PrintSeldom does a whipper-in have an opportunity to hunt the hounds that he follows in territory three times a week. But a recent injury to Bull Run Huntsman, Billy Frederick, provided just that chance to young whipper-in Spencer Allen.
Having spent many years working cattle ranches and riding rodeo broncs, Allen was only a second-year foxhunter in his rookie year of whipping-in. Since he'd expressed to Frederick an interest in becoming a professional huntsman, he's received more of the huntsman's wrath than all the other whippers-in combined. Frederick saw potential in Allen and wanted to make sure he learned hounds and hunting properly.
When Frederick broke his collarbone working in the kennels, riding was out of the question. So he handed the horn to Allen and told him to learn to blow it. Little did he know the neighbors would complain later of a sick cat noise coming from Allen's barn at all hours of the day and night.
The day--March 9--came. Luckily the meet was scheduled for the kennels, but not so lucky were the conditions--70 degrees, dry, and a stiff wind from the south. That in mind, Frederick instructed Allen to draw behind the kennels near the swamp in hopes of finding some moist ground.
He cast along the stream and within a few hundred yards, hounds hit. The fox ran downwind toward the church and without warning crossed the stream and swung back toward the cornfield behind Dr. Gilbert's, giving the second field a quick view before he turned perpendicular and ran across the field.
Hounds were but a few seconds behind, screaming on the line. They swung wide, had a short loss, and picked up the line again, crossing back over the stream and across the bean field to Cedar Mountain Dr.
"They're crossing the road and going to the shooting range!" a whipper-in screamed on the radio. By this time hounds were headed toward a few acres of white pine trees just below Cedar Mountain, full of fox holes and coverts. Surely the fox would go to ground in the heat.
But no--he continued at full speed, with hounds roaring after it, through the pines and out the other side, traversing the low side of the mountain to the Otis Jump (named after the horse that once crashed through it). On the other side and just up the mountain, hounds shut off, having their first loss after a 35-minute run.
Fancy A Swim?
Allen blew to gather the pack and head back to Cedar Mountain Dr., casting through the trees on the way down. Whips headed to the road to stop the trucks coming from Cedar Mountain Stone full of gravel. The drivers are accustomed to horses and hounds crossing the road and readily obliged.
This time, however, the road crossing proved to be more entertaining than usual, thanks to one of our whippers-in. As her horse jumped from the road to the bank, his back feet slipped on the pavement, causing him to land in the watery ditch below.
Out he crawled--covered past his stifles with brown mud. His rider, on the other hand, came out on two feet, unscathed and completely un-mudded. When her horse decided to catch up to the first field, it was a sight watching her trot after him down the road with a stirrup leather dangling from one hand, hunt whip dragging from the other. I doubt she was as amused as our local dump truck drivers.
Having spent many years working cattle ranches and riding rodeo broncs, Allen was only a second-year foxhunter in his rookie year of whipping-in. Since he'd expressed to Frederick an interest in becoming a professional huntsman, he's received more of the huntsman's wrath than all the other whippers-in combined. Frederick saw potential in Allen and wanted to make sure he learned hounds and hunting properly.
When Frederick broke his collarbone working in the kennels, riding was out of the question. So he handed the horn to Allen and told him to learn to blow it. Little did he know the neighbors would complain later of a sick cat noise coming from Allen's barn at all hours of the day and night.
The day--March 9--came. Luckily the meet was scheduled for the kennels, but not so lucky were the conditions--70 degrees, dry, and a stiff wind from the south. That in mind, Frederick instructed Allen to draw behind the kennels near the swamp in hopes of finding some moist ground.
He cast along the stream and within a few hundred yards, hounds hit. The fox ran downwind toward the church and without warning crossed the stream and swung back toward the cornfield behind Dr. Gilbert's, giving the second field a quick view before he turned perpendicular and ran across the field.
Hounds were but a few seconds behind, screaming on the line. They swung wide, had a short loss, and picked up the line again, crossing back over the stream and across the bean field to Cedar Mountain Dr.
"They're crossing the road and going to the shooting range!" a whipper-in screamed on the radio. By this time hounds were headed toward a few acres of white pine trees just below Cedar Mountain, full of fox holes and coverts. Surely the fox would go to ground in the heat.
But no--he continued at full speed, with hounds roaring after it, through the pines and out the other side, traversing the low side of the mountain to the Otis Jump (named after the horse that once crashed through it). On the other side and just up the mountain, hounds shut off, having their first loss after a 35-minute run.
Fancy A Swim?
Allen blew to gather the pack and head back to Cedar Mountain Dr., casting through the trees on the way down. Whips headed to the road to stop the trucks coming from Cedar Mountain Stone full of gravel. The drivers are accustomed to horses and hounds crossing the road and readily obliged.
This time, however, the road crossing proved to be more entertaining than usual, thanks to one of our whippers-in. As her horse jumped from the road to the bank, his back feet slipped on the pavement, causing him to land in the watery ditch below.
Out he crawled--covered past his stifles with brown mud. His rider, on the other hand, came out on two feet, unscathed and completely un-mudded. When her horse decided to catch up to the first field, it was a sight watching her trot after him down the road with a stirrup leather dangling from one hand, hunt whip dragging from the other. I doubt she was as amused as our local dump truck drivers.
