Tally Ho

"Bless, O Lord, rider and horse, and hounds that run, in their running, and shield them from danger to life and limb."
—From the Blessing of St. Hubert

The first Saturday in November dawns crisp and clear and gives light to the deep blue sky that heightens the contrast of orange leaves dappled on green pastures. Low hanging mist flocking the landscape burns away to reveal a perfect opening meet day in hunt country.

Riders rise without struggle looking forward to the ceremony ahead. Tack is checked, boots cleaned and coats rolled free of lint. Whistles and feed shaking in buckets cut through the autumn morning grabbing the attention of horses corralled in pastures and paddocks and fields and stalls. They anticipate a thorough brushing and grooming and braiding and bathing in affection. Foxhounds bark and yip in the kennels, detecting the undercurrent of swelling excitement. Only about a third of the pack will participate in the first hunt.

Opening day for Belle Meade foxhunt in McDuffie County is a choreographed masterpiece of tally-ho and touch-and-go, of horse and hound, of master and mount, of courage and collective spirit, of pomp and circumstance and Southern comfort, of ritual and release. Since 1966, when the late James Wilson and his best friend, the late Peter S. Knox Jr., and seven other founders brought Belle Meade to fruition, the rite of the Blessing of the Hounds and the celebration of opening meet have taken place on the first Saturday in November. Epp Wilson, James Wilson’s son, now president of Belle Meade Hunt Inc., honorary huntsman and master of fox hounds (a role he shares with Charlie Lewis and Gary Wilkes, both vice presidents), says of his father and Knox, “They both loved horses and hounds and the great outdoors.”

As one might imagine, that first opening meet in 1966 was rather small in comparison to what it has become 45 years later. More than 400 spectators, from as far away as Massachusetts, Michigan, New York, Virginia and Canada fill 25 wagons like a traveling stadium, parking atop hills and crawling across bottoms, all for the thrill of a glimpse of the chase. Think of it as a rolling tailgate party with the foxhunt going on in the background. About 100 mounted riders of all ages, from preschoolers to septuagenarians, take to field and fold, proving that, as Master Wilson says, “Foxhunting is a lifelong sport.”

But first, according to tradition, supplication for the Lord’s blessings and for St. Hubert’s watchful protection of participants—the hounds, riders and horses—must transpire. It is a formal affair on the lawn of the Larry Knox house, set back from Wrightsboro Road and flanked by pecan orchards on either side. Dismounted riders, reigns in hand, stand beside their horses creating two facing columns. Sunlight glints off of the gleaming coats and manes of the creatures. A long grassy aisle, beneath the pecan boughs, leads between the two columns straight to the feet of Father Edward R. Frank, hunt chaplain. 

The first Blessing of Hounds dates back to the late 1800s in France. It served to mark the opening of hunting season and to spiritually vaccinate the hounds from the scourge of rabies. On November 3, the Feast Day of St. Hubert, a priest asked the intercessory prayers and blessing of Hubert, the patron saint of hunters and hunting.

As legend has it, St. Hubert passionately pursued the sport of hunting to the exclusion of all else, including the pursuit of salvation for his mortal soul. Out he went on Good Friday, despite his wife’s protestations and pleading that he stay home with her and pray. The story alleges that he told his wife to mind the praying and that he would mind the hunting. Deep in the woods Hubert set chase after a magnificent stag of great proportions. Unexpectedly, the stag turned and planted face-on with Hubert. There between the hart’s antlers Hubert saw a crucifix and immediately fell prostrate on the ground, begging, “What would you have me do, O Lord?” Through sport, Hubert found conversion.

Through sport, foxhunters find community. Entire families and their steeds stand together awaiting the arrival of the hounds and hunt staff. At last, coming through the grove of trees, scarlet coated men and women, sure-footed horses and jogging hounds appear. Riders and horses glide over the triangular coop, hounds agilely scrambling to the peak and leaping to the ground on the other side. The group collects at the top of the column and all dismount, giving their horses over to junior hunt members.

Conversations reverently quiet as the joint masters of foxhounds, Wilson, Lewis and Wilkes, process with the hounds, followed by the whippers-in, men and women charged with keeping the pack together. Ears strain to hear those splendid words that mark the official beginning of the ceremony: “We present to you the Belle Meade pack of 2011.” Father Frank begins the blessing, saying, “The eyes of all wait upon Thee, O Lord, and Thou givest them their meat in due season.”

Everyone present, spectators and riders, responds, “Thou openest Thine hand and fillest all things living with pleasantness.” The words meld together and resonate in the tree tops through to the final “Amen.” It is a spectacle to behold man and animal bonded in purpose, even the quarry, for whom Father Frank prays, “Bless the foxes who partake in the chase, that they may run straight and true and may find their destiny in Thee.”

Following the Blessing of the Hounds, Father Frank presents each rider with a St. Hubert medal, beginning with hunt members who have earned their colors—a gold swath of fabric on the collar of the coat—and proceeding through the rank and order of riders, ending with junior members (children) who have not yet received their colors. Handing off reigns, one by one riders approach Father Frank. He places a scarlet cord adorned with a small round medallion around each person’s neck. The medals are meant to be worn all season for protection from harm in the huntfield.

As the last rider rejoins his horse, the air quivers. The hounds move off, a tangle of tails and snouts, weaving around the legs of horses carrying the masters of foxhounds and the whippers-in. Five abreast, they jump the coop back into the orchard. Riders wearing the traditional dress of tan riding pants, black coats, white stock ties, black boots and black velvet covered helmets follow in orderly fashion behind their respective field masters. Developed over the centuries of foxhunting, there is a clear hierarchy in the huntfield. It is governed by a strict set of social rules as well as standards of behavior designed for the safety of the animals and the horsemen.

The caravan of wagons, packed with people, picnic baskets, coolers and festive plaid blankets, snakes through gates and into the pastures of generous McDuffie County landowners who grant Belle Meade Hunt access to their acreage. Master Wilson remarks on the beauty of the hunt country. “One of the big draws of the sport of foxhunting,” he says, “is that the field on which we play is always different and new and changing.” Most of the property frequented is located in the area of the Old Wrightsboro Quaker Site and along the Bartram Trail.

Today hunt country displays all the best of fall. The train of wagons stops in a wide field with a hedge of pines in the distance. The land gently rolls away to the left and up to the right. McDuffie County is an ideal location for foxhunting in terms of weather, topography and scenting conditions. Picturesquely poised on the upper lip of the green knoll, Honorary Huntsman Master Wilson blows the horn to cast the hounds. In preparation for opening meet a drag was laid, meaning a scent was strategically dispatched in order to simulate a live hunt. For the remainder of hunt season, the hounds will pursue live quarry—an occasional fox, but these days mostly coyotes.

At the blast of the horn, the hounds begin to work, noses down, baying to one another in joyful voice. As soon as they pick up the scent, their tone changes. The dogs are trained to flush the quarry from coverts and make chase until it goes to ground. Crossing down the hill, the huntfield makes haste to follow. Four flights of riders, ranging from the skilled to the novice, are each led by an experienced field master. People stand in the wagons where cold drinks flow in red solo cups and finger sandwiches are shared. The day couldn’t be more perfect. When the action fades into the horizon, the wagons pull out, heading to the various rendezvous points, passing hunt country landmarks like the Bowdre-Reese-Knox House, Hawe’s Hill, the Rock Dam and the Gentleman of Virginia’s gravesite.

Periodically, it would appear the reason for being there is completely forgotten by the spectators, then a lone hound emerges from the woods or the horn sounds, and all eyes look up, scanning the tree line for evidence of the foxhunt. Someone points to a clearing, suggesting the hounds and hunters will cross there. Another person peers into the pines, looking for the stark contrast of red against green. A blur of black darts down a trail in the woods and suddenly hooves pound the ground racing by the wagons. The field of riders barrels down on a coop the huntsman, foxhounds and whips cleared moments before.

From the wagons it seems a wild, pulse-quickening drama playing out in nature. A breath sucks in and is held when a horse refuses the jump and the rider tumbles to the ground. Someone from the field shouts, “Loose horse!” Teamwork reunites steed and hunter, who now sail over the coop and are gone. The hush is obliterated as the party resumes in the wagons, now rumbling and bumping toward the next gate. Five similar stops along the drag line are planned throughout the day.

The sun hangs low and shadows lengthen signaling the close of the day. Horses, hounds, hunters and wagons gather on a hill near a cluster of oaks shading the headstones of men who once farmed these pastures. They raise a toast, the champagne stirrup cup, in salute of “the landowners and the great sport of foxhunting,” says Master Wilson:

So here at the close of a wonderful day
Of foxhunting and fellowship, may I tribute pay,
To the Master, his Staff and the keeper of hounds
Our toasts and our praises to all know no bounds.

The air turns crisp again and the crunch of leaves carries distinctly on the breeze. Socializing continues on the slow ride back. Returning to the kennels, the hounds’ tracking collars are removed. They devour a warm supper and bed down for the night. Horses are trailered home, where owners hose them down, drape blankets over their backs and feed them a feast of coastal Bermuda hay and pellets. Horsemen gather for fellowship and raucous recounting of the day, formulating tales to be retold in years to come. The moon rises on another foxhunting season stretching ahead with miles of promises to keep. It is a blessing to begin it this way, once again.