An English country girl in California: Part Two: in the tracks of a legend. Hunting with the Red Rock Hounds, Nevada

Steep hills at speed? No problem. Ditches, gullies and assorted chasms? Check. Rocks, sage bushes, rabbit holes? Present and correct. Endless open country? Absolutely.

Uh oh...

Not the most reassuring of signs to be greeted with on arriving in a new hunt country... At least our potential last meal before we set off into the wastes of Hungry Valley with the Red Rock Hounds was a good one: a feast of Angela Murray MFH's slow-cooked pork (easily the best meat of the trip) and assorted tipples to be wolfed down in the hunt club house the night we arrived. We had been greeted by huntsman Lynn Lloyd MFH herself, plus her 45-year-old cockatiel with a frat-house vocabulary, before unloading the heaps of goodies purchased by a certain photographer at Cabela's earlier in the day and returning to the club house for sustenance. There was a riotous crowd on hand to greet us, including, to my delight, Carolyn Colson, who was shrugging off the mere matter of a broken foot to whip-in on the handsome Tomahawk (hero of my Western riding lessons from Carolyn's son Chris) after a spell on crutches. It was hard to drag ourselves away, but a good night's sleep appeared to be in order.

Ready, Cary? Yes!

Friday dawned crisp and cold, with clearing skies and white peaks on the horizon. A convoy of vehicles set off from the barn to an unassuming collection of shabby houses, scattered apparently at random along a Cheshire-cheese road. After a goodly application of Dutch courage from a dedicated sommelier basket, we stood in a circle and introduced ourselves, a custom that could make buttoned-up English visitors cringe, but which actually made everyone feel welcome and brushed off the butterflies. I was impressed by Robin Keith, the senior of three generations that included daughter Amy Lessinger and granddaughter Sydney, who decided to take up hunting on her retirement because she didn't want to sit on a sofa all day. A sensible woman. Finally, we mounted up - me on the incredibly handsome Chancellor who stayed in his box like a Targaryen dragon until the last minute because he gets a little grumpy on the ground, but who gave me the most fantastic ride and a view that was definitely the finest in Nevada through his grey ears - and set off over a ridge and a coop into a 100,000-acre pasture. No fear of running out of country here!

Alabama visitor Cary McWhorter safely in the saddle!

Once in Hungry Valley, Lynn spoke a word to her hounds and they were off, drawing continually as we moved. There are no coverts for quarry to hide in here! The hounds in question are Tennesse Walker, a type that originated when English foxhounds were crossed with a Kentucky black-and-tan hound called Tennessee Lead by the brothers Walker in the 1850s. Lynn got her first Walker from a local mountain-lion hunter, who didn't want him because he would riot on coyote. Perfect! Walkers have a reputation for being less than biddable, but although they probably wouldn't work in a country criss-crossed by roads or pockets of forbidden land where they would need to be stopped quickly, out here their independence is ideal. They have excellent noses, crucial in a dry desert where coyotes are exactly the same colour as the sandy soil. Coyotes will use anything to mask their scent, to the extent of travelling within a herd of antelope or cattle. It would usually be assumed that hounds were speaking on the herd in such a case, but Lynn knows to wait and make sure before calling them off.

A pair of handsome Walkers

One thing these hounds can't help but riot on are jack rabbits - they are everywhere. When she first started hunting out here, 35 years ago, Lynn tried to stop the rabbit-chasing, but she soon realised that all she was doing was wearing out her voice and her horse. The rabbits keep things interesting and hounds will immediately switch to a coyote, often put up by the action, if one appears, which is the main thing. Her best hounds are Vinnie and the brilliantly named WTF - as Wende Crossley joked: 'Protocol? Where'd he go?'

Camo-Sarah in action, fully kitted out by Cabela's

Swapping camera thoughts with Nancy, otherwise known as Where's Waldo?

No long-tailed critters were to be found for the first part, so we reconvened for a cheeky Margarita and loo stop (just find a handy bush!) and a chance for the photographers to compare notes. Sarah Farnsworth blended in well with the landscape, resident Red Rock snapper Nancy Stevens-Brown less so. It's not easy to take pictures round here, as it's nigh impossible to get close to hounds and followers in a vehicle. Poor Sarah was consigned to a track a mile away over several ridges, but still managed to get some gorgeous shots. Do visit her website for more!

Off again, in my favourite position, right behind hounds

The finest view in Nevada - with the mountains of Tahoe beyond

Note the steepness of the slope that hound is ascending...

Yes, that's right, we went down that. No threading the ridge

to find an easier spot, no Ma'am!

Moments later, things swiftly improved as hounds hit on Wil-E Coyote and were off like butter sliding off a hot knife. Gosh they can fly! Cary and I slotted in behind first-flight field master Jane Cozart, until her horse cast a shoe, at which point she waved generously and cried 'Kick on!' Who were we to argue? Armed with useful tips such as not to gallop along the tracks left by motorbikes as they can be hard and not to jump ditches in case the landing side is soft we hared towards Lynn's dust cloud, flat out across treacherous ground that our horses took with sure-footed leaps and bounds. If you brought a show horse out here they would stop dead in horror, but these clever beasts never let anything stop them. When we eventually checked, panting in air thinner than any I'd hunted in before (we were about 8,000ft up) Lynn paid us the enormous compliment of commenting that not many visitors stay up with her - praise indeed! No one batted an eyelid at the cliff we slid down on the way home, naturally, so steep it was impossible to aim my camera with any success. The sun got uncomfortably hot as time edged on, so we called it a day and ambled back through clumps of juniper bushes. Hounds still had their noses down, but Wil-E had found cooler corners.

Tired hounds heading out of Hungry Valley

Carolyn Colson and the nimble Tomahawk

Lynn calls up the last of the pack as the rest take a well-earned nap

Very happy survivors! Does this mean we can ride?

Job well done: Carolyn and the brilliant quarter horse Tomahawk

After an enormous Mexican feast at a restaurant that seemed perfectly happy to be invaded by a dusty, booted horde, we drove back to the kennels to feed the hounds. Lynn designed the kennels herself, with central feeding area, bitch, dog and puppy corrals leading off, a large tree-dotted pasture behind and the nifty hunt logo above the door. Hounds were clearly content, and they obviously love Lynn as much as she loves them. Despite being a legend in hunting circles, she is remarkably modest, asserting that she isn't a good huntsman, she just listens to her hounds, who are quite capable of doing their job without her. I think it takes a little more than that, but that they share a passion was obvious. When she first founded the Red Rock - after driving west and running out of petrol in Reno, looking round and deciding that a hunt could do rather well in the coyote-filled high desert - she was told by the MFHA that her Walker hounds couldn't be registered because they didn't have three generations recorded as hunting. Her joint-master Scott Tepper took on the bureaucracy and won the day by pointing out that they did have three generations of hunting, and foxes weren't specified, so there was no reason why the pack shouldn't be registered. The Red Rock was registered in 1983 and recognised in 1987, a certificate of authenticity that, although welcome, wasn't the be-all-and-end-all for Lynn. 'I just wanted to hunt, and I would have done anyway!'

A stylish touch atop the kennels

Hungry hounds!

A tender moment

The Red Rock Hounds are Lynn's world, and of vital importance to the wider hunting and equestrian community in Nevada. This is a vast, bleak landscape, where people live widely scattered, and the Red Rock barn has become a centre for social life as well as equestrian activities, not to mention supporting other Western hunts such as the Tejon in California. The club house is seldom empty, and even outside the hunting season there are frequent events, from horse shows to cross-country clinics with Irish-hunting legend Aidan O'Connell. There may have been some opposition to Lynn's lifestyle, especially, in a less-than-liberal state, due to her preference for female company, but her fearless demeanour and single-minded devotion to her hounds have won over the critics. This place shows that anything is possible, and if one is ever in need of stimulation, the words carefully carved on numerous benches around the barn are sure to send a shiver down every hunter's spine. Words of wisdom indeed. Now, let's go hunting!