The annual Hildegard Neill Ritchie Writing Contest is open to all D- or C-rated Pony Club members. The first-placed winner will receive a $200 check as well as an engraved pewter plate, awarded at the USPC annual meeting on Jan. 18-22 in Kansas City.

The contest award is from a memorial fund established by friends of Mrs. Ritchie, who founded the Colorado Springs Pony Club in 1958 and was its district commissioner for 30 years. She was regional supervisor of the Colorado (now Rocky Mountain) Region for 12 years and hosted regional Pony Club camps on her ranch for 20-plus years. She served several terms as a USPC Governor and received the USPC Founders Award in 1989.

Gone To Ground
by L.C. Steiner
The mist was sprawled across the yard of the farm, masking the day’s activities yet to come. Horse trailers were parked in neat rows off in a pasture on one side of the dirt driveway. Tied alongside the trailers were the eager hunt horses, sleek and saddled for a brisk morning meet.

By them were a few fat ponies, equally excited but not so much as to abandon their hay bags. People were dashing everywhere, waving to their friends and talking in loud voices.

I leaned up against the rickety old barn that stood in the corner of the commotion. So far no one had noticed me, as they were way too caught up in their own business of getting ready. I remained there, soaking in the sights and the sounds of the Misty River Hounds.

One trailer caught my interest more than the others, for the baying hounds were locked inside it. I had half a mind to saunter over and drive them mad. But instead of risking being caught, I decided otherwise. Besides, I’d have plenty of time to mess with their minds.

When the group finally got collected, I rose off my haunches and turned away into the mist. Soon, soon, I promised, as the last of me–the prized red brush–was swallowed into the haze. I continued forward, planning where I would make them run and where I would twist their game. Before too long, my plan had the overall ring of success. Behind me, a loud cry ushered the hounds together and the horn sang out. Let the games begin!

I ducked my way swiftly in front of the hounds and drew a large circle to start their hunt off, which would conveniently lead them back to their original starting point. As they usually did, they had begun next to the river–unknowingly opening a great option for me. Upon arriving back at the river, I dived in and began to stroll leisurely upstream. I knew that by the time they had reached there, my scent would be far down the stream, away from me.

Out of all the hounds, I guessed that perhaps one would have an idea of what I’d done, but I never thought he would chase it. With my knowledge of how stupid hounds are, I was almost positive he would turn back.

But on this hunt, I met the hound that proved my theory wrong. I was going along at the most easy stride, not at all concerned, but still keeping my fox sharpness on. The first sound was a loud splash, and then he came, noisily as hounds do. My heart was racing with the anticipation of the bustling hound discovering me. All corners of my mind were yelling instructions, none of which made sense. That was until the sudden crack of a whip made me leap back into reality. The hound gave a soft whine before going back to the hunt with the others, the wrong way!

How foolish they were! Finally arriving at a good spot to depart the river’s flow, I slunk out and continued my carefree strolling for a few minutes longer before meeting a downward slope. At the base of the hill was a great, open field that stretched in its rolling way for 50 acres. My mind began to calculate how many twists and jerking turns I could put into the wide meadow. My legs and body swerved to draw my master plan out in the valley.

Utterly pleased with myself, I backtracked and hid myself in a bush just off the side of the path I had made earlier. To my disgust, a skunk had decided to “fragrance” this certain bush–but I suppose it was to my advantage, as the smell would overpower my own scent. I am brilliant, no?

After waiting for some time, I heard the unmistakable cry of a foxhound on scent. I peeked out just as about eight couples came dashing to the drop-off, encircled by riders on either side. Their pink tongues flapped wildly as they ran, almost as much as their ears. I ducked further into my hiding spot, but not so far that I couldn’t watch. They didn’t even halt at the foul-smelling spot where I’d hidden.

Like warriors in battle, they plunged down the dip and began following my wild loops and turns. Once the last rider and her partner had reached the bottom of the hill and gone thundering after the others, I snuck out. The ground that had once been touched only by my dainty paws had been shredded and trampled by the hooves and paws of the hunting animals.

I stretched from the bush and then stood there, gazing down at the meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers swaying in the wind. I knew that this was their final run and that it was always in this final run that they came together in the most amazing way.

Like a red moon, the hunt staff made a crescent around the foxhounds as they sprinted on their lanky legs around the field. Not far behind them was the first field, just slowing enough to stay behind their field-master. Although colors varied, even I couldn’t pick out certain faces in the sea of black and red. For that is what they were, a sea of black and red, moving as one body and not as many different animals. This was what foxhunting really was about.

I play a big role–don’t get me wrong. It’s just that they don’t care if they catch me or not, for their favorite part of the hunt is my favorite part of the hunt: The part where everyone–enemies and friends, hound and horse–combine to form that calm sea of red and black. It always puts me in a sort of a trance.

That trance was broken when the entire hunt began to come back up a hill, jumped a small coop, and then galloped toward me. With the ease of a cat, I slunk to the opposite bush from the one I had previously hidden in. My sense of what I was doing was back, and I was ready to stop the hunt. With nowhere else to go, I chose the hole I dug sometime earlier beneath the bush. Above me, I heard a gruff and excited voice bellow out above the pounding hooves and baying voices.

“Gone to ground!”

After much excited talking and cheerful laughter at the hunt breakfast, trailers pulled out of the yard and people went back to their quiet lives. The only trailer left was a soft gold one with a bay pony and a dappled gray mare tied to it. A mother and her daughter wrapped the horses’ legs for the ride home as they discussed the morning hunt. I happened upon them in the middle of this conversation, keeping hidden neatly in the fog of night’s coming.

“That was awesome! Have you ever caught the fox?” the girl questioned.

“No, and I don’t want to. You’re lucky we had Old Tanner to chase today. Little Ann never puts up as much of a chase as that old quack.” Well, that’s dignifying. Humph.

“How can you tell the difference?”

The mother helped load her daughter’s pony and then her own horse into the trailer before answering.

“Little Ann is a quiet little thing and runs simple plans. Old Tanner, on the other hand, gives the most thrilling and hard courses to get through.”

How does she get off call me old? Why I–hard courses? Thrilling? Why, yes! I am the daring fox, aren’t I! It’s amazing how little words can change your mind about someone. The pair got in the car and bounced their way up the dirt road and up onto the pavement.

The yard was hushed and still again; the only noise was the creaking of the old, rusted metal gate as it swung with the soft breeze. For a breath of time, I stood there before turning away into the now rather thick fog of evening.

“Soon, soon,” the wind whispered as the last member of the hunt slunk away in the quiet of the night.

A Young Perfectionist
Lindsey Steiner, 13, of Batesville, Ark., impressed the judges of this year’s U.S. Pony Club Hildegard Neil Ritchie Foxhunting Writing Contest with her eloquently written short story, “Gone To Ground.” She’s a D-2 member with the Rackensack Pony Club.

With a dash of vivid language, a sprinkle a character depth, and a creative twist, Steiner’s short story explores a day of foxhunting from a unique point of view. “I wanted to write something that would make the story different,” said Steiner. “And I wanted it to be perfect. I’m definitely a perfectionist.”

After five fully revised drafts and six months of reading and rereading drafts aloud to her mother, Steiner’s final draft of “Gone To Ground” made its debut.

The aspiring fiction author drew inspiration from her first foxhunting experience,which Steiner says will most likely be her last. “The horse I have now used to belong to a whipper-in, and she doesn’t like being in the field,” Steiner said.

Plus, Steiner’s 9-year-old Thoroughbred mare, Autumn Glory, is expecting a foal this May. “We hope to bring it up as a general jumper and dressage horse and maybe to do a little eventing as well,” said Steiner.

When she’s not writing or riding, Steiner performs with her community theater, plays the oboe for the Batesville Junior High School band, and plays basketball. Josh Walker

A Victory For Charles?
by Christine M. Shaner
Like flawless sculptures, they mimic the early morn,
Still, crisp, lingering on the moor, perfectly forlorn.
With bated breath, the field listens for a brassy hunting horn,
Waiting, longing for a new chase to be born.

Explosively, cries erupt from delighted hounds.
The pack leaps on Sir Charles’ path, newly found.
Dawn shatters at resonant horn’s sound.
Trembling, earth rips where hooves madly pound.

Legs churning, breathing sharp, the chase has begun.
Eager hearts–horse, hound, human– throb as one.
Sweat lathers under a rapidly rising sun,
Galloping without fear; heedless, manic fun!

Panting and proud, hounds converge on their prey.
Springing above the fray, he sneaks away.
Laughing, clever Charles has won today,
Gone to ground, safe, in his usual way.
Tired, content, each couple trots home,
Hunters following under cloaks of mud and foam,
Mounts await grooming’s invigorating curry comb,
Leaving quarry alive with space to roam.

NEVER MORE
Citing animal cruelty, protesters destroy the meet,
Ending Britain’s famed tradition, majestic and elite.
Preserving countryside becomes a daunting feat,
Vanquishing Charles’ den beneath layers of concrete.

Christine M. Shaner, from King George, Va., is a 16-year-old C-2 and a member of Old Dominion Hunt Pony Club (Va.). She joined Pony Club in 1999 and rode in her first foxhunt at age 8. Christine has competed in games, dressage, show jumping and eventing. Shaner is a sophomore at King George High School, where she’s a member of the French club and the distance track team. This year she was inducted into the National Honor Society.

Untitled
by Booli Selmayr
Only true foxhunters know what the day I am about to describe is like. It’s 5 o’clock in the morning, and the weather is so cold any skin left uncovered that isn’t already numb, feels burnt.

Yet for some odd reason, we die-hard foxhunters have the urge to bundle ourselves up to the point our hunt coat buttons are about to pop off, we can barely yank our boots on, and the only skin exposed is on our faces.

After layering is accomplished and attempts to remain in proper attire are met, I do what most of us have to do: overcome the blisteringly cold wind and sprint with stiff boots to the barn. Once inside, I am greeted by my foxhunting companion, my off-the-track horse, Charlie. I would like to tell you that Charlie came to the stall door nickering “good morning” to me, but no. He brought his head up from the hay, looked out the window, and his expression said, “Mom, explain to me why we are we going out again?”

I grumble the same question to myself as I enter the stall and tack him up, but in the end I always have the same answer: Once I’m out there, sitting in the saddle and among the assorted tri-colored and blue-ticked Penn-Marydels, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

I finish tacking up, and I wobble out with my aching feet to the trailer, where my mom is waiting, her horse already on the trailer. We load up Charlie, jump in the car, blast on the heat, and off we go to the meet.

I couldn’t wait for this day in particular because it was a Junior Day, and that meant that we get to ride with a whip and one of us may get to ride with the huntsman. I hoped I could ride with the huntsman, Donald Philhower, because I worked a lot with him in the kennels and with the hounds. I got to know the hounds well, and when I got to ride with Donald, he would sometimes send me on little missions, which I really took to heart because I hope one day to become a whipper-in.

We arrive with just enough time to unload, leap on our horses, and wait for our MFH, Master Colley, to give the morning announcements. I spot my friend Erica settled on her horse, and I try to sneak over (attempting to not interrupt our master). Charlie, being less then pleased with the cold, didn’t feel like sneaking, so he pounced in the air and bucked over to Erica, sending people in all directions dodging Charlie’s hooves. Trying to hold in my own laughter in failing at being discrete, I start a quiet chat with my buddy when all of the sudden I hear my name said quite loudly.

First I thought I was in trouble, but seeing that Master Colley didn’t seem cross, I crept forward assuming he was going to announce with whom the kids would be paired. However, what I found most odd was that he was announcing all my achievements that involved the hunt. He mentioned my continuous walking out, made fun of me for mucking the kennels, puppy walking, hound feeding and times spent at hound shows.

I was only able to half-listen to what he was saying because Charlie thought that Master Colley’s speech about me was rather dull and that crow-hopping toward other riders was a much more fun use of his time. As I tried to quiet him down, I hear Mr. Colley announce, in a tone close to what was used to call my name, “We, as the Golden’s Bridge Hunt, would like to take this opportunity to award you your buttons.”

The world stopped for me there. That was the biggest honor and award I had ever gotten. Charlie stopped too, probably in the same amount of shock I was in. We edged our way forward, and I was just barely able to say, “Thank you, Master Colley,” because my breath that was taken away and was having a hard time coming back. When my brain snapped back to realization, I had some small tears in my eyes and a huge smile.

People in the field joked, saying that if I wasn’t careful, my eyes would freeze and my mouth would stay that way because it was so cold out. I honestly wouldn’t have cared, I was so happy.

I got to ride with Donald, and the day was amazing; it turned out to be a true fairytale. The Penn-Marydels, with their trademark voices, bellowed on a run for about an hour on a fox. We quit after that because it was still absolutely freezing, despite it being past noon, but I didn’t need more from that day. I had already gotten more then I wanted.
Booli Selmayr, a 17-year-old C-3 from Katonah, N.Y., is a member of Golden’s Bridge Hounds Pony Club and is currently a junior whipper-in for the Golden’s Bridge Hunt (N.Y.).