December weather has really been the pits. We’ve had lots of rain, followed by a few bitter cold days. The warming trend of the last couple of days has been just enough to turn the ground into the kind of slick mess that no sane person would ride on. However, foxhunters aren’t known for sanity, and with threat of more rain over the weekend, today looked like it might be our best shot for a while. It was only the third time this month I’ve gotten to hunt, and about 10 days since the last time. I really didn’t want that downtime streak to get any longer, so I went out and slid around today.
With footing the way it was, jumping was out of the question. We did manage to do some running, followed by a lot of standing around. When we finally realized the day was over and started in, somebody suggested a slight detour to retrieve a lost flask. To me, this seemed like a no-brainer. Even if the flask had been empty (which it wasn’t), it seemed like a good excuse for a little more riding, after being out of the saddle for too damn long. Surprisingly, the majority of our group thought heading straight to the trailers was a better idea, and only three of us adventurous souls (including the flask’s owner) ended up opting for the flask hunt.
Thanks to someone’s sharp memory and eagle eyes, the flask hunt was successful. We quickly retrieved the flask with very little searching, and managed to catch up with the wimps before they even got back to the trailers.
Then there was another dilemma. It turned out the hunt wasn’t really over, and hounds were still hunting. So the question was whether to give up or keep going. After far too much discussion over what should have been an obvious decision, most of the group made the right choice and kept going. It wasn’t tremedously exciting, but it was the best we’ve had for a while, and maybe the best we will have for another while.
Since at least one of the bitch pack will probably be reading this to see how much I’m embellishing, it’s tempting to say that the only down side to the day is that I’m hobbling around on one leg after being savagely kicked. Even though that’s probably the only exaggeration that I couldn’t get caught on, honesty prevails. In fact, even if I had been fortunate to have some sweet young thing pulling my boots off when I got home, there wasn’t even enough of a bruise to qualify for a pity fuck. (Bitch packers won’t need an explanation of that reference, nobody else gets one because I’m lazy and you really had to be there).
One failure of the day was my experimental beverage purchase. I like to keep an emergency bottle of something in the truck in case we need it when we return, and since bounce per ounce is really not a consideration at that point, it’s usually not the trusty Bourbon that’s in my flask. On my last shopping trip, I picked up something that looked interesting, cinnamon/peppermint schnapps called Fire and Ice, in a cool red and blue bottle. Someone suggested that it tasted like cough syrup, and I thought it was more like mouthwash. It didn’t get a tradition attached to it the way Captain Jack did, so I don’t think that bottle is going to be consumed quickly. I suppose it will ride around in the truck for the rest of the season, and probably sometime before next season I’ll get around to dumping it out.