I damn near didn’t go up to Red Rock to begin with because the forecast was rain, and I figured that was the one scenario under which the hunt might get canceled. Of course, I was wrong. Lynn Lloyd doesn’t cancel hunts. I figured, worst case scenario, nobody rides but me, the master, and the whips, and my education in hunting in foul weather is rounded out nicely (I’ve already done snow and ice and wind chill factors I’d rather not know about for certain). Well, what do you know but we wound up with the loveliest weather I’ve seen up there yet. There were dark clouds, but somehow we remained out from under them–sunny skies and no wind the whole day.
Now, this was my first time hunting in ratcatcher attire, and though I was mildly self-conscious at lacking a bona fide hacking jacket, Lynn was quick to assure me that any old tweed will do. I must say, some part of me likes the Shetland sweater, tattersall shirt, and herringbone look better than formal hunt attire. Anybody else feel that way? Purely vanity, but oh well.
We stayed out a pretty long time–almost six hours–and I finally managed to stick it out to the very end. Being out in that amazing Nevada landscape never fails to electrify me. I need to whip up some kind of haiku about the heebie jeebies I can’t help feeling at the beginning of the hunt erupting into ecstasy about an hour into it. The quarry, alas, was nowhere to be found. My guess is that the 'yotes are pretty savvy at this point in the season. At one point, we thought the pack was getting something–canine or feline, it wasn’t clear–to bay up at the top of a terrain feature they call the Wine Spine, but nothing came of it.
I cheated coming a cropper once, when the very nice mare, Liberty Bell, that Lynn had set me up with leaped off a drop and unseated me, but after hanging onto her neck for half a dozen strides I managed to right myself. Later in the day, another leap didn’t work out so well, and I got my baptism by ejection. Galloping behind one of the whips whose horse spooked, Liberty Bell thought it would be appropriate to follow suit, jumped sharply to the right, and off I went. I might have stayed on had my right rein not snapped clean in two (though one doesn’t want to be balancing on the horse’s mouth, obviously) and had the saddle I’d borrowed had knee blocks (it was one of those closest-of-contact deals, very nice but meant for better riders than yours truly). Either way, it couldn’t have been a nicer fall. I hit right between my left shoulder and my kidney on a very soft patch of loam–no rocks, no roots–and my head didn’t even touch the ground, which was nice, because the risk of brain injuries aside, I had just invested in a new helmet. My parachuting instructors in the Army, convinced as they were that a good PLF could remedy even a total parachute malfunction, would’ve been proud of that fall, I think. Right away, I heard the whip holler to ask if I was ok, I answered in the affirmative, and then she was off trying to catch the mare, who, under the auspices of her name, was truly letting freedom ring in a dash for the horizon. I was off on foot to catch up.
A visitor (actually, an out-of-state member) from Iron Bridge Hounds in Howard County, MD had offered her belt to improvise a rein by the time I regained the first flight. The day was nearly done at that point–just a few more hounds to gather up and a fairly short hack to the trailers.
For once, when we got to the hunt breakfast, I was able to eat. My first two hunts, I was so keyed up on adrenaline before and after that eating was next to impossible, the invariably high quality of the hunt’s fare notwithstanding. But the venison lasagna on offer this time was a most welcome repast–just the thing after a hunt involving two St. Hubert sorts of moments.
What I haven’t determined is just what sort of bottle I owe. Should the luxuriousness of the beverage be in proportion to the injury sustained or the magnitude of the danger averted? 
And by all means, get out there. They’ve got hunts scheduled through the first week of April. I’d be interested to hear how riding the high country compares with riding the Piedmont.