Feb. 7 offered the promise of a beautifully clear winter day in northern Chester County, Pa. It was right at 32 degrees as my car pulled out of the driveway to head to the Coventryville, Pa., meet of the Pickering Hunt.

Pickering has been hunting since at least 1906 and continues to thrive in country constantly threatened by suburbanization. The crisp morning served to heighten the anticipation brought to the meet by the Tuesday morning devotees.

When Dr. Ed Theurkauf, MFH, called for hounds, the field was ready, and longtime huntsman Wesley Bennett and whipper-in Gerald Styer brought the Penn-Marydel pack to order and headed out across the fixture’s cornfields.

Bennett pushed along a parallel path to the cornrows, heading eastward. The field made its way to the adjacent expanse of a mammoth power line and began to trot toward hounds at a 90-degree angle.

The unmistakably sure tonguing of the pack welled up just as the field hit a steeper slope. The vista of winter’s dormant landscape enlivened by the now harmonic hounds casting brilliantly just before us was thrilling.

Off Again!
The check lasted less than 30 seconds before we could hear hounds off again on their quest–heading south and down the power line in the direction of distant Exton. But we reached the foot of the power line so quickly that some grumbled, “Is this a fox or a coyote?” On hounds ran.

Those unmistakable voices cried in pursuit of our traveler along Murray’s School Rd. and through the quaint intersection with Prizer Rd., a wee vision of the 19th century farm communities still dotting the Chester County landscape. Now heading eastward again, we galloped along Prizer Rd. with hounds out of view and earshot.

Soon we came upon one kindly car follower who helpfully informed us that he’d seen hounds course by not two minutes before. Their quarry had led them into the 200-acre Welkenweir nature preserve. This is the bosky headquarters of the Green Valleys Association–manicured boxwood gardens and reflecting pools on well-groomed bridle paths softened our hard riding, as we pressed on. Hounds had journeyed such a distance at such a blistering clip that field and staff were not able to maintain consistent audible contact with the 10 1/2 couples surging ahead.

Crashing through thickly overgrown hillside, we realized that much more dangerous than the prickly bushes and low-hanging vines was the looming presence of Rt. 100. Hounds and Charlie had taken us on such a merry adventure that we hadn’t been aware of just how far we’d voyaged. And now the pack was heading on a beeline for the highway!

Fortuitously, hounds abruptly veered southward, running parallel to the road. Breath now more readily taken as we gamely followed, but they soon outpaced us–carrying on across a fallow field and vanishing. We next galloped across the old Wetherill Christmas tree farm. Approaching the Horseshoe Trail, we could just make out the words of one of the car followers calling frantically over the radio, “They’ve crossed Rt. 100! No tires screeching, no sirens screaming, but no sight of the pack either!”


Hunting Through The Lawns
We pushed down Horseshoe Trail and halted at the stop sign, watching trucks, cars and buses flying by. Where had the hounds gone? We knew we had to cross, but, how?

Just then, Fred Pyle, longtime foxhunter and now avid hunt supporter, held up northbound traffic, blocking the two lanes with the hound truck!

The field took its cue, and, with the coast now clear, dashed across in unison. Eastward we pressed, each of us hoping to find our canine friends as quickly as possible. Then we caught a distant crescendo of hound music. Hounds had run to where Mr. Wetherill’s farmhouse had stood. In this latter-day a subdivision, the former farm featured a double cul-de-sac of family homes, which became the hunting ground.

Staff separated from the field by 100 yards, going down one of the two lanes. The field followed on the other street. The Penn-Marydel voices had quieted a bit as we trotted through the neighborhood. One resident came out of her front door and complimented us on our steeds. Basking in her warm hospitality, we soon heard the hound music resume.

The field had positioned itself just outside a stand of pines. Suddenly, like a red-and-black apparition, a very large fox hurtled out of the trees, took one haughty glance at us, and sped around the rear of the adjacent water tower. Not five seconds behind, the lead hound burst into view–dead on the line with head raised, magnificently tonguing for all he was worth!

The huntsman followed soon after and hurried on, keeping with hounds. Ann Dyer then led the field in pursuit. There were more views as M. Reynard ran us around the neighborhood three more times. It was difficult to do the geometry on horseback, but our quarry thrice ran nearly a perfect circle before heading south again at a blistering clip.

Amazingly, our horses enthusiastically kept their pace until, after another mile or so, Charlie went to bed. Huntsman Bennett blew a beautiful “Gone to Ground,” followed soon thereafter by “End of Day.” Although sorry to see the chase end, we were thrilled with the magnificent run our pilot had given us, with the superb hound work, and with the hunt leadership’s uncanny knack for keeping with a pack running full out for nearly 2 1/2 hours.

At the end of the 90-minute ride back to the trailers, we calculated that hounds, horses and fox had covered more than 30 miles!

It’s on days such as this that one realizes why foxhunting is, and always has been, such a passionate pursuit. Those of us lucky to be out with Pickering Hunt on this day knew we had been part of something extraordinary.