We all have a list of things to do or places we would like
to see, inelegantly known as a ‘bucket list’, and top of my hunting wish list since
I came to America was to hunt behind Dr Marvin Beeman and the English foxhounds of
the Arapahoe Hunt. Dr Beeman has been at the forefront of sport on
the Colorado prairie since he started whipping in to his father, George, at the
age of 10 nearly 75 years ago, and has never missed a season. On this
tour, a visit to his mile-high country was a must, so it was with great
anticipation that I drew up at the home of joint-master Mary Ewing.
Marvin Beeman (far left) whipping in to his father, George, aged 10
Courtesy of the Arapahoe Hunt
But on the way to dinner, Mary dropped the bombshell
that dashed my hopes. Only a week or so before, Dr Beeman’s doctor had forbidden
him from riding for 90 days, which stretched past the end of the season. The
day before I arrived, the hunt had made the decision that Dr Beeman would formally
retire, and he handed over the horn to his first whip, Stephen Currey.
Dr Beeman (left) with his first whip, now huntsman, Stephen Currey
Courtesy of Zina Balash
Horrific timing, and such a shame, but I had many blessings
to count. Not least, that Dr Beeman was on cracking form and entertained me for
hours with stories of coyotes, runs, blizzards, horses, people and hounds. One
of the most memorable was from the very start of his career, when he and his
father took all 50 couple of hounds out before school. They put up a coyote and
had a cracking run with a seven-mile point in freezing temperatures. His mother
wasn’t best pleased, and he didn’t get to school until noon, but it set the
standard for a fantastic career. Schooling did get a look in, too, enabling him to
qualify as a veterinary surgeon, which allows him, as he says, to hunt. Last
year, at the Virginia hound show, Dr Beeman, together with Marty Wood MFH of
the Live Oak Hounds, was inducted into the Huntsman’s Hall of Fame in the Museum of Hounds and Hunting at Morvern
Park, sharing the honour that had been conferred on his father in 2001.
Dr Beeman's bond with his hounds is palpable, whether he is hunting hounds or not
Left-hand image courtesy of Zina Balash
The story of the Arapahoe is a grand one, worthy of gracing
the pages of Horse & Hound. My
article will be published on May 10, marking the end of an era, but the start of a new
one. (Buy the magazine for a more in-depth account of the hunt's history than included here!) Welshman Stephen has very large shoes to fill, but he has served an ideal
apprenticeship as Dr Beeman’s first whip, and I will definitely be returning to
see him settle in. He had a horrid job the day I was there – no huntsman would
want to officially take over from a living legend in the presence of Horse & Hound – but he will clearly
be a success.
Stephen Currey leaving the kennels on his first day as official huntsman
Not only was everyone reeling from Dr Beeman’s announcement,
but the wind was blowing a gale from the Rocky Mountains. The Arapahoe hounds
are all English, beautifully level and extremely biddable; it was their discipline that prompted Major Lawrence C. Phipps, founder of the pack, to choose them over the more independently minded American hounds.
Despite hunting a drought-stricken plain, they rarely struggle to sniff
something, but the wind did make things difficult on this occasion.
We put up a brace straightaway, and horses and humans alike thrilled to the
hounds’ voices, but the coyote knew exactly how to baffle us when any body
scent was swept away so completely by the wind, and we lost the line. Shortly
afterwards, working towards where another coyote had been viewed, whipper-in Cary
had a nasty fall when her horse tripped. Such was the force of the impact that
the shank of the Pelham snapped in half – the first time I had ever seen such a
thing – and Cary’s wobbly legs meant there was no way she could remount.
Setting off towards the Rocky Mountains.
Three peaks over 14,000ft are visible from this country
We were forced to head in after a mere hour, a tremendous disappointment.
But these things happen in hunting, and I had seen enough to know that I want
to return to that glorious open country, where mile after mile of tawny
grassland stretches away into the distance, criss-crossed by coops and creeks
and scattered with spiny yucca plants over which horses jink and jump with joyous
abandon. A seven-mile point is a regular occurrence here, following strong, fleet
coyotes who will stop and watch proceedings before making their merry way
onwards, seemingly getting as much of a thrill from the chase as those of us bustling
in their wake. As I write this in rainy England, the MFHA Hark Forward tour has just
enjoyed a splendid performance trial in the Arapahoe country, and if I could
snap my fingers and join them, I would drop everything and do so.
You ready yet? Come on then! Wil E. Coyote comes out to play
Courtesy of Zina Balash
A Western welcome
The sport may not have been the best, but the hospitality certainly
was. My first evening was at the home of Grant Carey, whom I had met at the Tejon Hunt Week and who whips in to the Arapahoe. Mary spoke of his dedication in learning the
ropes, asking Dr Beeman questions after every day’s hunting, and he is now an
integral part of the hunt. He and his wife, Annette, laid on a wonderful dinner party, and gave me the place of honour at the table between Dr Beeman and his wife,
Eunice. The Beemans met at Fort Collins college, and Eunice whipped in to her husband for 40 years after being
presented with a certificate from
college for PHT, or Putting Hubby Through. It was a wonderful way to begin my
acquaintance with the Arapahoe.
The kennels and hound run with stables and yard beyond
Eager hounds
Is it time for dinner yet? Yay! Yum
According to Dr Beeman, these are the perfect scenting conditions.
Rather a gorgeous day to be out, whatever the sport!
Courtesy of Zina Balash
After our abortive day's hunting, Eunice, Mary, Dr Beeman and I feasted on Mary’s hotpot in the hunt’s clubhouse, a cosy hall next to the kennels with a woodburning stove and walls festooned in hunt memorabilia, including the Honor Roll of tumblers. Proceedings were interrupted by Steve reporting that Dolly, the horse that had fallen, was colicking, so I had the treat of seeing Dr Beeman with his veterinary hat on. The stables, set under the same roof as the kennels, are like something out of James Herriot’s books, with wooden floors, cobwebbed beams and tie stalls facing deep mangers. The scents of hay and horse, the sound of horses munching, the cats streaking up the bales to stare haughtily down at proceedings: if it weren’t for the 14,000ft snow-capped mountains in the distance, it could be Yorkshire. Anyone who spends much time with me knows that I mention James Herriot roughly every half hour, so you will understand that the chance to assist his Colorado counterpart drench and inject Dolly was just a little exciting. Most importantly, she was fine.
Scene of many a party: the Arapahoe club house
Sunset over the Rockies from the kennels
The following morning, I exercised hounds with Steve and a less wobbly Cary, and thought again what perfect hunting
country this is. It’s not just wire fences and prairie-dog holes you have to
watch out for here, though, but old missile launchers and even unexploded
bombs. This is the former Lowry Bombing Range, and even that morning, dull
thuds signalled the bomb squad at work. People fly model aeroplanes here, too,
and not just the miniature kind, but great big things that make a lot of noise.
Thankfully, they are considerate enough to keep away when they know the Arapahoe
is exercising. After coffee, I drove away from the kennels to the south, with Pikes Peak, the
14,000ft mountain behind Colorado Springs gleaming white in the distance, and
passed numerous coops named for the members who had sponsored their building
when the country moved here from Highlands Ranch, now swallowed up by the
Denver sprawl. There is so much space out here that the developers have been
careless, building with abandon. Thank goodness
for unexploded bombs!
Hound exercise with the Arapahoe.
Pikes Peak is the white-capped smudge on the horizon
The kennels on their windswept prairie
One of my favourites of Zina's pictures. Blizzard? What blizzard?
Courtesy of Zina Balash
A spectacular road Due South
After a night feasting on buffalo burgers at Ted's Montana Grill, I took to
the road again, due South. (Anyone remember that TV programme about the
Canadian Mountie in Chicago? The theme tune stayed in my head all day. Duuee South, that’s the way I’m going, Duuuooue
South). Snow from an overnight blizzard glittered under clear blue skies
when I left Mary’s, but by the time I reached Colorado Springs, 50 miles away,
the clouds had descended and the temperature gauge on the car had plummeted to
22˚F,
5˚C
below freezing. It had been my intention to explore the extraordinary Garden of the Gods,
and I did, but the view of Pikes Peak, which inspired Katherine Lee Bates to write the poem that
became America the Beautiful, was
less than stellar. The red sandstone of Cathedral Spires and Sleeping Giant was still beautiful, though, glowing against
the snow and grey skies. As is typical in America, the park was well laid out, with an
excellent visitor centre and beautifully kept trails for car, bike, foot and
horse winding through the rock formations. Viewing points were everywhere, and
even on this dank February day, appreciative visitors were reading the
information boards and lamenting the lack of a fabled mountain.
The view leaving Mary's house. Perfect, one might think
At least the rocks have some colour: North Gateway Rock
Looking towards Sentinel Rock
Balanced Rock. In the 1870s, an enterprising youngster named Curt Goeke
started taking photographs of visitors for 25 cents each, and made so much
money that his father purchased the rock and took up photography.
They kept four burros (donkeys) for visitors who wanted to pose as explorers, too.
As cameras became popular, they fenced the rock and charged for entry instead,
enraging locals. Eventually, they sold the site to the parks department for $25,000
and a grand tearing down of the fence followed. It remains a top spot for snaps!
Pikes Peak. Honest
If I had had time, I would have stopped at Grant Carey’s
Cave of the Winds, a magical complex of underground chambers set deep in the
mountains, but that will have to wait until another time. Whizzing south on the
I-75, the snow started to recede and the apparently endless prairie that
stretches east from the mountains was revealed on my left. With a short drive
of only 5½ hours to do before reaching Santa Fe, I deviated from the interstate
onto the 160, winding through a mountain pass and turning south on the far side.
Another temptation lay just to the north, in the form of the Great Sand Dunes National Park, but that will have to join the Cave of the Winds on the ‘reasons to
return’ list. Instead, I drove south on a near-empty road, listening to Timothy
West read The Duke’s Children by
Anthony Trollope in a pleasing juxtaposition of worlds.
View from my lunch stop, before the 160 climbs through the pass
Mountain!
New state, New Mexico
Crossing into New Mexico, the road began to twist and turn as
I entered the valley of the Rio Grande. Is there any name more romantic? Less
romantic was the giant traffic jam I encountered where they were trying
to stop the road falling into the canyon, but it allowed me time to
admire the surprisingly modest river in its rocky ravine. The multiple-lane
highway and increased traffic was disconcerting after the empty roads I was used
to, but as I crossed the I-25 where it curves up past Santa Fe, the traffic
fell away once more as I entered the desert that surrounds the home of Richard
Patton MFH and his wife, Elayne.
The gorge just glimpsed is the legendary canyon of the Rio Grande.
Unfortunately, the light wasn't ideal for taking photographs
Jumping junipers
Dawn in the desert is worth getting up for. Pure golden
light catching the branches of spiny cholla cacti and slanting through the
Pattons’ old barn. Clear skies casting the distant mountains into sharp relief,
cold air invigorating the senses. 400 miles south of Denver, Santa Fe is even higher than the mile-high city, 7,199ft up in high desert, so is frosty at night and warm as the sun’s power takes
hold. I was here to visit the Caza Ladron at the invitation of Emily Esterson,
publisher of Covertside, the magazine
of the American MFHA, the latest edition of which included an article of mine
on hound shows in Britain, with photographs by the brilliant Sarah Farnsworth. Emily
had arranged for me to ride chestnut quarter horse Gunner, off whom Rick Atchinson hunts hounds. He doesn’t go well in the field, so I was delighted to accompany
Emily whipping in and he gave me a great ride.
The first rays touching a cholla cactus
Looking west to distant mountains
In the barn
We met at the kennels, which stand on the southern edge of
HIPICO horse park, the smart equestrian centre owned by joint-masters Guy McElvain and Brian Gonzales (both absent) and Brian's wife Phyllis.
After a delicious stirrup cup of hot port wine from Phyllis, we set off into
the desert. Huge juniper bushes scatter the sandy soil here, interspersed with
the vicious cholla cacti with its inches-long spines. The spiny branches break off at the slightest touch and hang on to their victim, hence the nickname 'jumping cactus'. The horses know they
will not enjoy an encounter with them and swerve round them with alacrity, so a
fast run here is as much sideways as it is forwards. These horses can change
legs as well as Valegro can and bounce over sage brush like an Olympic hurdler.
Who says you need jumps to have fun?
Richard Patton MFH awaiting the off
Sterns up, ears pricked, we're off!
Unlike the empty, open desert of the Arapahoe, the juniper
bushes here make viewing quite difficult. We found fairly swiftly and
Emily took off on the left flank, me close behind. I could see little of hounds and
as my ears are less than stellar, all I could do was follow Emily and trust we
were going the right way! We had a lovely spin around the junipers before we had
to give our pilot best, gathering up the panting bunch of crossbred hounds who
had done well in tricky circumstances: apparently, an elk and her calf had
foiled some of the line. A drink was needed, and we found a watering hole that
still harboured a drift of snow along one edge. When you’re thankful that you're wearing a
lightweight hunt coat, snow looks a bit odd.
Rick calling up hounds after the first spin
Emily Esterson, whipper-in and publisher of Covertside
in a pleasantly open bit of juniper-crowded desert
Watering hounds. Spot the snow in the background!
Hounds found a few more smelly things, but nothing held
true for long, so we gradually wound our way home. Desert bluebirds, brilliant sapphire
all over, flashed through the junipers and jack rabbits sprang away as we
picked our way across bands of black lava. A sure-footed horse is vital here. One last potential run was foiled by
Wil E. darting down into a lava-strewn quarry too rough for the horses – no
flies on him! Hacking home under a cloudless sky, snow-capped mountains beyond Santa Fe, the city itself hidden
in a fold of the desert, gave us an idyllic view. One fly in the ointment was a conversation with Nancy Ambrosiano, a stalwart of the local Santa Fe pony club, who does her best to get more children out, but
who is thwarted by the all-too-familiar cottonwool culture. Riders, often as a
result of litigation-shy trainers, are too scared to leave the confines of an
arena, which creates bad riders and bored horses. I had encountered this
attitude many times in California, but I thought inhabitants of this rugged desert country would have a bit more sense. Sadly, it seems 21st-century
timidity has infected even the wild west.
Heading back to HIPICO, towards Santa Fe, hidden below
the distant Sangre de Cristo mountains
Caza Ladron takes the social side of things very seriously
and I had been told to expect great things from the post-hunting feast in the
clubhouse. I was not disappointed: melt-in-the-mouth pork, macaroni cheese and
unlimited bottles of my favourite Angry Orchard cider meant any benefit the
morning’s exercise had bestowed on my waistline was swiftly negated. Huntsman Rick gave an
account of the morning (a tradition I think has a lot to recommend it,
especially if second and third fields get left out of the action, or if juniper
bushes get in the way), and we shot the breeze for as long as we’d been riding.
They’re a close-knit, friendly bunch here, and one story in particular caught my attention. Phyllis saved up for years to buy a made-to-measure hunt coat, only to have it cut off her by an ambulance crew after a crashing fall in which she sustained broken ribs, cracked clavicle and collapsed lung. She had resigned herself to another few years of counting cents, but the Caza Ladron had other ideas. A 'Blessing the Coats' ceremony was invented, in which everyone threw their coats on the table for Rick to say a few words and then gathered them up. The only one left was a brand-new custom coat for Phyllis, made by the same tailor to the same measurements. They had all clubbed together to buy it, and it was the last one ever made by the tailor before he retired. A true testament to hunting friendship.
Me on the brilliant Gunner, huntsman Rick Atchinson,
Emily Esterson and Phyllis Gonzales
They’re a close-knit, friendly bunch here, and one story in particular caught my attention. Phyllis saved up for years to buy a made-to-measure hunt coat, only to have it cut off her by an ambulance crew after a crashing fall in which she sustained broken ribs, cracked clavicle and collapsed lung. She had resigned herself to another few years of counting cents, but the Caza Ladron had other ideas. A 'Blessing the Coats' ceremony was invented, in which everyone threw their coats on the table for Rick to say a few words and then gathered them up. The only one left was a brand-new custom coat for Phyllis, made by the same tailor to the same measurements. They had all clubbed together to buy it, and it was the last one ever made by the tailor before he retired. A true testament to hunting friendship.
Emily presenting the brand new coat to Phyllis, as Brian Gonzales,
sporting one of his trademark hats, looks on.
He never let slip to his wife what was about to happen!
A joyful moment with 'the best family a person could ask for',
as Phyllis said in her letter of thanks
Conquistadores and black coyote
Who knew there was not one, but two fox-hound packs in the New Mexican desert? Caza Ladron was formed by a breakaway group from Juan Tomas (stories vary...), which has its home on the Nance family ranch south-west of Albuquerque. Huntsman
and joint-master Adren Nance had attended Tejon and, with his fellow
joint-master Lonnie Peets, had invited me to join them in New Mexico. By lucky
chance, their meet that Sunday was at Buckman, usually a Caza Ladron meet but open to
Juan Tomas. The Nances had driven three hours by the
time I met them by an old windmill in the middle of nowhere at 9am, dedicated
indeed. I was introduced to Hainy, another chestnut quarter horse, one of
Adren’s ranch horses who I fell in love with immediately. Shaggy, with a
Western bridle and an unadorned saddle, he was sure-footed, smooth and
balanced, bouncing around sage brush and cholla cacti in response to the merest
touch of rein on his neck.
Family affair: Adren's sister Kimberley (left) also whips in.
Sadly, I only have pictures of Hainy's ears!
Adren’s delightful mother, Beth, was my pilot for the day,
although she urged me to pass her coloured Indian pony if the pace got too hot.
A nurse on an Indian reservation close to their ranch, she has whipped in to
Adren, together with her daughter Kimberley, for years, many with Adren’s father James,
now retired. I’m not sure I could work so closely with my family in such a
potentially stressful arena as the hunting field, but they all kept smiling! A
dozen or so riders joined us, including two gentlemen mounted on magnificent
Tennessee walking horses that towered over the pretty bay Arab leading first field.
Thoroughbreds aren’t needed here, instead, something capable of crossing rough
ground and steep gradients at speed is the key. Stamina is a must, too: Adren’s
crossbred American hounds have lion hounds in their mix, and they seldom give
up.
A neat pair of matched Tennessee Walking Horses
Setting off, with a great variety of horses, from Indian pony
to ranch horses, Arab to tall gaited steeds
Buckman's fixture has a dry, sandy river bed extending between
rolling juniper-scattered hills, among which steep arroyos (dry creek or gulch) lurk to
swallow up the unwary rider. We moved off along the wide, flat river bottom,
before scrambling up the northern side to emerge on a ridge with a grand view
of Los Alamos, otherwise known as Atomic City, to the west. Fortunately, no
mushroom clouds hung above. Hounds kept working hard with bursts of speed,
before, with a whoop, Adren viewed a small black coyote and engaged top gear. A
sprint ensued, ending with the clever beast diving down a hole like an Olympic
swimmer, with hounds hard behind. They marked enthusiastically, and Adren blew
to ground even more enthusiastically. Seeing the hounds work, and hearing the
stories of tracking mountain lions high into rocky canyons, prompted me to add
yet another item to my ‘reasons-to-return’ list.
The finest view in New Mexico!
Adren takes a breather aboard one of his multi-talented horses,
off whom he hunts hounds, works cattle and plays polo.
Los Alamos, Atomic City, is in the distance
Gone to ground
A whoopie-wagon stop was most welcome, when I was regaled
with hair-raising stories of the Spanish conquistadores who fought the native Acoma
Pueblo Indians in 1599 and enslaved the prisoners, chopping off the right feet of
any male over 25 so they couldn’t run away. Relations between the Spanish
interlopers and the native Americans had been peaceful hitherto, but the
Spanish leader, Don Juan de Oñate, who had been granted permission by King
Philip II to colonise New Mexico on behalf of Spain, was particularly
cruel. So furious was Philip II that Don Oñate was banished from the Americas and
lived out his time in ignominy at home. (Nobody expects the Spanish retribution!)
The remaining Acoma Pueblos rebuilt their village in 1601 and it still survives.
Looking across the juniper-scattered desert to a steep mesa,
typical of this land of tumbled rocks
We crossed the river bed and drew the southern side below a
steep cliff, where hounds found, and I obeyed Beth’s injunction to kick on,
galloping through the soft sand and up through the junipers. Around cacti,
along ridges, down steep slopes and finally back to the river bed. Cracking
stuff.
Perfect going
Reasons for a red coat No 1!
We drew one final stretch close to the meet, cantering along
a ridge and slithering down a sheer slope of scree before calling it a day and
getting out the tailgate goodies of asparagus and fried chicken. My intention
had been to stay with Lonnie that night, but she urged me to accept Adren’s
invitation to come to his ranch and see ‘Merica… only three hours and miles of
teeth-rattling washboard surface away. I know the theory that it’s best to go
fast over bad washboard, but when you’re driving a rental car that has to do
several thousand more miles, slow and careful feels like the best idea, even
if it makes Beth think I’m chicken…
Last draw, Hainy as absorbed as I was
Looking towards a sacred Indian mountain, taken during
a brief break from the teeth-rattling washboard road
The Nance ranch is straight out of a Zane Grey novel, 26,000
acres of sage brush and sand, rocky mesas and sheer canyons. The skies are huge
and ever-changing, crystal clear air revealing every vagary of cloud and rain
split by golden rays of sunlight. I could gaze at a view like this forever, and
all I wanted to do was gallop and gallop. But Adren and an Air Force friend had
a different kind of fun in mind… gunpowder. We set up targets 150 yards and 300
yards from his front porch and proceeded to blow them away with an AR-15 rifle.
I am proud to say that I proved rather a good shot! This is not the place for a
debate on gun laws, but Adren is just one of many of my friends who own several
guns, enjoy shooting them and use them both for target shooting and game
hunting, but who would never use them in the abhorrent, murdering fashion they
have been. Gun ownership should not be outlawed, but it should be an awful lot
harder to get hold of them and if the police receive warnings about a potential
threat, they should act. The all-too-frequent massacres are a stain on America and who knows what the answer is, but forcing law-abiding, upstanding Americans to hand over their guns will do little to help.
Juan Tomas kennels on a blustery evening
The view from the porch, endless miles of inviting West
Er, me...
Bang! See the puff of smoke?
We finished the evening around a bonfire (a dead juniper bush!)
with a bottle or several as Adren told spine-chilling tales of skin-walkers, Navajo
spirits who can change into animals at will, usually coyote. To become a
skin-walker, the witch or wizard must commit the most heinous of crimes, to
kill a close family member. As a boy, Adren remembers riding home when he saw a
young Indian girl by the side of the road. He gave her a lift to the ranch, but
his horse became increasingly terrified… whereupon he looked round to see not a
girl, but a coyote clinging onto the horse’s back with razor-sharp claws…
Are there eyes in the flames?
Next time: across the vastness of Texas to Alabama and the
Mooreland Hunt Week
England has its own stretches of wild country, with one of the most beautiful being Dartmoor in the south-west. A land of heather and sheep-nibbled turf scattered with sacred stones and ancient ruined villages, this is a glorious place to ride. Liberty Trails runs riding holidays from the heart of the moor, staying in beautiful Bovey Castle or in a cosy yurt, and spending all day exploring on fit, well-mannered horses. You can even learn to fly hawks from horseback. Email info@gatewaytoengland.com to find out more about a truly memorable experience.
