff prepares for such a moment, hoping they will never need to perform it. Sister held the field back except for Walter, a doctor, who rode up and also dismounted.
Weevil had taken Shaker’s pulse and confirmed he was alive but otherwise didn’t touch him.
Betty rode in, called the hounds to her, and held them. She also yelled for Tootie, who appeared moments later to help her hold the hounds.
Hounds naturally go to their huntsman but in a condition like this, they could unwittingly hurt a downed human.
Walter’s first thought was Shaker’s neck or back. As the huntsman remained unconscious, Walter also did not touch him. Instead he pulled out his cellphone and called 911.