As we gathered for the hunt on Jan. 4, I wondered if I really needed the lightweight slicker, or the heavy slicker, or no slicker. The forecast was for widely scattered showers, but at that time there was no precipitation.

Being the owner of a heavyweight English wool hunting coat, I decided that no additional protection would be required, and off we went just as a few drops of rain spit gently on us.

We left the kennels and headed toward one of our most productive coverts, an old overgrown dump that lies in a natural rocky ravine with a large pond nearby and grain fields all around. Foxes seem to find this an ideal environment since it provides quick cover, water and nourishment. In addition, migrating geese have recently begun to settle on the grain fields, and I suspect Charlie also finds a tasty meal in these flocks from time to time (at least the feather remains would suggest that!).

Today would be no exception as hounds spoke shortly after being put in the covert. Huntsman Robert Taylor viewed the fox away as our quarry tried to stay in the ravine. Hounds stayed on the line and tongued fiercely as they pushed their quarry toward the east.

As the rain began to come down a bit more regularly, our pilot took a quick turn toward the north, leaving the sanctity of the heavy brush for the open terrain of the grain fields. Earlier this season–when scenting wasn’t the best–this turn might have given him a significant amount of free time. But conditions were different this time. Scent held as hounds rushed out onto the open field, and we watched in awe, although at a full gallop, as our young hounds flew across three large fields in hot pursuit.

The last field is a no-till bean field of which our landowner farmer is rather protective, so we avoided putting a hoof print on that ground. To our delight, as we watched from several hundred yards away, the fox turned at the wood’s edge and ran on the edge heading north to what is known as the “Big Woods.”

Ultimate Fox Refuge
The Big Woods is the ultimate fox refuge. It’s a state park that borders the Patuxent River and consists of several thousand acres of forest. It is an incredible complex of hills and ravines with small feeder streams running toward the river. In this part of our country, you either stay right on the heels of your hounds or you “kiss them goodbye.”

By now the weather had become a rather constant drizzle! The field was extremely small, so MFH Holly Hamilton decided that our best strategy was to stay directly with the huntsman as we charged down a ravine to the river and proceeded to cross into our neighboring hunt’s country.

This is not an uncommon occurrence for both hunts since our quarry does not seem to recognize these boundaries. But we’re always aware of where our neighbors are, and we only follow the hunted fox once we cross. This day our neighbors weren’t hunting, so we had little concern.

We followed hounds up the steep slopes on the north side of the river and managed to stay up as best we could. By now we had been running for about an hour and a half. When we finally got to the open fields again, music had finally died and Robert called his hounds back to him, quickly collecting the 141?2 couple with which we’d started. I couldn’t help but notice the (at least to me) delighted expression on the hounds’ faces as they returned. Clearly, they knew they’d “done good.”

The weather was now clearly raining, so we gathered the pack and headed back down the hill to re-cross the river into our own territory.

They Just Kept Going
Goshen’s hounds are American, in addition to being young. These hounds live to hunt, and all else is a distant second. With that in mind, Robert brought the pack back to the river crossing with some trepidation as there could be no doubt that scent was burning. We did cross the river, all of us thoroughly soaked and thinking of little other than a hot toddy of some sort. Then it happened.

Game Boy, an older hound with an excellent nose, spoke on a narrow game trail heading up a laurel-covered slope. Instantly, all the rest honored the leader, and the entire pack was off and running again. The picture from my vantage point was reminiscent of the images I’ve seen of hunting in the fells of Great Britain, where the territory is so rugged that hounds run single file along the hillside. Except, this hillside was covered with impenetrable laurel and undergrowth.

Since MFH Hamilton was on a spent horse and had in tow an equally spent guest, they elected to retire, so I was left to follow Robert and MFH Mark Chalberg for another hour. Fortunately, this fox was more interested in running toward our kennels than away, although he did so in a rather circuitous manner. We followed rather grimly now on tired, wet horses in absolutely soaked hunt coats, but we did finally return to the kennels and marvelous hot tea whiskey toddies.

We’d been out for close to four hours and were absolutely soaked to the skin, but we could not have been happier. Hounds had run on two foxes for nearly the entire time, and we were all back home safe and sound. Never let a bit of “Irish sunshine” keep you from hunting!