The Foxhunt

The Foxhunt

Have you ever had a day that was both terrible and wonderful at the same time? One that you maybe never noticed was so special until it had passed? That is how New Year’s day was for me, a day that can only be described as fateful.

I woke up on the first day of the new century fairly bright and cheery, well, as bright and cheery as one can be with three hours of sleep under her belt – I had spent the night over at a friend’s house for New Year’s Eve. Still, I had planned the day ahead perfectly the night before: wake up at 8:00, be dressed and finished breakfast by 9:00, out the door by 9:30 and get home by 10:00 with plenty of time to change and get ready for the foxhunt. The New Year’s day foxhunt at Miami Valley was going to be great, especially because I was going to ride my own horse instead of borrowing one this time. But if I had everything planned, left nothing to chance, then why had I woken up with such a feeling of dread that morning? My subconscious was trying its best to tell me, “Don’t even bother getting up—it’s gonna get ugly.” Of course, I didn’t listen. After all, what could go wrong? Plenty.

I ate a quick breakfast of Tastee Wheaties and gulped down a glass of orange juice; I didn’t have to be there until 11:00 but I wanted plenty of extra time. Then, with my sleepover bag in hand I headed out to my car, ready to go. All of a sudden it hit me, what was wrong. I checked my pockets frantically but I already knew the answer: I had locked my keys in my car. A cold feeling sunk its way down into the pit of my stomach. I glanced in the car window and sure enough, there they were dangling from the ignition. I would have kicked myself but I'm not that flexible. How could I have been so stupid? I searched on my hands and knees underneath the car for the spare set (one of my Christmas gifts was a magnetic box for precisely this reason) but of course I had forgotten it.

“Stupid! Stupid! Ahhhh!” I yelled in frustration.

I glanced at my watch: 9:15 and still time. John, a friend of mine, emerged from the house and I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

“Is something wrong?” he called out.

“Oh, yeah. I, uh, locked my keys in the car,” I said reluctantly.

He said with more than a little pride that he had unlocked car doors before and might be able to this time. My heart leaped but I tried to keep things in perspective. After all, it might not work. I probably should have never even let that second thought enter my mind because sure enough, it didn’t work. He said my car (a good old ’91 Cavalier wagon) must be a “special” car with “special” locks that were “different” from other cars. Oh, great, I have to have the “special” car, I thought.

I called my mom from the house and asked her to bring me another set, and quickly gave her directions to John’s house. But no matter how clearly I tried to explain, for some reason she couldn’t seem to understand the directions. She kept asking all these questions and wouldn’t listen to what I was saying. I was getting really frustrated but finally I managed to convey my message to her in understandable terms.

“Go on the HIGH-WAY...”

She must have had a long night, too.

I waited in the kitchen for Mom to come, watching TV and petting John’s wonderfully soft and somewhat couch-like golden retrievers in the meantime. 9:30...9:45... the clock ticked by maddeningly as I tried to keep calm. Finally I heard the telephone, which I figured was Mom calling from the gate at the front to be let in. I was wrong.

“You were supposed to call me back!” she said angrily.

My face flushed; I was supposed to call her about what riding clothes I needed but had completely forgot—and now she hadn’t even left the house yet. I quickly apologized and was mentally kicking myself. It was five after ten. She hung up the phone and I did too, but then all I could do was wait. I petted the goldens and chatted distractedly with John’s mother for the most part. The dogs looked up at me with what I’m sure was genuine sympathy in their liquid brown eyes, and one of them offered a slimy chew-toy for comfort. I reluctantly accepted it.

My mom arrived, finally, at about 11:00. The hunt didn’t start until 1:00 but I was supposed to meet my stepsister, Sarah, and my trainer, Barney, at the stables at 11:00 so we could all leave together. I called them to say I would drive separately, as there was obviously no way we would make it there on time without the aid of a “light-speed” button on my car. Sarah said she would bring all of my riding stuff, and Barney gave me some sketchy directions to the place: “go on Route 33 and Miami Valley Hunt is somewhere on the right.” After much deliberation with the map, my mom and I decided on our course of action. I followed behind her in my car, something which proved to be very beneficial later on.

Barney’s directions, although well intentioned, turned out to be terrible. First of all, he never said which direction to take on Route 33, east or west, so we ended up going the total opposite direction. The scenery around us became less and less familiar and houses became more and more scarce. I knew something had to be wrong. By the time we discovered our fatal error, it was almost noon and we were way behind schedule. I called my friend Jean who knew where the place was and she gave us excellent directions to the place, although it would take at least forty-five minutes to get there. That was when I learned an important lesson: when you’re getting directions, always talk to a WOMAN. Mom and I turned around and we set off on what we hoped was the right way.

Everything was going fine after that until about 12:40, when trouble hit. Apparently locking my keys in the car and getting lost wasn’t enough trouble for one day. My car, the good old reliable ’91 Cavalier, threw a temper tantrum. We were slowing down to a red light when the car suddenly started grumbling and shaking like it was having a heart attack, and I thought, This is going to be bad. It coughed a moment, sputtered, and died. We had to push it to a nearby gas station, which was luckily only a few yards away. One bit of luck was that my mom was also driving—otherwise I would have been stranded there, foxhunt or no foxhunt. I jumped in her car and we drove off, leaving my car there to be towed.

By the time we got to the meeting place it was 1:06 and the foxhunt group was riding off into the distance. I had changed in the car already but I still had to tack up my horse and catch up with them. I thanked my mom about a million times and told her I would get a ride home with Sarah. Looking at the seemingly endless rows of horse trailers, and not recognizing my trainer’s, I asked one of the nearby hunt followers where my horse was. She calmly replied, “Just follow the banging noises.”

I walked slowly towards the trailer through a clinging, sloppy muck the grass had become around the trailers; the sun had come out and melted most of the snow, leaving the landscape a practical quagmire. Finkley, my horse, was still in the trailer and panicking because he had been left there all alone—that banging noise was Finkley kicking the back of the trailer furiously. I went in tentatively and managed to calm him down enough to throw on his saddle and bridle, which was quite a challenge considering that half of the time he was trying to bite me or run away. That finished, I quickly looked around for my helmet but it was nowhere to be found. Apparently, Sarah had forgotten it. Without a helmet, you aren’t allowed to ride — no exceptions. After all of this, and I don’t even get to ride? I thought in absolute frustration. However, just when I was about to give up some kind soul who wasn’t riding offered to let me wear hers (it fit, thank God, but I probably would have gone anyway) and I quickly swung up onto my horse as he nervously danced around me, hooves stamping in the mud.

“Where do I go?” I called out plaintively, searching the far hills for any sign of the hunt.

“Just follow the hoof prints!” someone called.

“Uh, ok! Great!” I said hopefully.
This proved to be easier said than done.

Although there were definite indentations in the ground of the riders who had passed, they had apparently backtracked and overlapped each other several times, mixing their trails, and soon I was completely lost. Out in the middle of nowhere, all alone, and probably hopelessly behind, I finally figured why worry about it anymore? I relaxed and started to really enjoy the scenery.

It was silent all around us, an open, varied landscape with spots of trees amidst the flat, expansive cornfields. We trailed through woods and fields at our leisure, occasionally crossing muddy, steep-banked streams or leaping bravely over fallen logs. I relished in our time alone. I had been so caught up in trying to get there on time, mostly to avoid the humiliation of being late in front of all the foxhunting “lifers” that I had forgotten what it was really all about. Hunting is just riding with a group of people out in the country, not the huge, blown-out-of-proportion thing I had turned it into. As I rode quietly through the wooded trails observing the nature around me, I put things back into perspective. After all, we are just two small, insignificant creatures in one tiny spot on the world, which is one tiny spot in the whole universe. I relaxed and thought about things that I hadn’t had time to think about before because I was so preoccupied with my own life.

Just then, I heard a discordant braying in the distance that quickly grew louder and louder. Finkley’s ears flicked back and forth nervously and I turned around just as a dozen hounds burst into view, mouths open panting and absolutely filthy from running in the mud. Right behind them followed the huntsmen (and women) on equally filthy horses. I was all at once relieved and disappointed to see them – relieved because it meant I wasn’t lost; disappointed because it meant my quiet moment was over.

I met up with Sarah and Barney and surprisingly enough, nobody seemed to be upset that I was late, at least not to my face. I was very thankful for that. We set out together at last and hunted with the group for about another two hours. It was, in a word, exhausting. I stayed relatively in control of my horse, but as it was his first time out he tried to gallop and buck the whole time, excited by the hounds and horses. When other horses were walking, he was trotting, and when they were trotting, he was cantering, and when they were cantering... well, you get the picture. Plus, the horse in front of me was a pudgy draft-cross who had hooves like dinner plates that seemed designed for the sole purpose of flinging mud in my face. I tried to dodge the flying clods but it was a little difficult to do that while jumping logs, streams, fences and whatever else came in our path. I was afraid to look at the girl behind me for she probably looked just as bad as I did!

By the time it was over, I felt as if my arms had been ripped out of their sockets, my legs had turned to jelly, and the Tastee Wheaties I had for breakfast had turned into a solid, indigestible ball. One of the huntsmen offered me a stirrup cup of whiskey and I was half inclined to take it, but decided I still needed to keep my wits about me (the day was not over yet) and politely declined. My horse taken care of and put away, I was ready to go home to a hot meal and a hot bath, but as I said, I would soon find out the day was definitely not over yet.

“Oh yeah, Steph, I forgot to tell you,” said Sarah out of nowhere. “I’m going to visit my friend Paul so you have to get a ride home with Barney.”

“What?” I said in disbelief. “Sarah, you promised you would give me a ride! Barney’s going to stay for the after-hunt party and who knows how long that will take.”

“Well, sorry, but I don’t get to see Paul that often,” she replied, and as she was leaving said, “Oh yeah, take care of my horse, will you?”

I was furious, but reluctantly agreed. The party went about how I had thought it would: a lot of people from the hunt that I didn’t know, a lot of pointless conversation, and a lot of unappetizing appetizers. I made small talk with a few people, but couldn’t seem to find Barney. He wouldn’t even introduce me to anyone! I did learn a few things there, however. For example, don’t accept gross-looking food just to be polite unless you are prepared for it to taste how it looks. I unfortunately got a taste of why not to.

One of the huntsmen was walking around the party with a plate of appetizers, and I noticed everyone was declining to take one. I felt kind of bad for him because nobody wanted to try it, so out of politeness I took one. It was a grayish-greenish something smeared on a cracker, and it looked like someone had scraped it off the bottom of their shoe. I reluctantly put it in my mouth and started chewing. It was both crunchy and slimy at the same time, and tasted like someone had ground up an oyster, shell and all.

I forced a smile and said, “Mmmm, so it is as good as it looks...”

“Thank you!” he said, and once he walked away I grabbed a handful of nearby crackers and stuffed them into my mouth as quickly as manners would allow.

To my relief, Barney showed up soon afterwards and said he was ready to go. Finally! I thought. It was past four o’ clock, and all I could think of, other than my aching arms, was how poor Finkley was stuck in the trailer the whole time. At least he didn’t have to eat oyster-paste.

After a long car ride hauling the trailer home, and talking with Barney about some of his worst horse experiences (I didn’t tell him this was probably one of mine!) I was definitely relieved to get home. Still, when I thought back to the time it was just me and my horse riding quietly through the countryside pondering life, I was almost sad to see it go because you don’t get many times like that. All in all, it was the best and worst day of my life.