Excerpt from "BYE DAYS, a mad gallop through the world of foxhunting"

publication date November 2026

 

                            Foxhunting in Winter: Rugged, Sensual

 

There's hardly a hunting morning these days that I don't wake up in the cold made colder by the darkness and think of the old Irishman on his deathbed. The dying hunter was asked by his priest if he had any regrets in life and he said, "Yes, I regret that I didn't hunt more before Christmas." 

 

Foxhunting in January and February is a rugged pastime, and its devotees are far outnumbered by those who nod in agreement with the old Irishman. In September and October, during cubbing season—sort of a scrimmage season for young foxhounds and cub foxes—the footing is good and the pre-dawn meets are a relief after months of summer heat. In November and December, when the serious hunting gets under way, foxhunters enjoy two months of hunting under ideal conditions: the pack has jelled, the footing is still good and the weather is bracing without being a trial of human endurance. 

 

Hunting after the holidays is another experience altogether. The footing is poor at best, treacherous at worst, bringing the constant fear of your horse slipping or falling and throwing both of you to the ground. Creeks become quagmires and jumps are formidable obstacles surrounded by sheets of ice. The temperature is forever in the teens or twenties and compounded by a biting wind. 

 

Ah, but the hounds are lean and muscular and well-seasoned, and the cub foxes have learned the wily tricks of their elders, and the horses are fit enough to keep up with hounds that are keen enough to run a fox all afternoon. 

 

On a sharp winter day, there's no fire as warm as a blaze of speed from an honest hunting horse. 

 

Perhaps my pleasure in dead-of-winter hunting has a nostalgic base. I grew up hunting with my father in whatever weather Saturdays had to offer. I'm sure there were some pleasant days, but all I remember is coming home in the dark, week after week, with fingers and toes numb and the skin on my face blistered by the cold wind. 

 

Our hearts were high, though, from the exhilaration of the hunt, and we unwound by settling our horses in the cozy stable for the night. Then at last we settled ourselves in the kitchen to eat Momma's chili and tell her about the day. I'm sure there were some nights when we had fried chicken, but all I remember is coming home to Momma's chili. 

 

Daddy and I would still be excited and we’d take turns giving Momma the blow-by-blow: where the hounds ran and how the horses behaved and what happened to the other riders who had balky or hot horses. Momma even acted as though she was really interested. Every now and then, Daddy would interrupt me to say, "Skip the descriptive paragraphs. Just tell what happened.”—Advice I recalled later when I became a journalist. 

 

After dinner I'd take a long hot shower and sleep the sleep of the just. 

 

What a privilege it was to spend all those Saturdays riding with my father. It gave us a bond for life. We could always talk about funny or exciting things that happened on the hunt, how the horses behaved, who fell off. And the mountains of Bedford County were full of foxes.

Foxhunting is such a sensual experience, or rather, a collection of sensual experiences. 

When I first get on my horse at the meet I jockey around in my irons, looking for that groove in the saddle that makes me feel attached to the horse. It's no use. It'll take that jog to the first covert to find the groove. 

 

I speak to the master, Fairfax Randolph, who, if the temperature is below freezing, asks, "Going swimming today?" 

 

It's his favorite gibe. Once, on a 20-degree day, I took a spill in rain-swollen Beaverdam Creek. 

Then I speak to the other riders and the huntsman, the man who actually directs the hounds. At last—my favorite part—I speak to the hounds, noting that Limerick and Treacle and Lyric are out today. Dimple is not. She's close to whelping, too fat to keep up. I count 15 couple, 30 hounds to keep track of today. 

 

I'm a whipper-in, one of the huntsman's helpers, and he tells me he's going to draw along the lake to the dam and then turn and come back by the old dump. He sends me ahead to watch for the fox and keep the hounds in line. I gallop off to my post, finding the groove at last and marveling again at the smooth, ground-eating stride of my horse. 

 

I take up my position on a hillside where I have a view of two fields and part of the lake's shoreline. It's 23 degrees and the wind is noticeable but not too strong to make scenting hopeless. It's strong enough to make me shiver, though, and I listen hopefully for the hounds' voices. If they find a fox quickly, we'll have a run and warm up.

 

All I hear, though, is the huntsman's voice, urging the hounds to "push him up." Occasionally, he gives the hounds a short command on the horn. As they get closer, I move to the next hilltop. I'm careful to keep the shoreline of the lake in view. One embarrassing day, I missed seeing a fox because he skirted around me hugging the waterline. 

 

Then! The hounds speak! But almost immediately the huntsman blows a sour note on his horn, signifying that the hounds are on deer.

 

I dash off to intercept them, cracking my whip and shouting "'Ware deer! Back to him!" The hounds know they are wrong, and as they turn to go back to the huntsman, I note which ones were leading the sinful chase. 

 

The huntsman continues his draw and I continue to move ahead of him, wishing my elegantly slim boots were inelegantly big enough to accommodate thermal socks. 

 

After an hour of walking around vainly searching for a fox, the huntsman confers with the master about where to look next. "Charlie's in his den, laughing at us fools out here on a day like this," he says with a laugh. Several members of the field have decided to quit being foolish and go in. The hard core follows the master and the huntsman across the dam at the foot of the lake. 

 

Before I can move ahead to my new post, the hounds strike. This time they're right, and a pack of parti-colored hounds flies away through the woods beside the lake. The huntsman is galloping with them, blowing "Gone Away" to encourage every hound to join the chase. 

Thinking the fox might turn right-handed, I take a different trail. At the top of the ridge, I stop to listen and hear nothing. Either the hounds have run straight out of earshot or they've lost the line. My horse turns his head, ears pricked. Is that the hounds? No, a flock of Canada geese has fooled me again. 

 

I hold my position, listening to the squirrels romping in the dead leaves, watching a great blue heron leave the lake. Soon I must take a chance and move on or risk being left far behind. Then I hear a soft swish-swish through the leaves. My horse and I stop breathing and watch as a fox trots out onto the trail. 

 

The fox feels our presence and stops to exchange stares. It is a small fox, probably a vixen or a cub, weighing less than 10 pounds. I've never seen this fox before. It is dark red with lots of white on its throat and legs and a well-defined black mask. As it whirls and runs through the woods, I see the white tip of its tail. 

 

When the fox is beyond me, I raise my voice in a view-holloa, a sort of rebel yell: whooooo-ee, whooooo-ee! The huntsman harks the hounds to my voice, and in a moment, the hounds are running and singing through the woods again. 

 

Noting that Nimrod and Trinket are in the lead, I take off after them, trying to find trails that go in the same direction as the hounds. The fox and hounds run through property where we don't have permission to ride, and the huntsman and I set off in opposite directions to ride around the interdicted farm. 

 

There's no trail on my side, and my horse canters through the trees, sparing my knees somehow but ripping the sleeve of my heavy melton coat. I'm reminded of a scene in one of the Star Wars movies where the chasers and the chased dodge trees on flying motor scooters. We look for a gap in a wire fence and end up jumping a locked gate. The hounds are headed for the road and there could be a bad situation if one of us doesn't get there to stop them or the traffic. 

 

When I reach the road, I hear the huntsman blowing "Gone to Ground." The hounds have safely crossed the road and put the fox to earth. When I find the huntsman, the hounds are barking proudly and trying to dig the fox out. From inside the tunnel comes the muffled bark of Playful, who is almost small enough to crawl down to the den. Nimrod is digging excitedly—after all, it was his fox.

 

In a few minutes, the master and what's left of the field ride up. We recount the run, report on what individual hounds did and pull out our flasks. Finally, the huntsman calls the hounds off and we hack back to the vans in high spirits, leaving the fox to give us another run another day. 

 

It seems now that the temperature has gone up a degree or two. 

 

Back home, having cleaned my horse and turned him out to roll, I gratefully peel off my too-tight muddy boots. My neck is chafed from four hours in a stock tie and my muscles are tired from working hard in the cold. But those are good sensations that add up to the satisfaction of having done something exciting on a gray wintery day. 

 

The only thing is, now I have to make my own chili. 

 

Excerpt from "BYE DAYS, a mad gallop through the world of foxhunting"

publication date November 2026