Thursday, May 10, 2018

An epic hunting tour of the US, part III: across the wide prairies to Alabama and the Mooreland Hunt Week

The air was bright and cold when I awoke on the Nance ranch after the kind of night’s sleep that only fresh air and exercise can engender. The mesa to the north-west of Adren’s home stood out clear and proud in the morning light, only needing a Navajo pony to rear on its edge to complete the picture. This is the kind of landscape that quickens the pulse and stirs the blood, that invites you to saddle up and ride out with a song on your lips. Or, in the real world, to tuck into an absolutely top-notch breakfast, which is what the Nance matriarch Beth served up to everyone in her high-ceilinged ranch home. It set us up for a tour of the ranch by truck, not as romantic as saddling up but a lot more practical, given that I had to set off for Alabama, 1,300 miles away, at some point.

Not a bad view to wake up to

The ranch is stunning, cattle heaven, with a new pond dug and lots of coops for the hunting. Did I mention that I have a few things I want to return for? Fox-hunting here is extremely high up the list! Hunting for Pueblo Indian ceramics made for an excellent substitute until I was forced to tear myself away and set off eastwards to the Texan border.

Life-saver for the cattle in the desert

Not very different to when the Pueblo Indians lived here

As I was starting far south of Albuquerque, I chose to drive in as straight a line east as possible, rather than diverting north to the interstate. The sun was out as I left the ranch, winding along a near empty road through rolling desert, dark green juniper bushes against sandy dry grass. Ahead rose the Magdalena Mountains, over which furious clouds spewed sheets of rain, black and misty. At their foot was the town of Magdalena itself, empty of pedestrians and nearly empty of cars. Boarded-up shops and closed-down diners flanked the street, forlorn signs fading and cracking. Hillary Clinton may have appealed to the liberal-minded glitterati in their gleaming glass skyscrapers in New York and Los Angeles, but it’s easy to see why she and her fellow Democrats resonated not at all in these poor towns, scattered across the vast centre of America, where there are few jobs and fewer prospects. After all, this is where the ‘deplorables’ live.

Empty roads and crystal-clear air: New Mexico

The road goes ever on and on

Rain over the Magdalena Mountains

As I descended down one long slope to a plain backed by mountains, black rock loomed up on either side of the road and before I knew it I was driving into the Valley of Fires through a huge swathe of lava, the last remnants of an eruption 5,000 years before. Rather than spewing from a volcano, this 44-mile long river of lava, the Carrizozo Malpais, emerged from vents in the valley floor. I pulled off for a closer look – nearly losing the car door to the wind – and absorbed the view for a minute. There was not a soul around and the only sound was the gale. Everything before me was black, with a scattering of tattered grasses clinging onto the cracks, as if a dragon had swooped low over the land and blasted fire for hundreds of miles. An extraordinary place.

The Stars and Stripes over the Valley of Fires

Black, but not a wasteland: collared lizards nip through the cracks
and the Lily in the Desert, with tiny flowers and ribbonlike leaves, blooms

Returning to my eastward progress, I passed through the 1870s, also known as Lincoln, New Mexico, where the jail and courthouse played host to Billy the Kid. The town is perfectly preserved, with the Tunstall Store still selling 19th-century merchandise and verandahs along the street crying out for a laconic cowboy to scuff his boots along them. Beyond the town of Hondo the land began to flatten out, the plains on either side bare of anything but dry, tawny grasses. I was approaching the alien capital, Area 51, Roswell, where extra-terrestrials once landed, and, apparently, immediately left again because the landscape was just so dull. It has a certain awesomeness to it, being so huge, and it would be fun to chase a coyote or two across it, but after a while the eye longs for something to startle it out of its lethargy. Only the occasional wrought-iron archway with cut-outs of cowboys and cattle that announced another vast ranch interrupted the monotony. One thing’s for sure, I wouldn’t want to be rounding up cattle here without a darn good compass. 

A last glimpse of mountains before the plains of eastern New Mexico

Flat. For miles and miles and miles

And miles

Finally, I reached the Texan border, which was equally thrilling. But then dark clouds loomed ahead as the sun behind me slanted through the grey blanket that had echoed the desert in its uniformity and I smiled involuntarily as it caught a water tower, so evocative of America, and lent the arrow-straight road ahead an enchanted air. Leaving the back roads for the interstate, a craggy ridge to the west was tinged pink as the sky above turned gold, finally fading to darkness split by the insistent reminders of McDonalds and Best Western.


Dull prairie transformed to pure beauty


Unmistakably America

Pressing on as long as I could, I stopped for gas (sorry, British readers, but the word has started to trip off my tongue more easily than ‘petrol’) and joined an elderly black truck driver at the counter. There was a skinny white guy behind the till and a Mexican girl stacking the shelves, when the driver grinned at the sound of my voice and wondered aloud which of our disparate accents was furthest from home. He was from deepest Louisiana, with that wonderful rich, honeycomb drawl, and an infectious laugh. We exchanged tales of the road, and I set off again with renewed energy. Such encounters are one of the chief joys of solo voyaging, the chance for disparate lives to touch and part again, leaving all of us uplifted with a sense of fellowship.

Texas! 'Drive friendly - the Texas way'


I spent the night in an Econolodge, which was more comfortable than the name suggests. It was clearly breakfast that bore the brunt of the ‘econo’ bit, with cardboard muffins and polystyrene cups. I longed for bowls and silverware that could be washed instead of cluttering up gutters and eventually the Pacific! The weather was gloomy and humid, with Fort Worth a grey collection of grotty freeways and grubby glass towers. The temperature gauge hit 82˚F, 60˚F higher than the lowest point of the trip, 22˚F in Colorado. Getting out of the car was distinctly unpleasant, especially considering it was February.


This sign was beside the road near Roswell, in an area one
would assume was pro-Trump. Was it left over from the Obama
years, or are the locals repelled by the orange one?

I had one hairy moment when an ancient truck carrying scrap metal decided to fling a few chunks and strips of sharp-looking silver across the road, causing cars to swerve. I thought I caught a sliver with my wheels and pulled off in a panic, but my trusty Nissan was more than a match for whatever it was. Returning to the interstate with a giant soothing cup of French Vanilla ‘coffee’, a gang of workmen were already gathering and sweeping the debris with insouciant disregard to the approaching traffic. It must be a regular occurrence…

Americana: an old truck and an Art Deco store, seemingly defunct

A fitful sun lit my passage into Arkansas, over the wide brown Tennessee River into Memphis, and then almost immediately out of Tennessee into Alabama as darkness fell. Finally, I climbed the winding road to my dear friend Cary’s house, where her adorable mongrel, Gwen, the ‘gas station dog who won the adoption lottery’, gave me all the welcome I could help for. A glass of chilled sparkling rosé did not go amiss, either!

Arkansas: 'The Natural State' 
Which begs the question, how are the rest artificial?

Tennessee: 'The Volunteer State Welcomes You'
Well, that's nice

Mississippi: 'Birthplace of Ameria's Music'
Happy Birthday!
It was too dark to take a picture of the Alabama sign, but it reads:
'Welcome to Alabama the Beautiful'
or, of course: 'Welcome to Sweet Home Alabama',
which means you have the song stuck 
in your head for hundreds of miles...

By lucky chance, my planned sojourn in Alabama coincided with the Mooreland Hunt Week, with Bear Creek and Midland from Georgia the visiting packs. To warm up, Cary and I took Tully and Nate, her off-the-track Thoroughbreds, for a trail ride (hack) around the fields the day before. There had been heavy rain recently and numerous animal tracks showed in the smooth swathes of mud: deer, turkeys, coyote, rabbit. Both horses were behaving beautifully, so Cary suggested a canter. I agreed, and we set off, but almost immediately I felt my right rein come away. I called to Cary to stop, but as she slowed down the bit fell out of Nate’s mouth, he spun round in panic, bunched up his haunches and took off, flat out.

Nate, in more relaxed mode!
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

It’s extraordinary how much one can think about when one is gathering up dangling pieces of tack, grabbing the sole remaining bit of bridle, the noseband, and trying to talk soothingly to a bolting horse. Chief among my thoughts was that my mother was going to be very upset if I fell off, followed by the sure and certain conviction that I was not going to bail out. Even with the threat of armadillo holes and deep mud threatening to trip us up, hitting the ground from a 16.2hh galloping horse would not be comfortable. I don’t even know how I would have done it! Eventually, Nate slowed down enough for me to hop off, whereupon I went to his head and he nuzzled me as if to say ‘that was scary, mum!’ He hadn’t been malicious, just frightened, and had never stumbled.

Nate safely at home, with the Full Cry kennels in the distance
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

It turned out that the loop of the gag cheekpiece had snapped right through, cleanly and all at once, with no signs of prior deterioration. A tad worrying, and it meant that we were then short a bit. Luckily, Cary has been training Tully to go bitless, with the ultimate aim of hunting him with nothing but a rope, so we swapped bridles and ambled home, Tully behaving impeccably with nothing in his mouth. A stiff drink back at the barn with the Full Cry huntsman Jay Athon and his wife Mopsy was extremely welcome. We were all delighted to find that because I had had Cary’s tracker in my pocket, we had proof that former racehorse Wildcat Nation was quick: 30mph!

Proof!
Note the sudden burst of speed and the amble home...

Four wheels proved a more relaxing option the next day for the start of hunting. Cary, her husband HC and I hopped into HC’s super new blue Jeep as dark clouds threatened to put the kibosh on the action altogether. Fortunately, the hunting instinct triumphed over the fair-weather riders, and we all set off after the joint pack of Bear Creek and Midland hounds. Following by car always requires a certain amount of ingenuity, but HC and Cary are seasoned campaigners. We stood station on a road for a while – one passing car asked what we were all doing, storm chasing? Testament to the darkness of the sky, but not as fun as the reality, and they wished us a good day – before the radio announced that hounds were on and heading back past the meet. We hared in pursuit and got into the perfect spot to see a big red coyote circumnavigating a huge cotton field, water splashing up from every pad. The first hounds soon appeared in pursuit, but it was a long time before the riders could get up. Heavy going doesn’t begin to describe the ground. We cracked on along a parallel lane, but soon came to a near stop as the heavens opened and a deluge destroyed almost all semblance of visibility. Normally, I chafe at being in a car rather than on a horse, but I confess I didn’t mind in this case…

The coolest car-following car in the hunting world
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Happy me!
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Mooreland whip Rachael ready for the off on a soggy morning
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Leaving a wake!
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Trying to keep up - coyote and hounds were long gone
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Hounds lost (or caught, depending on which huntsman you spoke to) the coyote in Nance Creek, which, in pleasing synergy, is named for Juan Tomas huntsman Adren Nance’s family, who farmed over here before moving to New Mexico in his grandfather’s time. Horses and hounds – and humans – were exhausted by the ground, but revived by a fantastic tailgate back at the meet, when, naturally, the sun came out. The day ended with a cocktail party, the elegant dresses and glittering crystal a striking contrast with the soggy mud-covered characters from earlier in day. Nothing says variety like hunting!

Cary the photographer in action under threatening skies

A tailgate worthy of the name - delicious!

My unrelenting schedule of riding or driving every day caught up with me on the Friday, when my body refused point-blank at 5am to go with Cary to the stables to get the horses. I went back to bed and slept another five hours, missing a morning that, to my selfish relief, was hot and blank. We were back in the Jeep the following day, and hounds worked well out of our sight as we waited on point. We would have been useful had the coyote run our way, but we lost the gamble on this occasion, returning to watch everyone hack in – including the smart equipage of Earl Burchett with his ex-Amish plough horse and buggy, wife Jen riding point. Easton drives and rides, and the beautiful blue vehicle, picked out in silver, with its wide axles and sturdy tyres, goes everywhere.

Three of the best huntsmen in America: Rhodri Jones-Evans of Mooreland,
Steve Clifton of Bear Creek and Ken George of Midland

A motley crew of hunt staff ready for the off. 
Trying to get them all to pose at once is nigh impossible - 
Steve and Ken, I mean you!

A paved road? For wimps

From Amish ploughshares to the Alabamian hunting field
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

An equipage of which The Duke of Edinburgh would be proud
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Hacking home in the heat
Courtesy of Cary McWhorter

Steve and Ken bringing them home

All smiles: Mason Lampton MFH and Leslie Crosby MFH

Mary-Lu, Paula, Mason and Jenna of Midland looking good

One of the indispensable staff who keep the whole caboodle on the road:
Jenna of Midland

That night, Mooreland huntsman Rhodri Jones-Evans proved he could pull off a flamingo hat at the hunt ball, the surreal culmination of an evening that began with cocktails at the beautiful home of Mooreland’s senior master Leslie Crosby. She and her fellow masters Hal Barry of Bear Creek and Mason Lampton of Midland welcomed us all, and David Twiggs, executive director of the MFHA, paid tribute to the huntsman and staff who had put on a great show despite unseasonal heat and bottomless going. We all decamped to the Huntsville Museum of Art for dinner and dancing, although the latter definitely took precedence as the music defeated conversation during dinner. Perhaps dinner first, next tme, and then music… which was brilliant, especially the saxophonist. We tore up the dancefloor in fine style, until we dragged ourselves away to get some sleep before moving out with Full Cry first thing in the morning.

HC pulling off the neon crown look; Bear Creek whip Mel and me

With Southern royalty Warner and Tish Ray

Me with party animal David Twiggs of the MFHA

Oh yes, Rhodri can rock the flamingo look!

Patience is a virtue, and huntsman Jay Athon proved the old saw in spades when he quietly kept going for four hours around sodden coverts and muddy corn fields, until we and the hounds were rewarded with an absolute cracker of a run. They put up a coyote that streaked away across stubble and dived into a strip of trees a quarter of a mile away. Hounds needed a touch of help to get on the right line, but once on, they were on! They screamed through the trees, across grass into sparse covert and flashed through the thickets with us galloping outside, their music a clarion call. Nate was as thrilled as anyone to be on the move, but never tried to get away from me; it is such a joy to feel so much controlled power underneath! We crossed through a hedge line and galloped flat out in Jay’s wake down the tramlines of winter wheat, hounds already far ahead. Finally, the coyote crossed the railway line, forcing us to give it best, but we were all well satisfied with the blistering pace after such a long period of determined searching. The overcast, cool weather and the damp ground (I kept wondering where the ‘very wet’ bit was that I had been warned about, before realising that what Alabamians consider soggy is normal winter going to me) made for excellent scent, but with the coverts flooded, finding the coyotes in the first place was the tricky thing. Thank goodness for a huntsman that doesn’t give up.

Heading towards Death Valley... not an advisable place
to be if you're Wil E. Coyote

Cary and her law intern, Natalie, who is as quick to learn the 
whys and wherefores of hunting as the law. One to watch!

Jay Athon and David Twiggs setting off on a thankfully cool morning

Gathering hounds after a blistering run, just reward for our patience

David Twiggs, executive director of the MFHA and an
enthusiastic follower. He chose a good day!

Tired hounds after a fantastic run

Hacking back to Hall Place, a sadly dilapidated historic plantation house.
If only I had a million or two spare...

Successful selfie

We had another such huntsman on Tuesday, when my last day in Alabama was spent with Rhodri and the Mooreland hounds. On a beautiful morning, soft and warm, like a perfect June day in England, Cary and I hacked from the barn to her farm, where four staff and five field members had gathered. Nate and Tully were on excellent form, easily fit enough to do five miles there, and the chance to warm up and enjoy the landscape the old-fashioned was very special. I would always choose to hack the meet over faffing with trailers, so it was super to have the chance.

Hacking to the meet on a perfect morning

Rhodri has done an excellent job with this handsome pack of crossbred hounds and his unobtrusive control is wonderful to watch. After drawing a covert blank, they return like iron filings to a magnet, flocking towards him from all points of the compass, showing how hard they work, how trusted they are and how biddable they are. We crossed some gorgeous country, more rolling than much of Alabama, lush and green under a clear blue sky. The Tennessee river formed the northern border, curving in a wide loop that has been known to confound the giving of directions; if Rhodri says ‘north’, he means ‘towards the river’. We rode part way along an ancient track, known as Lock A Road, a reminder of when the Tennessee was made navigable by a series of locks, through sun-dappled woods where the breeze soughed in the branches and around fields of young wheat.

Whip Rachael on duty

Hacking up Lock A Road

Cary looking sharp! We were doing the English thing of wearing formal 
throughout the season instead of ratcatcher in the week,
although we felt a little too smart!

Rhodri and the Mooreland hounds hacking on to the next draw

Welsh-born Rhodri, one of the best in the business!

Finally, hounds spoke deep in the woods by the river, and we followed the sound of the music past the meet and to an overlook, where they lost the line. We had been out for nearly four hours and were close to the trailers, so we might have called it a day, but Mooreland people are made of sterner stuff and he recast the hounds in the wood. A 3½-mile point proved he was right to do so! Nate was an absolute star, and it was fantastic to see these Mooreland hounds do their stuff. The only hiccup was when, on a slippery field boundary, the field master’s horse flung up a mud-covered stone than hit my left eye with some force. Fortunately, I only needed one to see the armadillo holes!

Calling them up after losing the line the first time

Perhaps this time would be more successful... Rhodri being patient

More than three miles later! End of the line

A very satisfied huntsman and hounds

We glimpsed red-tailed hawks and turkey vultures on the ride back, cleaned tack and drove home, tired and content, to collapse in front of a classic Southern film, Steel Magnolias. A perfect last day in Alabama. Thank you all, Cary and Nate especially, for a blissful week!

Me and Nate, doing his Dobbin pose. Ten minutes earlier
he had been showing the field his turn of speed. 
Sign of a good hunt horse, being able to preserve energy
when hounds aren't running. He's a keeper!

BFFs: me and Cary at the Mooreland Hunt Ball

Next time: to George Washington's childhood home in Virginia!


Gateway to England
The sun is finally out on this side of the pond, and we were treated to a superb display of equestrianism at the Mitsubishi Motors Badminton Horse Trials last weekend. Congratulations to Jonelle Price on a truly well-deserved win. 
Read all about it in the May 10 edition of Horse & Hound, which also 
happens to include my report on the Arapahoe Hunt in Colorado!
If you would like the chance to ride across the heavenly English countryside yourself and stay in houses as historic and beautiful as Badminton House itself, email info@gatewaytoengland.com