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 under
gone 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.
Nature abounds in beauty. Just look at this great blue heron. Smashing! Image courtesy of Alan D. Wilson, NaturesPicsOnline.com.
Birds of a Feather
A great blue heron, male, fishes at my small pond. His mate sometimes joins him, and when little herons hatch and begin to fish, they’re down there, too. Twice a year, a female bald eagle also shows up. She causes a ruckus. Since the eagle and the heron eat the same foods, they dislike each other. The blue heron has an extensive vocabulary that flies like shrapnel. The cackle is loud. I can hear it when I’m pulling weeds behind my stone wall.
The eagle rarely responds. Eventually the heron closes that long bill and gigs frogs. If you’ve ever been physically near either of these birds you will admire them. The great blue male, if he stretches to his full height, is taller than I am at five foot four. He’s not afraid of me. I can often draw within forty yards. If I stay still he allows me to watch him fish. His quickness as he uncoils that long neck startles me. We pay millions of dollars to male humans if they have good reflexes for certain sports. Compared to this guy, we’re all painfully slow.
The eagle’s eyesight astonishes. All birds have marvelous eyes, but I read somewhere that an eagle two miles up can spot a mouse moving on the ground. I don’t doubt it. She won’t allow me as close as the heron but she’s not afraid of me. Her talons terrify. My face could be shredded in an instant. Fortunately, eagles disdain human flesh, as do many animals. We can be thankful that we don’t taste good. If you’ve ever visited countries whose standards of hygiene fall below our own, you begin to understand why most animals want nothing to do with us. Humans stink. Odd to say, if a tiger or lion does kill humans and eat them, they develop a taste for it.
There’s an old saw: The bird that sits is easily shot. In the nineteenth century, a rage for feathered hats gripped Europe and the Americas. The heron survived even though its feathers are lovely. Today no one shoots herons. Why would anyone wish to do so? They are so beautiful. Same with cranes. They reflect peace and calm. To me, anyway.
The eagle, on the other hand, like all raptors, represents power, predatory prowess. Nations reveal their innermost drives by their totems. Ours is an eagle. That imperial symbol served Rome well. Remember when Caesar Augustus would occasionally fall into his cups and cry for Varus’s lost eagles? The Germans wiped out Roman legions stationed at Coblenz. It is an extraordinary story that all of us who learned Latin read if we got beyond Virgil. National Geographic, that most excellent magazine, has covered this beautifully, in words and photographs. What a thrilling piece of detective work.
Long and short: we have always wanted to be a great power, even in the beginning when we were weak. Ben Franklin thought our symbol should be a native bird, the turkey. In a backhand way, Ben got his wish. Congress is full of them.
Life on this farm finds no one day like any other. Right now the birds are mating. Calls fill the air. The male sings out; if the female’s interested, she answers. Otherwise, a depressing silence follows. The ground nesters do “the dance.” Watching them reminds me how exhausting it is to find a mate. I know I’ve said this before, but the exhaustion falls on the male.
Another month will go by before mares go into season. The foxes are mating, which means we enjoy our best runs chasing a visiting dog fox. Two years ago during February I picked up a dog fox. He gave us a merry chase for twenty hard minutes, then popped into the den of another fox. That fox, whom I know (he’s still there and fat as a damn tick), happened to be resting, maybe reading Anthony Trollope’s marvelous works on foxhunting. You should have heard the fuss. The air was blue. However, by this time all the hounds surrounded the den. When hounds put a fox to ground, they sing, dig, and are so excited. But they can’t dig out the fox, as the dens are cleverly built. Another fox who lives on my farm has many exits and entrances, one right over a creek bed. I’ve heard him leave his abode by that exit, flopping right into the water.
While my pack has put many a fox to ground, they never heard anything like this cussing and swearing. No one moved. Suddenly the two arguing gentlemen realized a pack of foxhounds stood at the door. Silence. They patched up their differences, at least until the hounds left.
Skunks are traveling today, too. Give them wide berth. House dogs never seem to learn this lesson, so during mating season I go through a lot of tomato juice, lemon juice, and Skin-so-Soft, which, mixed together, somewhat diminishes the odor. Lots of rinsings help, too.
Then there’s eau de possum. A possum inhabits my attic. There’s no getting her out, which means there will be more possums. I will sometimes see her moving out at night for gleanings. Ugly as a mud fence, they are dear animals.
I usually go to bed by nine, read until ten, and get up at 5:30 A.M. in winter, 4:45 to 5:00 A.M. in summer. I rise about 1:30 A.M., read a little more, then go back to sleep. I’ve always done this, as did Mother. The night envelops one. That’s when I see my waddling possum. If I have them, I put out marshmallows near her entrance. She gets a treat coming home near dawn.
Squirrels in the attic present more commotion than the possums, who are quiet and respectful. The squirrels run around, thump, thump, thump. Rude, too. If I sit under the oak tree that they use as a launching pad, they chatter. If the cats join me, they throw acorns. A well-tossed acorn smarts. The cats, outraged, climb the trees. More acorns. The squirrels then leap to the roof and slither under the eave. The cats leap to the roof, too, but can’t reach the squirrels.
Deer, raccoon, bobcat. My bears (whom I like, but from a distance), all the hawks, kestrels, and kites, the indigo buntings and bluebirds, all the animals are perking up. Even though it’s winter, they know before we do when spring is arriving. Given the breeding patterns, this will be a normal spring: not too late. Based on their carryings-on, I figure the crocuses will be up in mid-March. After that it’s a progression of color, beauty, tremendous excitement. The winter birds return, including certain breeds of hawk who use the thermal spirals to rest on their way to New England and Canada.
Spring fever grips all of us. The horses get silly. The cats are always silly, only more so. The dogs evade my calls to come in but finally comply. The symphony of life will hit the first movement. Mid-March is the overture.
Do you come down with spring fever? I do. I’ll rise extra early so my daily pages are knocked out by the second hour of sunlight. Then it’s out the door, not to return until sundown. For one thing, I like to visit the different hunt fixtures (the farthest is two hours away) to put out higher protein food for my foxes. I don’t want the vixen to have to travel far to eat. She rewards me, come hunt season in the fall, with bracing runs. I know many of my foxes, and most know me, too. It’s a pleasant arrangement.
A gardener’s shadow is the best manure. Time to start digging. The finches, robins, bluejays (they’ll fly right down and look up at you, they are so bold) watch intently as I stir up grubs and insect goodies. When the praying mantis pods open and those tiny green babies pop out, the birds really are in heaven. It’s amazing any survive, but many do, and by September these huge praying mantises hang on everything. They eat the bad bugs, so I’m not complaining, but it gives you a shiver if one flies to sit on you.
Our bee population has diminished. This is a tremendous worry, bigger than the economy. If t
he bee dies, we die. It’s that stark and simple. As two of our hunt members are deathly allergic to bees, I have not put out bee boxes, although I’d like to. For whatever reason, bees will sit on me and not sting. Butterflies sit on me as well. Since butterflies also adore sitting on horse manure, this may not be flattering. As for the bees, I take it as a compliment. I have loved them since childhood, since Mother explained to me that all human life depends on bees.
The ticks and chiggers emerge, too. Hateful. What does God need with chiggers? I have bemoaned this all my life with no answer forthcoming. Better a wasp sting you than chiggers get you. The scars last for months.
I mentioned the economy. As you read this, we’ll most likely be at the bottom of this worldwide depression euphemistically called anything but. The Great Hypocrite, Gordon Brown, points the finger at the United States, ignoring the fact that his Labour Party is equally responsible. London is the world center of finance, even more than New York. As the world castigates us—much of it deserved—why do they look to us to pull them out? Well, if the eagle is our totem, we’d better start flying.
Here’s a partial answer, and it is provided by animals. Forget old capital. It’s lost. Create new capital. When a skunk has a litter and one dies, she may mourn but she turns her attention to the living. We should do likewise.
We’re at a turning point. If we lead the world, then we must lead in reconstituting our relationship to vital resources, in developing new industries and technologies. I’m willing to bet that many innovations formerly disregarded will now be revitalized. And some will be just miraculous. If we don’t do this, billions will die. Not millions—billions. It may not be our responsibility to save the world—our first responsibility is to save ourselves—but if there’s any left over, we should share.
And we must rethink our relationship with our sentient creatures. Let them be. Better yet, learn from them. Basic survival concepts: Don’t breed past the food supply. Always, always protect the female. Don’t waste.
Animal Magnetism Page 17
