 
And so, on the first Saturday in November, I find myself in a state of nervous anticipation, towing a two-horse trailer in Thomson, Georgia, on the opening day of the Belle Meade Hunt, a foxhunt with an almost mythic reputation for its devotion to the chase. Despite existing a mere forty years, Belle Meade hosts what is likely the largest opening day meet of any foxhunt in the world. Yes — the world. A hundred or so riders from more than fifteen states converge with more than five hundred partying supporters to create a uniquely Southern version of opening day for a sport that started in England some four hundred years ago. Americans have been hunting with hounds since the days of Washington and Jefferson, both avid foxhunters who possessed their own hound packs. But modern American foxhunting is quite different from the English cousin from which it spawned. Indeed, in America the modern sport should be called a fox chase: The purpose is not to kill the fox, but to chase it until it “goes to ground” by burrowing in a den, scaling a tree, or being otherwise “accounted for.” As such, the American version has not traditionally been a blood sport. In the case of today’s hunt, which is designed as an exhibition for the hundreds of non-mounted spectators following in tally-ho wagons, Belle Meade’s hounds will not even be chasing a live fox or coyote, but only the scent of one laid out on a dragline in a scented bag dragged over a predetermined course. As I step out of the truck at the Belle Meade stables on this crisp fall morning, the excitement is palpable. My senses are assaulted. Conversation mingles with the cacophony of baying hounds and whinnying horses. I smell leather at play with sweat, red clay, sherry, unwashed hound, and washed horse. And stretching before my eyes in every direction is some of the finest foxhunting land in the world. Like golf, which, native to the British Isles, has one of its holiest cathedrals at Augusta National Golf Club, just thirty miles away, foxhunting is being perfected here, on the red clay of southeastern Georgia, on these 35,000 contiguous acres of rolling hills, open fields, forests, creeks, and streams. And what a cathedral to horse and hound this is. The land’s red clay holds animal scents longer than sand or dirt, providing some of the best scenting conditions for foxhounds in America. It’s also perfect habitat for fox and coyote, with coyote, now the larger, stronger, faster predator, being the primary quarry. And just as Augusta National is famous for the immaculate conditioning of its grounds, Belle Meade is known for its substantial efforts to safeguard the land on which the hunt unfolds, encouraging habitat for both fox and coyote and safe hunting conditions for its members. Since the hunt takes place primarily by concession of private landowners, Belle Meade’s care for the land is essential to the hunt’s success and survival. And in exchange for its efforts — and for the many hours of maintenance put in by members of the hunt, who are fined if they miss work parties — Belle Meade enjoys vast territory on which horses and hounds can run faster, harder, longer, and safer than just about any other foxhunt anywhere. Some of the other one hundred and seventy-one active foxhunts in America may have superior individual pieces of the foxhunt puzzle, but it’s hard to imagine that any have Belle Meade’s perfect combination of land, climate, habitat, hound, and staff. After looking over the stunning scenery and checking on the horses in my trailer, I head in to the Belle Meade clubhouse for a typical Southern buffet breakfast. Eggs, sausage, cheese grits — everything that keeps the local cardiologists busy. But we all need the nourishment — the riders burning calories, and the non-riders celebrating in the tally-ho wagons. After breakfast it’s time to mount up. I admit I’m a tad nervous: It’s opening day for both rider and horse; we’re riding in a hunt known for running long, hard, and fast in front of hundreds of people; and my horse is not exactly a bullet-proof ride. Frik Frak is a young Thoroughbred, a breed common in foxhunting for its speed, endurance, and athletic ability, necessary qualities to keep up with hounds on scent and to clear obstacles along the way. But like most Thoroughbreds in America, he’s a racetrack washout, so he’s fast but not quite fast enough to win consistently. And, as is the case with most things in life, what the Lord giveth the Thoroughbred in speed, grace, and athleticism, He also taketh in mental abilities. Not that Thoroughbreds are dumb; to the contrary, they are quite clever. But Thoroughbreds are what horsemen call a hot-blooded breed, meaning they are excitable, spook easily, and often act erratically for no apparent reason. I once heard an old Gullah woman on Hilton Head Island say her husband was crazy because “he sees haints [ghosts] where the haints ain’t.” While I can agree with Frik Frak that haints are likely to reside under bridges and in certain ditches, Frik Frak frequently finds haints where haints ain’t. The challenge with Thoroughbreds is to harness their speed, grace, and athletic ability without provoking their excitable nature, always lurking just below the surface. An apt comparison to a Thoroughbred is a Ferrari: When it’s running well, it’s a great ride, performing better the faster you go. But if you’re not careful, the temperamental nature of the car can easily propel you into a nearby tree. So, imagine, for sport, greasing the seat and steering wheel of the Ferrari, and you find yourself about where I am: aboard a young, edgy, greased-up, ex-racetrack Ferrari that sees haints where they ain’t. My nervousness is understandable. So far so good, though: We’ve got glistening tack, polished boots, and washed horse all ready to go, and Frik Frak isn’t too jumpy, taking in all the sights and sounds while standing reasonably still. |
||||||||
