Hunting Behind
Nebraska and Iowa's Foxhunting Club
M
y summer tan breeches blocked the winter chill like
a sieve. Hands trembling, I reluctantly peeled off
my insulated riding gloves to tack up my mount,
Josie, a beautiful black Paint and Percheron cross; my fat,
gloved fingers kept slipping while trying to work with the
fine leather pieces of her bridle. It's amazing how difficult
tacking up a horse becomes when your heart is trying to
beat its way out of your chest. Looking around, it seemed as
though everyone else was mounted and ready.
"Dear, aren't you supposed to tack up your horse from the
left side?" asked my significant other, standing to the side,
smiling and excited for me to experience my first fox hunt,
with camera ready.
"Oh – yeah."
"Are you nervous?"
I meekly nodded, but played it cool, and secretly let out a
nervous, icy breath as I frantically moved to the other side
of Josie. My soul quivered as I made the final adjustments to
her girth before mounting.
Then the trailer door opened and out poured the hounds
of the North Hills Hunt (NHH). Their high-pitched, excited
cries rang out into the white, February landscape. Curious
and constantly working, they moved to and fro between
riders and horses, noses to the ground. Some rolled and
played in the snow, while others waited intently with
eyes shining, ears listening and tails alert, anticipating the
huntsman's first command.
While foxhounds are working, or hunting, no one in the
field should speak to them, instructed Carine Stava, my
trainer and Josie's owner at the Farm at Butterflat Creek, as I
watched the scene unfold before me.
The huntsman sat on a bay horse, impressively appointed
in a scarlet coat, white breeches and tall, black boots. He
held a whip in one hand, his reins in the other, and a golden
(brass) hunting horn gleamed while wedged between the
buttons of his bright red coat. Other riders, collectively
50 NEBRASKAland • OCTOBER 2016
