Equestrian Vacation: Fox Hunting in Virginia Part II

In case you missed the first installment of the girls’ weekend grand fox hunting adventure in Virginia, click here to read Part I, so you’ll know what’s going on with the arachnids, locals, and riding. 

Flash forward past Sunday and the cross country schooling event we attended as spectators while our host was coaching three riders, and let’s pause for shopping at Tri County Feed with its generous lineup of “lifestyle” items–a fancy place to spend your money. The spacious two-story tack shop is like a Nordstrom for horse people. I bought Knight a black halter with a line of tiny orange fox faces along the cheek piece and a matching black lead rope. That night we came back to EIGHT spiders. I got out the broom again to sweep them back into the wild. I might or might not have actually flushed one or two down the toilet. I’ll never tell.

The next morning was the Columbus Day hunt. This ride was going to start and end on the property where we were staying, with a breakfast buffet in our host’s kitchen. Our rust-breeched selves ascended from the basement and noticed a sign on the coffee maker that said, “Start coffee.” So Amy did. Then we helped ourselves to making peanut butter toast. The host flitted through the kitchen, noticing the coffee, “That was supposed to be for the hunt breakfast!” 

Amy said, “I’m sorry, but there was a sign on it that said to start it.” 

The host said the sign was meant for whomever from the hunt got back to her kitchen first, not us. “I don’t want to waste it!”

“We brought coffee with us,” I said, trying to convey she would not be coffeeless for her guests. I went back to the basement and grabbed the Allegro grounds that had been on sale at the Whole Foods in Pasadena I had stashed in my suitcase for an occasion such as this.

The second hunt was much like the first, with the exception of moving off from the front yard of our bed and breakfast. We clip clopped single file down the road, followed nose to tail through wooded paths, and enjoyed intermittent stretches of trotting and cantering. At a check, our fieldmaster/host posed the question to our group, “What’s the most important gait of a fox hunter?”

I thought for sure it was the trot. A couple of riders shot out their guesses. We were all wrong, “It’s the halt,” she said. After a couple of hours riding through more beautiful countryside and jumping a few fallen logs here and there, we returned to our home base for the hunt breakfast. There was an egg and sausage casserole, presumably with Napoleon in it. I opted for the freshly brewed coffee and powdered sugar donettes. I needed some sustenance for more Middleburg shopping with Amy. 

Prior to leaving for Virginia, I had been told from multiple people that we HAD to go to the consignment shop Middleburg Tack Exchange. It was billed as a beautiful store that only sold high-quality second-hand items. They didn’t accept just anything. I hit the riding wear jackpot and scored a medium weight black wool hunt coat, a vintage navy wool Pytchley with foxhead buttons, a Joules barn jacket and a brown plaid puffy vest with detachable hood for under $250!

As if that weren’t awesome enough, we headed around the corner to The Tack Box and I bought a hunt bridle for Knight and after “just trying on for fun” some DeNiro dress boots, I was peer pressured by Amy and one of the store employees into adding them to my hunt wardrobe. “They fit you like they were made for you!”

“What if I can’t carry them on the plane?” I pointed to the large, cumbersome boot box.

“You’ll ditch the box and wear them,” Amy said authoritatively.

That afternoon our host invited us on a trail ride. The day of the races she came home with a new horse. Apparently people frequently give her horses. This one was a gorgeous dark bay who had been a steeplechaser and for whatever reason, needed a new home. She wanted to take him out on the trail with a few other horses and see how he’d do. I rode a different mount for this, an Irish Draught named after a male lead in American lit from the early 20th century. Amy rode the big chestnut the future President had been hunting. 

The new Thoroughbred was a champ, navigating ahead of our two horses, carefully stepping over fallen branches and logs. He didn’t bat an eyelash when we crossed a stream. We got to ride at a quicker pace since there were just three of us. It was a novel experience to spend so much time riding through trees and up and down hills. The crunch of the leaves underfoot and the smell of fall made me feel like I was home in the Midwest.

“He has a fifth leg,” our host said about my Irish mount. She asked if we’d heard that expression before. Amy and I were clueless as to the phrase’s meaning and she explained, “It’s a saying about Irish horses. They’re so sturdy and sure-footed it’s like they have a fifth leg.” 

I kinda liked the new expression and I loved this gray horse! “You can hunt him tomorrow if you want to.” Did I want to? Of course!

That night the Master of Foxhounds and his wife came over to our host’s home for a fancy dinner of pork chops and more. I pouted across the table at Amy and mouthed, “Napoleon.” We really hit it off with the wife of the master and she invited Amy and me to come over the following day and get a kennel tour. Such an honor–we were flattered!

The last hunt I wore my new-to-me vintage navy hunt coat from Middleburg Tack Exchange, even though the sleeves were too short (I knew I’d have to get it tailored once back in California). My Irish steed was so fun to ride, and I now have it in my head that I “need” a second horse and that horse will be Irish. He was so in tune with the hounds, standing like a statue at every check, ears perked forward, listening for the pack. This gelding never placed a foot wrong and just felt extra sturdy beneath me. 

The previous two hunts were lackluster on the speed front and Amy and I had hoped to ride in second field for our grand finale. When Amy brought this idea up to our host it was swiftly vetoed. We surmised later it had to do with control. Our host needed to have her horses with her at all times so she could supervise. 

Our host must have sensed our disappointment at the prospect of a third day riding in a glorified nose to tail trail ride and at one point we passed a small coop and she singled us out in the field, “Susan and Amy, you can jump that.” I pointed my gray Irish fellow to the base and we trotted up and over and then went the other way to rejoin our group. Amy did the same on her gray. 

We went a bit further through more fields and woods and wound up with a lone hound tagging along. Second field cantered past us and Amy and I gave each, “That could have been us,” looks–if only our host would have allowed it. 

Near the end of our day in the field Amy had a problem with her horse. He had gotten up on the wrong side of the pasture apparently and was just slightly obstinate throughout the course of her ride–really balky at a water crossing, for example. Well, somehow as we were heading back, Amy got far behind our group and her horse started flipping out–squeals, head shaking, backing up. I didn’t see any of this as I was trotting along on my dapper chap. 

Thankfully two older women who were seasoned hunters noticed what was happening and they circled back to stay with Amy. She reported they were very kind and encouraging. In hindsight, Amy realized she should have ignored some of the horse’s  brattiness and kept him moving forward. All that to say, she decided to dismount as the 17.3 gelding got to be intimidating, and she didn’t want to get hurt–I don’t blame her–I would have done the same thing. 

Somehow word got back to our group that Amy was having trouble and when we turned around and Amy was on the ground leading the horse, our host/fieldmaster used some colorful language to announce her displeasure along with the line of, “Every time you ride you’re either training or untraining a horse!” as she cantered toward my friend.

I thought, “Oh no, this isn’t going to be good,” and I was right.

I didn’t hear what went on until after our ride and we were in the truck out of earshot, but I surmised it was not a good experience when I saw Amy on the chestnut the fieldmaster had started her day on and the host was on Amy’s horse.

When we got back to the trailer, Amy’s eyes looked a little red (her sunglasses had broken and were unwearable–although our host shared that she thought hunting in sunglasses was “tacky”–I made a case for it telling her how blinding the light is in California with the sun’s rays bouncing up off the sandy ground and pretty much everyone in our hunt rides with sunglasses whether hunting or just riding. At that point I was over all the negativity and insistence on her way being the right way, whether the issue was sunglasses, how to remove a girth or lead a horse with reins).

We loaded the horses into the trailer and confirmed with the master’s wife we’d meet them at their kennel in about an hour. Off we went to lunch at a charming mom and pop restaurant in the tiny town. We had giant sandwiches, local potato chips that were extra crispy, and shared a slice of pie with ice cream on top. We deserved it. 

After lunch we drove about ten minutes to the horse farm where the master and his wife lived with their horses and the hounds. I think the place was a former dairy barn. Their pastures were green and enviable from a California horse owner standpoint, and I felt transported back to the Midwest where I grew up going to my grandfather’s farm.

 

 

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This is one of the best days of my life! Kisses from foxhounds! Fascinating tour of the kennel at Green Spring Valley Hounds! Thanks @ahorsepubs for a fabulous tour of Maryland’s gorgeous hunt country. #thehuntforexcellence

A post shared by Susan Friedland (@saddleseekshorse) on Jun 14, 2018 at 9:13am PDT

I was secretly hoping we’d get to pet and play with some hounds–like the time I got to visit Green Spring Valley Hounds with American Horse Publications and the kennelman literally released the hounds and it was like Christmas morning with greetings and tails wagging in a frolicking frenzy. Instead we just did a walk by of their kennels, seeing the females in their area (I had to resist a giggle when he referred to “the bitches”) and the males in theirs. 

After the quick tour we were invited in, offered glasses of water and the four of us sat around the kitchen table and talked about horses and riding and where the must-ride fox hunts were in the U.S. I yearned for this to be my real life. Just in the middle of the week hanging out at some horse friend’s house talking shop. The wife made a case for Red Rock Hounds, and Amy and I both made a mental note, as it is in Nevada, just one state away from us. 

We left the huntsman’s farm and headed back to “our” farm to take a riding lesson from the host. Amy got to ride a big chestnut who had an extensive dressage background before switching gears to hunting and I was placed on the new horse–the steeplechaser. He reminded me of Knight and I was glad to have seen him go out on trail twice–he was willing and sane. In the arena he was a dream–soft and forward, he intently listened to me and was sensitive to my aids. 

Our host wanted to see how he would do with various new things and obstacles so she pulled out a large blue tarp and had Amy ride her seasoned horse across it with me following behind with the new guy. He didn’t flinch. 

The next test was having us approach a container of varied-in-length PVC pipes standing upright. We were told to pick up a pipe hold it up and put it back in the container. It felt kind of nutty. But again, this new horse didn’t really care. 

After that we moved on to jumping. I had to fake my confidence thinking, “I’m not really the kind of rider you just put on a brand new horse and have them jump around to see what they’re capable of. Isn’t there some gutsy teen or assistant trainer for that?” 

Apparently my fake confidence worked because this horse just trotted right over the small vertical and eventually cantered over the small oxer our host set up. I didn’t think he’d be a stopper since he’d had a career as a jump racer. I was mildly worried he’d run and jump, but he really packed my ammy self around like a gentleman. 

 

Later that night we attended an event at the National Sporting Library and Museum in Middleburg and Amy had the brilliant idea for me to donate a copy of my book Horses Adored and Men Endured to the library! I shyly asked the librarian at the front desk if they would be interested in a copy of my horse memoir or if they focused more on older works. (If memory serves me correctly, The National Sporting Library apparently has Teddy Roosevelt’s fox hunting journals! The research room was closed, so I could not see them. Next time.)

To my delight, the librarian said they were trying to add to their collections more modern books on horses and they’d love to have Horses Adored! (Which proves the point that it’s good to ask for things, because you might get a yes. Thanks for pushing me, Amy!)

We were nearing the end of our time in Virginia and eager to get back home to California. We had our taste of fox hunting in horse country–albeit from a very controlled standpoint. While chatting with some other hunt members after our rides we heard the question repeatedly, “What other hunts are you going to ride with?” It had never occurred to us to see about being a guest in other places, but at that realization I started plotting the next trip.

It might not be soon, but I need to try Virginia fox hunting once again. Hopefully this time in a spider-free setting and not in third field.

Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays!

Question: What equestrian adventure is on your “to do” list for 2020? Share in the comments section. 

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