Live and let live: two sides to wildlife conservation

Can you go hunting and still care about animals? The answer is ‘of course you can’, but it might not be an obvious answer to those opposed to country sports. What they don’t see is that people who go hunting, shooting and fishing not only love animals, but understand them and the countryside in which they live. A huntsman will know exactly how many foxes or coyote are in his patch and how healthy they are, just as a gamekeeper has an intimate knowledge of the songbirds that feed alongside his pheasants. Land managed for sporting purposes benefits everything, with coverts kept to shelter foxes providing habitats for dozens of other species and cover crops for game birds feeding many more avian inhabitants. As Ian Coghill, chairman of the Game and Wildlife Conservation Trust, said in a letter to The Times on April 22nd, shooting estates and gamekeepers provide 'essential habitat and protection for some of our most vulnerable wildlife'. Modern landscapes are seldom truly wild – in the UK, almost every square mile has been managed for centuries for farming, whether by enclosing fields with hedges or by grazing sheep on upland moors. Even in America, where ranches cover thousands of acres, apparently untouched land is carefully managed and animals that prey on farm animals or destroy crops need to be controlled.

A cattle ranch in central California, looking rather like England after a spot of rain

The point is that controlling a wild animal doesn’t mean that the people doing the controlling hate the animal concerned or derive any pleasure from its death. Hunting is natural selection in action - a fit, healthy fox will escape a pack of hounds, whereas one that is old or sick will not. Shooting does not discriminate, and I know several huntsman who have been sickened by the sight of a young, fit vixen dead in her prime from a bullet when she should have lived to run another day. Hunters want to give the animal as quick and clean an end as possible, which, in the case of a fox or a coyote, is a bite to the back of the neck from a hound. Animal-rights campaigners, such as the League Against Cruel Sports (LACS) and the RSPCA, asserted during the debate on the hunting ban that the best way to kill a fox was to shoot it, which hunters know usually results in wounding and a long slow death by gangrene. Interestingly, the LACS and RSPCA have recently contradicted their earlier assertion by saying that badgers were being wounded in the UK badger cull because shooting could not guarantee a quick death and, therefore, shooting was not an acceptable method of culling. I’ll refrain from saying: ‘We told you so.’ The badger question, of course, throws up another eternal annoyance – why is one species more worth protecting than another? Badgers feast on ground-nesting birds and hedgehogs, now themselves endangered, yet the badger brigade never seems to care about them. A recent study by Exeter and Southampton Universities has shown that hedgehog numbers are recovering in badger-cull areas, so perhaps the tide will turn at last, if only people will listen.

The real reason many of us go hunting - for the thrill, not bloodlust 

Photo credit: Nico Morgan

Anyway, I must not rabbit on about all this – as my mother would say, ‘enough hunting, Ed.’. The reason I bring up this topic is that, in the past few weeks, I took part in two very different, yet equally valuable, activities involving conservation and the natural world. The first was hunting in central California, and while the first day was pretty much blank, we took a wild boar on the second. Numbers of wild boar are burgeoning in the state, as they have two litters of 12-15 piglets a year and few predators. They do enormous damage to the land, rooting up the earth and turning a smooth slope into a quagmire. Many people pay to shoot them, a valuable source of income for ranches, but we were doing it the old-fashioned way with a pack of hounds. No one wants to see them eradicated, but, as with any quarry species, we do need to keep a healthy balance.

Setting off across the windswept moor. California or Cornwall?!

The hunting itself was thrilling – down in a steep-sided wooded valley, a large herd of about 30 wild boar set up a cacophony of grunts and squeals that mingled with the baying of the hounds to echo around the gully. Our horses stood quivering, ears pricked and muscles tensed, and when, for a moment, the herd turned the tables and charged us, spun round and skedaddled a stride or two. They know that boar can be jolly fierce and dangerous and wanted to clear out pronto. But hounds stood their ground and, after crashing around in the undergrowth as we followers strained for a glimpse, succeeded in splitting one away from the herd, which was quickly despatched by the huntsman with a knife. The rest of the herd had vanished, hounds were panting and happy and the horses relaxed again as we exchanged grins of relief and excitement. Every bit of the boar was destined for consumption, distributed among the members of the hunt or sent to a local restaurant. An hour after we had set off, everyone’s freezers were full. It certainly beats a trip to Safeway!

Happy hunters after a successful morning

Back in San Francisco a few days later, BioBlitz was in full swing, another chance for lovers of the countryside and its creatures to get together, but this time more to spectate than participate. A yearly event devoted to scientific study of wildlife and habitat, it is organized by National Geographic and held in a different National Park each year, leading up to the centenary of the National Park Service in 2016. This year, the eighth, it was run in conjunction with the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy and the Presidio Trust, and was held on Crissy Field on the northern edge of the city. Some 320 scientists, 2,700 school children and 9,000 local people – plus visitors from as far afield as Washington DC – took part, counting species, learning about conservation and exploring the 80,000 acres of the Golden Gate Parks through the eyes of expert scientists and biologists. The emphasis is on highlighting the importance of science in park management, and I’m sure many children, not to mention adults, will have been inspired. 

Looking towards San Francisco across Crissy Field, 

at the far end of which was the BioBlitz headquarters 

I joined the event to take part in a bird inventory. Led by Tori, a ranger who usually works on Alcatraz Island, we had intended to walk all the way to Fort Point and up into the Presidio, counting and recording birds as we went. Sadly, however, the heavens had opened that morning and reduced our initial group of about 20 to only four (two rangers) in about 45 minutes. Being English, I was determined not to let a bit of rain send me back early, but it was hopeless. We could barely see the birds through the murk, and, in any case, there were far fewer out than one might have hoped for on a more salubrious day. We did spot several egrets, a crested heron, a barn swallow and lots of ruddy ducks, but it wasn’t quite the cornucopia we wanted to record. Still, I feel we made an effort!

The length of beach we had intended to explore. 

The BioBlitz walk took place in such heavy rain 

that my camera never left my pocket!

The day before had been sunny and vastly more congenial, and the event as a whole was a tremendous success. Astonishingly, 80 species new to the Parks were discovered, 15 threatened species documented, and a climbing salamander was seen for the first time in Muir Woods. In all, 2,304 species were inventoried, a number that may rise as scientific analysis of plant matter is carried out. Some 55 nature and environmental groups were represented at the concurrent Biodiversity Festival, from NorCal Bats and the San Francisco Zoo to the Golden Gate AudubonSociety and the Marine Mammal Centre, an impressive testament to the legions of volunteers working to preserve and study the natural wonders of northern California. Every kind of flora and fauna has a group of dedicated enthusiasts devoted to its well-being.

Seagulls and, below, a brown pelican, after which Alcatraz is named

Protected native landscape above Baker Beach, 

within the remit of the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy

  
I don’t know how many of the people involved in BioBlitz ever go hunting or shooting, but I like to think I’m not the only one interested in both approaches to wildlife observation and conservation. The conservation aspect may be incidental to hunting, but it is one way in which the sport benefits the land. To hunt is to be a part of the countryside and the ecosystems therein, and although huntsmen may not take a clipboard and binoculars on their excursions, a true countryman will be just as passionate and knowledgeable as a serious birder or marine scientist. All will have the far-seeing gaze that can spot movement three miles away on a far-away hill and share the thrill of seeing a rare bird on the wing or mountain lion slink past. There is nothing better than spending time in the company of a countryman, absorbing their lore, whether it is accompanied by a bird book or a hunting horn. Long may they all continue!    

Muir Woods, where a climbing salamander was spotted during BioBlitz

The Randall Museum has a remarkable array of animals and scientific exhibits, 

tucked away in a fold of Corona Heights

The Scottish Highlands, managed by man for hundreds of years and 

beloved of birdwatchers and sportsmen alike

English corners of Californian fields

Tucked away in a fold of Marin County, close to Muir Beach, is a tiny piece of England. Looking for all the world as if it had been plucked complete from West Sussex and dropped into northern California, the Pelican Inn is a perfect English pub. Reached down narrow roads that wind through rolling hills, currently blissfully green after a much-needed recent rain, the creaking sign beckons drivers off Highway 1 and in through the inn’s heavy wooden door. White painted and surrounded by an inviting lawn, full of people lazing in the early spring sunshine, the Pelican is just as authentic inside, with hunting prints, antique furniture and a huge fireplace that must be bliss to curl up beside when the August fog shrouds the coast. My feeling that I had stumbled into Sussex without the bother of a 10-hour flight was increased when I spotted a print of a Spitfire above what looked like Tangmere airfield, which lies not far from my godmother’s home outside Chichester. Even the menu is authentic, with a ploughman’s lunch, bangers-and-mash and fish-and-chips, plus proper English ales on tap.

The Pelican Inn, a glimpse of southern England in northern California

Sir Francis Drake would have been delighted to find such a hostelry when he landed nearby in 1579. Sadly for him, there was nothing but steep valleys and towering redwoods on a seemingly uninhabited coast when he careened his ship in one of the many bays (several now claim to be the one he chose). No doubt, however, he would have been gratified to know that his sojourn here was commemorated 400 years later by the building of an inn named after his ship. Later renamed the Golden Hinde, she was then called the Pelican – an eminently suitable name, oddly enough, as the name of the infamous prison island Alcatraz means Island of Pelicans in Spanish, after the thriving colony of brown pelicans that lived there when Spanish explorer Juan Manuel de Ayala charted the Bay in 1775, two centuries after the English sailor landed. Sir Francis himself never discovered the Bay of San Francisco, despite passing within a mile of the Golden Gate – no doubt, the fog was hiding its secret well.

Feeling at home

There was slightly more batter than fish, but it was still jolly good,

especially washed down with a pint of Irish cider

Astonishingly, the Pelican, despite its 16^th-century appearance and wealth of genuine period furniture and fittings inside, was actually only opened in 1979. Englishman Charles Felix, a native of Bath, fought for eight years for planning consent before he could start work on his dream to build the kind of comfortable country pub his family had run for years. He started from scratch, importing prints and furniture, but employing local craftsmen and materials to do the actual building. Eventually, he created something that appears positively ancient in a land where anything over 50 years old is worthy of an archaeological dig. Now, the Pelican is run by Romantic Places, whose collection includes Culloden House in Scotland, and is enormously popular with both San Franciscans and tourists visiting nearby Muir Woods.

The magnificent redwoods of Muir Woods 

Tulips and flowering wisteria formed the backdrop to my next English-flavoured encounter. A friend and former colleague, Jeremy Musson, one-time architectural editor of Country Life, author of numerous books on country houses and presenter of BBC2's much-missed The Curious House Guest, was paying a brief visit to California on a lecture tour with the Royal Oak, the American partner of England's National Trust. The setting for his excellent talk 'From Fish to Fowl: Sporting Life at the English Country House' was Filoli, about 30 miles south of San Francisco in the wooded hills of the Peninsula. Built by Mr and Mrs William Bowers Bourn, the unusual name of this secluded country house is taken from the first letters of Bourn's motto: 'Fight for a just cause. Love your fellow man. Live a good life.' 

Me and Jeremy Musson, one of England's pre-eminent architectural historians

The main entrance of Filoli

Now one of the 29 sites under the aegis of the American non-profit National Trust for Historic Preservation, Filoli was designed by Willis Polk in 1915-17. The architect, one of the Bay area's most eminent professionals, had also built the Bourns' house in San Francisco and the property at their gold mine in Grass Valley, from whence came their wealth and status. Filoli is in the 'Californian eclectic style', an amalgamation of styles that come together in something similar to an English Georgian rectory, built in brick, with a Classical stone portico and wings flanking a gravel courtyard. The interiors are elegantly apportioned, with a collection of art and antiques that includes a rug from Queen Victoria's Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, but its real attraction is the gardens.

Looking towards the south wing across a sunken garden ablaze with tulips

Spring was bustin' out all over at Filoli!

By all accounts, we were seeing the gardens at their best, with the recent rain enticing every petal to bloom and bask in the warm sunshine. Tulips of every shade, from vivid orange to palest yellow and deep red, filled the beds, their bright colours set off by neatly clipped yew hedges. Waterfalls of blossom dripped from every tree, mown lawns begged for a game of croquet to begin and archways led to yet more delights. The Bourns both had English ancestry and their taste was for the English formal style, blending formal pools and parterres into a landscape that, with the nearby Crystal Springs Lake and steep hills of Spring Valley, reminded them of Ireland. Frequent travellers to Europe, the Bourns' daughter Maud met Arthur Rose Vincent of Co Clare, Ireland, on board ship, and they subsequently married. The Bourns bought Muckross House and 11,000 acres around the Lakes of Killarney, Co Kerry, for the young couple in 1910, and the whole family loved spending time in Ireland. As a permanent reminder of the Emerald Isle, the delicate murals in the ballroom show the wild hills of Kerry. Touchingly, they were painted after a stroke meant that William Bourn would never be able to travel again, so the family brought the Irish views to him. 

The ballroom, adorned with paintings of Irish hills

Looking towards the swimming pool, a slightly incongrous turquoise

The design of the gardens was, I was pleased to hear, influenced by the Bourns' perusal of Country Life magazine and the incomparable photographs of houses and gardens across Britain (a browse of the Country Life Picture Library, which has numerous prints for sale, is always worthwhile). The couple was closely involved with the design, alongside notable Bay area professionals such as artist Bruce Porter, floral designer Isabella Worn and architects Polk and Arthur Brown Jr, and they would have been thrilled to know that Country Life featured the gardens in the April 3, 2013, edition of the magazine. Incorporating elements of Renaissance and Georgian design, the garden weaves together a rose garden, sunken garden, yew walks, bowling green, kitchen garden and orchards in beguiling patterns that delights the wanderer with a new view at every turn. The Filoli website gives a detailed account of the history and design of the garden, which reveals the reason for the only ugly element - a metal perimeter fence to guard against the depredations of deer. Many of the plants in the original plans, such as yew, boxwood and wisteria, are deer-resistant, testament to the herds that roam wild nearby. Now, a militaristic chain-link monstrosity borders the garden, which, although allowing views of the meadows beyond, is definitely not what one would find in the English country-house gardens the Bourns loved so much. Perhaps it could be replaced with a post-and-rail or wrought-iron fence?

One of the many vistas down a yew allée

A riot of colour

Vivid orange tulips flank the path into the garden from the house

But this is to quibble - Filoli is a sumptuous place to spend the day, especially as the cafe serves delicious lunches and the most divine chocolate cakes. The gardens are a feast for the eyes, and, especially for an English visitor, the house is a beguiling blend of historic styles and 20th-century convenience. I couldn't help worrying that noises from the butler's pantry and kitchen, which are divided from the dining room by only a swing door, would have been uncomfortably intrusive during a formal dinner, but I'm sure the servants appreciated the short walk. Below-stairs kitchen quarters were not a tradition continued at Filoli!

Me amid the blossom

A perfect place for lunch

My week finished in true English style, with afternoon tea at Lovejoy’s in Noe Valley. Named after the much-loved antique dealer played by Ian McShane in the television adaptation of Jonathan Gash’s books, it began as an actual antique shop that served tea as a sideline. However, the idea of a decent cup of tea became so popular that the proper tea room was born, and now it is frequently packed with people enjoying the eclectic mix of china and British-esque ornaments. The obligatory Keep Calm and Carry On poster hangs next to a red telephone box, but this place goes beyond the cliché to be comfortable, quirky and endearingly familiar. The tea is real tea, the crumpets are crumpets and the scones are scones, with not an ‘English muffin’ to be seen. (The latter is a doughy blob that bears not the slightest resemblance to anything served in England, yet is very popular on this side of the pond.) We plumped for smoked-salmon and pear-and-Stilton sandwiches from the extensive list – delicious – and my strawberry jam was perfect. Admittedly, the clotted cream wasn’t quite thick or creamy enough, but it was an excellent effort nonetheless. I do love America, but it is lovely to have a week of Englishness every now and again!

Happy ex-pats

A proper cup of tea at last!

Ah, that looks good

Across the wide prairie with the Grand Canyon Hounds and the Paradise Valley Beagles

Two and a half hours after I had left the house at 5am, our Jeep was bouncing over railtracks that ran across the prairie in a dead-straight line from horizon to horizon. Behind us were juniper trees and a pair of elk with magnificent antlers, ahead was acre after thousand acre of grassland. All it needed was a posse of cowboys riding down a train – and I was delighted to hear that such a occurrence is not just a fantasy. The train that runs from Flagstaff to the Grand Canyon is regularly held up by a posse of  cowboys who charge into action with pistols cocked. Apparently, however, they're unusually friendly and don’t steal all the passengers’ jewellery. I would love to know what those guys put on their passports.

The real Wild West

But the members of the Grand Canyon Hounds were here in pursuit of coyote, not plunder. Crossing a cattle grid (or guard), our convoy of three horse trailers, which included visitors from the Red Rock Hounds of Reno, Nevada, pulled over and stopped at the side of the track on a featureless plain, the horizon broken only by the bulk of San Francisco mountain some 40 miles to the south-east. No sign of human habitation was visible beyond the dirt road and single fence stretching over the horizon, and the wind whistled from the east, belying the bright sunshine. The pasture we were going to hunt is 80,000 acres in size, or 125 square miles, more than the entirety of my hunt country at home and just one holding of the Babbitt Ranches, one of the most historic operations in the area. Founded in 1886, it is still run in the old way, with cowboys working the herds on horseback and living in bunk houses, but with an eye for business and environmental practices that is entirely modern. The Grand Canyon Hounds have reason to be grateful to them, with at least two thirds of the hunt country being Babbitt land. It's a hard, dry country, freezing in winter and baking in summer, with little water and sparse grazing, but the vastness of the rolling grassland is intoxicating – the knowledge that one could gallop uninterrupted for hundreds of miles makes one want to do just that.

The finest view in America?

Unfortunately, the coyote had other ideas. We set off westwards across the plain, passing clumps of juniper bushes, a couple of curious cows (cattle out here enjoy several acres per beast), and herds of antelope, but no coyote were in evidence. The antelope gave us fleeting hope as, according to Paul Delaney MFH, coyote like nothing better than collapsing after a long day’s roaming the prairie and watching the local herds. ‘We have television, they have antelope,’ he explained, entirely seriously.

Me and Paul Delaney ready for the off

The lack of action was in no way due to huntsman Peter Wilson and his excellent pack of hounds. Dogs and bitches are kenneled together in their state-of-the-art kennels just outside Flagstaff and, as a consequence, are happy and willing to work together. In the old saying, one could have thrown a blanket over them. They’re a mixed crew, with long-eared Penn-Marydel from the eastern seaboard, where Peter grew up, together with American and Walker hounds. The latter is descended from the English foxhound, but developed in its own right in the 1800s after a stolen dog was crossed with a foxhound. Now, they are a tenacious and energetic addition to the pack. To combat difficult scenting conditions, there are a couple of gazehound crosses, too, which add a vital extra weapon on hot days. The whole pack is impressively biddable – the previous evening, admiring them in kennel, a single word from Peter was enough to move the whole pack into the neighbouring yard – and they were equally responsive to his quiet commands in the field.

Finding a sunny corner in the yard

Can we go hunting now?

Mounting up.

A tad difficult to see (and take, hence the wonky horizon),

but this shows hounds working hard!

Turning south, we crossed what Paul calls the Sargasso Sea, and it certainly is wide. The holy grail of hunting here is to get a run across this patch, as the footing is excellent and free of most of the stones and treeroots that make this land more tricky to cross than a grassy field, but sadly, hounds weren’t running this time. We opened the throttle anyway for a blissful gallop, to the relief of humans and horses alike. My grey Percheron x Thoroughbred Cinco was extremely pleased to work off some excess energy – he had been champing at the bit since we set off. I had been warned that he was capable of putting in an impressive buck, usually accompanied by a squeal, so I had been on my guard, but I was in luck - he behaved beautifully. (Unless, of course, it was simply my superlative equestrian skills? ahem.)

The brilliant Cinco

Peter leads his merry band to a watering place

After a stop to let the hounds quench their thirst at a ‘tank’, or large pool, we were rewarded for our patience with a brief but exhilarating run that proved Cinco’s worth beyond doubt. Beginning at the top of a small rise, we charged through a patch of juniper across rocky ground that would have had every English rider slowing to a walk and picking their way. None of that here – we took it at full gallop, horses’ ears pricked and their feet unerringly choosing exactly the right path. They all have rubber pads under their shoes, with convex bubbles in the centre to get rid of compacted snow in winter and studs on the shoes themselves, but they hardly need them. It reminded me of Irish horses knowing exactly how to cope with double banks – the person on top just has to hang on and marvel at the brilliance of the equine expert beneath them. Leaving the stones behind, we increased our speed even more across the grass and I turned to Crispin, Peter’s brother, thundering beside me.

‘Is there anything in life better than this?’ I called.

‘Not to my knowledge!’ he shouted back.

The scent petered out soon after that, and the rest of the morning was spent casting fruitlessly, but it didn’t matter. There is always a joy in being on horseback and watching a good pack of hounds work well together, noses down, sterns waving, refusing to give up, and I would never grow tired of gazing at this landscape. For much of the day, at first just a streak on the northern horizon but growing ever clearer as the ground rose beneath us, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was visible. Stretching on and on in both directions, the rocky cliffs plunged earthwards, even at this distance appearing impossibly huge. My photographs simply don’t do it justice – my naked eye could see far more than my trusty Canon reveals. The whole thing was a beguiling mass of juxtapositions – red coats, hounds, horses, English saddles, Wild West prairie, a natural wonder of the world and cowboy shenanigans, all mixed up together in the joy of the chase.

Crispin Wilson (left), brother of Peter

Amy of the Red Rock Hounds in Reno, Nevada

Lone hunter: England meets the Wild West

Hacking home after a blank but extremely enjoyable morning

The following day was an even more mixed-up jumble, when Amanda, Peter’s wife, took out her adorable Paradise Valley Beagles in pursuit of jackrabbits with an assorted group of followers that ranged from Karen Thurston (who has travelled the world with her daughter Rachel) on a neat grey Arab to Peter and Crispin in jeans on a couple of enormous grey youngsters. Amanda herself was extremely smart in the green coat of the beagler, with the PVB tartan (plaid) collar. Unlike beaglers in the UK, followers here are mounted, which makes it much easier to keep up with a quarry that leaps away like an arrow loosed from a string, jinking and darting before dropping to the floor and lying motionless in the hope that it has evaded its captures. Jackrabbits are rangier than hares, with longer ears and gangly, skinny legs, and we had seen several the day before - more, indeed, than coyote. The beagles were keen as mustard, bustling about and casting everywhere. They are such a happy and biddable bunch that they make one smile to see them.

Huntsman and master Amanda Wilson with her beagles

Setting off towards San Francisco mountain

With the San Francisco peak looming above us, the beagles cast among the sagebrush for some time without success, until a barrage of canine voices alerted us to a cottontail tearing up a rock-strewn slope through tough old juniper trees. It was a brief burst that got everyone’s blood going and must have woken up the jackrabbits, as several scurries ensued that saw the pack doing their best to keep up with two unusual additions to their number – a couple of elegant black lurchers. Dazzle in particular was extremely keen on her first time out, coursing the jackrabbits in magnificent style. Amanda spoke about the difficulties of hunting gazehounds and scenthounds together – the beagles were working very well, but when the quarry is only a few yards ahead, the lurchers do have an advantage. But I have no doubt this unusual partnership will flourish - aided and abetted by a couple of cheerful terriers. 

Spot the odd one out in the pack

Dazzle waits for a glimpse of a jackrabbit as the beagles cast

We didn’t kill – that honour was reserved for the terriers, who caught a pack rat during breakfast afterwards – but it was a treat to watch the hounds working at such close quarters. For me, there was an extra thrill – at long last, I was galloping across the Wild West of America Western style! Although I worked on a ranch in Wyoming for two months last summer, riding there was one-behind-the-other and we rode English style, going into two-point/cross-country seat for cantering. Amanda had been very happy for me to change saddles - the attitude here is that anyone is welcome, however and whatever they're riding. So this was a longed-for chance to try Western style at speed, and I loved it. Cinco, too, felt more relaxed this way, without a hint of him being a 'beast with a bellyful of bedsprings' as the old cowboys put it, and I could have ridden all day. The best fun came when I rode upside of Jimmy Doyle, the modest, brilliant kennel-huntsman of the GCH who whips in to both packs. He hails from Scotland and came to the US after a spell at the Quorn in England’s hunting heartland, and is a fine, fearless horseman who is great fun to shadow, bouncing around the sagebrush on the lookout for jackrabbits. Cinco’s only fault is a very slow walk, which necessitates frequent jogs to catch up, and at one point this turned into a full-on gallop when Jimmy was a few lengths ahead of us and hounds spoke. Golly, does Cinco have power in those quarters!

Western style on Cinco!

This being America, we finished both days with a convivial breakfast around the trailers, and I thought again how easy and comfortable is the company of hunting people. Stories of long and fast runs on coyote abounded (typically, it seems that the country we had covered yesterday is usually some of the best – am I a jinx?). But I’ll be back next season, as sure as hounds were born to hunt, and perhaps be lucky enough to experience an epic run across the wide, rolling prairie of the Wild West.

My wonderful hostess Sherry, resplendent in PVB livery, 

and me, not quite so resplendent

Visitors from Red Rock - Angela and Amy

Peter and Crispin educating a likely looking pair of youngsters

Yum: hunt breakfast in the desert