New places, good people and top sport make for a classic road trip. These adventerous fellows, Marc Dradge, and Robert Millerbrought 16 couple of Midland hounds to Metamora, Mich., to hunt with the Metamora Hunt. Joe Kent, MFH of Metamora, kindly invited me to hunt with him in August, during the cubbing season.

My family summers in a house off of Little Traverse Bay, off Lake Michigan. There, we’re surrounded by farmland, forest, and wetland areas, all of which are filled with game. At the 2005 annual Masters of Foxhounds Association meeting, I had shared my desire to try hunting this promising country with Joe. The weather there is perfect for a dawn hunt, particularly when you live in Georgia and suffer the August heat. The cool mornings offered great opportunity. Joe was quick to extend his invitation, and I accepted.

The relationship between our packs has been a long one, starting with Warren Packard and Ben Hardaway. They have a great deal of Midland bloodlines in their hounds, dating back 17 years. We received a warm greeting at Gay and Joe Kent’s home from many of their stalwart membership. Even Dixon Appel, MFH, and his wife, Liz, drove 12 hours from the Moingona Hunt in Des Moines, Iowa, to see us. We ate, drank, and studied a map of the hunt territory, which is 10 square miles with one paved road through it. The farms are small, but open to the hunt. The membership owns the land and works to keep it open for hunting. The unpaved roads are a godsend as you can gallop down them without fear of falling.

Joe and Phil Maxwell had chosen the north end of the country for the morning hunt, and we went off to bed with all our plans made. But when we awoke the next morning, got the horses fed and the hounds drawn and collared, there was one flaw. The temperature was 71 degrees and the humidity was high. We had brought our Georgia weather with us! Metamora’s huntsman, Pat Pearce, does her work well, and the kennels were spotless and the hounds beautifully cared for. By 7:30 we were gathered, with about 30 people in the field. The sun was up, but not shining through the mist that hung in treetops. As the old adage says, “When the dew is on the horn, let the huntsman sheath his horn.” In this case you could cut the air with a knife. We muttered, released the hounds, and jogged to the first covert.

Knee-High Hounds struck below a dam, ran to the top of the dam, and plunged into some bull rushes. They then ran the edge of the dam and the lake to the headwaters, a valley bordered on both sides by foothills. Dradge thought he heard the hounds baying, which led Pat and I to get off our horses and investigate. I walked into the valley and sank up to my knees in muck. I was glad I wasn’t on a horse. The hounds had moved on and were hitting a line back to the lake. It all added up to bobcat to me, and I knew our Midland pack loves to run bobcats. Pat said that Metamora doesn’t usually run bobcats, but that she was game. As the going was tough and the line fairly lost, we picked up and moved on.

As we came back to a large Russian tea olive thicket, the rain finally broke. Hounds spoke into the thicket, then lost. We cast around, and finally a big-mouth hound roared. All were there, and we were away. Hounds ran well in the light rain until it stopped and our window of opportunity closed hard. They checked at a nice home and availed themselves of a pool to cool down. We gathered them and tried back with some success, but nothing to brag about.

It was a good day in terms of good coverts and ample game, but the hot, humid weather got in the way. One More Coyote Connie and Pete Jarak hosted a party at their home that night. We were all happy because the storm had blown through, leaving the air fresh and clear.

The next morning, our field was larger and seemed ready for the day. Phil dedicated the hunt to Ben Hardaway, since he’d been instrumental to both packs. Our meet was on a farm with a large cornfield, and our host had viewed a coyote moving into the corn before we arrived. I felt sure that our prey would have slipped away in the time we lost between the view and the cast, but we got lucky and hounds opened. We ran on with some checks, but soon we were moving hard, with hounds giving proper tongue but not quite harmonizing in full cry. They ran the coyote onto an island in a lake, then drove him to swim the lake and break across country. We followed on and ultimately lost. I had two hounds running hard, Sophie and Flasher. Although we’d viewed the coyote, the pack had felt uncertain. We lost and gathered hounds around a lake, where they drank and cooled down. We then moved off along a thick hedgerow, and they struck with all hounds in cry. This time, all were hard on and the music was terrific. We’d stuck a running coyote and were off in the best Midland tradition. Pat and I flew across beautifully opened country with trails everywhere. Hounds raced with all on, giving their best.

The coyote used a high woven-wire fence to stop the pack, but Pat helped them find a hole, and they were soon back in full cry. We had to go around the wire fence, which slowed us down, but thanks to Marc Dradge road-whipping, we were able to catch back up. We galloped along the roads and through the woods, on and on with hounds piercing the air with a fierce cry. One of Metamora’s amateur whips reported that she had viewed the coyote three times, and each time his tail was low, with hounds just a few feet from him. Then Baffle, Megan, Sophie and Searcher came by squalling for Wily Coyote. We rode on, galloping west, but then had a bad check. Recovery was slow, but one hound found the line and all honored his deep cry. The coyote ran on, but we had lost time and the sun was heating the world. After two hours we blew in the hounds around a pond where