The January wind was bone-chilling cold, and the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance were a foreboding shade of slate grey. Northern Virginia’s forecast called for a couple feet of snow, and Master Dean and Huntsman Washburn wanted to get in one more hunt before the storm.
A small group of intrepid riders on shivering horses were ready to go when the clock struck 11 am.
The Free State Hunt was on.
From the Hunter Trial Field to Pharibe’s swamp, they went in search of one of the finest friends of the Free State – Charles Mosby the Fox. Huntsman Washburn drew the first spinney to see if his hounds could coax Charles Mosby out for a run.
The huntsman knew Charles was punctual and playful, smart and sly. And he knew the red bandit was certainly due some exercise before the looming snowstorm drove everybody – horses, humans, hounds and the wildland animals – into their respective homes for a long winter’s night.
But what happened next was more than he predicted, in the end, a surreal story for a surreal January afternoon.
Deep underground between a big woodland and an even bigger hayfield, Charles and his vixen wife, Rosemary, were busily preparing their snug den for they knew of the Big Storm ahead and extra mice would need to be caught. The kindly neighbors, especially Mrs. Huntworthy, had been regularly putting out leftovers in the the kennel woods to ensure her beloved fox family had enough to eat.
Rosemary had just received word from a Great Blue Heron that she would be delivering her very own litter of cubs in a few weeks time, and her nesting instincts were taking over. She had swiped a lovely cake of suet that neighbor Paine had hung from a mulberry bush.
Rosemary hummed quietly to herself as she considered the feast she’d concoct for their dinner that night. “There’s nothing quite like fried mice and suet casserole,” she said with a purr.
As quiet as things were underground, up top, things were getting lively. The Free State hounds had moved off from the meet, quickly so they’d beat the weather, and hounds were entered their first covert at the edge of a cutover crop field. The stiff northwest wind allowed the pack little hope to pick up Charles Mosby’s scent, or anybody else’s for that matter.
Charles came from a long line of foxes that lived in Fauquier County’s Free State area since the days of George Washington. Charles appreciated the forever-protected wildlands he occupied. He appreciated the regular food – intentional or not – he was able to procure daily. He knew it was a pretty fair trade-off – a little excitement, a little exercise, a little stretch of his legs in return for an easy life for him and Rosemary.
“Just one quick run over to Anderson Woods should give those hooligan hounds a test,” he chirped to his vixen as he eased out of their earth. He waved to Rosemary to stay put in the safety of their den and he went to work.
Dinsmoor and Darsbury were the first to find the line Charles left as he pranced across the fallow field. Primrose, Starter and Whimsy joined in and the rest of the pack were soon full on in beautiful chorus. Charles Mosby could tell by the sound of each hound’s voice who was the most tenacious. That would be Dinsmoor, he thought to himself as he darted quickly away.
Charles Mosby made a sharp left, into the barnyard across from the Orlean Market and shot across the parking lot behind the little hamlet of houses up the hill to the Thumb Run cemetery.
Dinsmoor, the lead hound, was positive that Charles Mosby had gone into the market, but he had to convince the others he was correct. Darsbury could have sworn CM was hiding in the mountain of round bales next to the big white barns, and he cried for the rest of the pack to join him looking between the rows. But after a quick check at the hay bales found nothing, hounds regrouped and were all on once again following their noses.
A quarter mile away, CM took a break and licked a paw. He was sitting next to the tallest monument in Thumb Run cemetery, the Paine obelisk. It reminded him of those brave foxhunters who fought in the wars, the ones who’d ensured that this lovely land remained open and free.
He had the absolute best vantage point, so he took his time, giving his next move some consideration. “Which way should I take them this time?” he thought.
It was, after all, 20 degrees, plus, Rosemary expected him back at the den by sunset. He decided on a roundabout run to the perfect “finish line.”
Just then, the hounds popped across the road, the huntsman blew his horn and, like a flash, all of them were “Gone away.”
CM risked a look over his shoulder, viewing the pack all together running so closely one could throw a blanket of the entire 15 1/2 couple.
Charles Mosby turned it up a little since he had a hard and fast rule that he lived by: Never let hounds get closer than 50 yards. Fair play is fair play, but too close is scary.
Tri-colored bitch Spinster was in the lead now, and Charles was away through the Anderson woods and over to Soldiers Rest. He paused to catch his breath behind the stone wall which led downhill to the little creek.
Huntsman Washburn, on his trusty grey mare Bella, galloped out of the cemetery woods across the cattle fields at Soldiers Rest with the master and field in hot pursuit. They were are smiling, with tears rolling out of their eyes as they became one with the wind, one with the chase and one with their galloping horses.
Charles skipped across a hollow log and Java, a first year hound, tried to convince the pack that Charles had ducked inside. Whimsy, the matriarch of the pack, would hear none of it. “Over here,” she barked. “He’s gone this way! Come on. Come on! I know where he’s going.”
Charles Mosby turned and twisted up one trail, down another, to throw off his pursuers.
By this time, the skies had lowered and flurries were beginning. Thumb Run wasn’t quite frozen yet, so Charles decided to stay left-handed and cross the road at the Thumb Run bridge, continuing behind the kennels.
On and on they ran.
Charles glanced skyward. The sun was barely evident behind the clouds, but he knew it was nearly 4:30.
Maybe it was time to stop.
And, just as planned, Charles knew just how to make his grand exit.
He raced across the open cattle field headed for a giant stick pile Farmer Stewart had built over the past 20 years. It was enormous, and all the Mosby foxes used it as a sanctuary. No hound had ever been able to penetrate the tangled labyrinth of discarded fenceboards ,vines and branches .
A small group of intrepid riders on shivering horses were ready to go when the clock struck 11 am.
The Free State Hunt was on.
From the Hunter Trial Field to Pharibe’s swamp, they went in search of one of the finest friends of the Free State – Charles Mosby the Fox. Huntsman Washburn drew the first spinney to see if his hounds could coax Charles Mosby out for a run.
The huntsman knew Charles was punctual and playful, smart and sly. And he knew the red bandit was certainly due some exercise before the looming snowstorm drove everybody – horses, humans, hounds and the wildland animals – into their respective homes for a long winter’s night.
But what happened next was more than he predicted, in the end, a surreal story for a surreal January afternoon.
Deep underground between a big woodland and an even bigger hayfield, Charles and his vixen wife, Rosemary, were busily preparing their snug den for they knew of the Big Storm ahead and extra mice would need to be caught. The kindly neighbors, especially Mrs. Huntworthy, had been regularly putting out leftovers in the the kennel woods to ensure her beloved fox family had enough to eat.
Rosemary had just received word from a Great Blue Heron that she would be delivering her very own litter of cubs in a few weeks time, and her nesting instincts were taking over. She had swiped a lovely cake of suet that neighbor Paine had hung from a mulberry bush.
Rosemary hummed quietly to herself as she considered the feast she’d concoct for their dinner that night. “There’s nothing quite like fried mice and suet casserole,” she said with a purr.
As quiet as things were underground, up top, things were getting lively. The Free State hounds had moved off from the meet, quickly so they’d beat the weather, and hounds were entered their first covert at the edge of a cutover crop field. The stiff northwest wind allowed the pack little hope to pick up Charles Mosby’s scent, or anybody else’s for that matter.
Charles came from a long line of foxes that lived in Fauquier County’s Free State area since the days of George Washington. Charles appreciated the forever-protected wildlands he occupied. He appreciated the regular food – intentional or not – he was able to procure daily. He knew it was a pretty fair trade-off – a little excitement, a little exercise, a little stretch of his legs in return for an easy life for him and Rosemary.
“Just one quick run over to Anderson Woods should give those hooligan hounds a test,” he chirped to his vixen as he eased out of their earth. He waved to Rosemary to stay put in the safety of their den and he went to work.
Dinsmoor and Darsbury were the first to find the line Charles left as he pranced across the fallow field. Primrose, Starter and Whimsy joined in and the rest of the pack were soon full on in beautiful chorus. Charles Mosby could tell by the sound of each hound’s voice who was the most tenacious. That would be Dinsmoor, he thought to himself as he darted quickly away.
Charles Mosby made a sharp left, into the barnyard across from the Orlean Market and shot across the parking lot behind the little hamlet of houses up the hill to the Thumb Run cemetery.
Dinsmoor, the lead hound, was positive that Charles Mosby had gone into the market, but he had to convince the others he was correct. Darsbury could have sworn CM was hiding in the mountain of round bales next to the big white barns, and he cried for the rest of the pack to join him looking between the rows. But after a quick check at the hay bales found nothing, hounds regrouped and were all on once again following their noses.
A quarter mile away, CM took a break and licked a paw. He was sitting next to the tallest monument in Thumb Run cemetery, the Paine obelisk. It reminded him of those brave foxhunters who fought in the wars, the ones who’d ensured that this lovely land remained open and free.
He had the absolute best vantage point, so he took his time, giving his next move some consideration. “Which way should I take them this time?” he thought.
It was, after all, 20 degrees, plus, Rosemary expected him back at the den by sunset. He decided on a roundabout run to the perfect “finish line.”
Just then, the hounds popped across the road, the huntsman blew his horn and, like a flash, all of them were “Gone away.”
CM risked a look over his shoulder, viewing the pack all together running so closely one could throw a blanket of the entire 15 1/2 couple.
Charles Mosby turned it up a little since he had a hard and fast rule that he lived by: Never let hounds get closer than 50 yards. Fair play is fair play, but too close is scary.
Tri-colored bitch Spinster was in the lead now, and Charles was away through the Anderson woods and over to Soldiers Rest. He paused to catch his breath behind the stone wall which led downhill to the little creek.
Huntsman Washburn, on his trusty grey mare Bella, galloped out of the cemetery woods across the cattle fields at Soldiers Rest with the master and field in hot pursuit. They were are smiling, with tears rolling out of their eyes as they became one with the wind, one with the chase and one with their galloping horses.
Charles skipped across a hollow log and Java, a first year hound, tried to convince the pack that Charles had ducked inside. Whimsy, the matriarch of the pack, would hear none of it. “Over here,” she barked. “He’s gone this way! Come on. Come on! I know where he’s going.”
Charles Mosby turned and twisted up one trail, down another, to throw off his pursuers.
By this time, the skies had lowered and flurries were beginning. Thumb Run wasn’t quite frozen yet, so Charles decided to stay left-handed and cross the road at the Thumb Run bridge, continuing behind the kennels.
On and on they ran.
Charles glanced skyward. The sun was barely evident behind the clouds, but he knew it was nearly 4:30.
Maybe it was time to stop.
And, just as planned, Charles knew just how to make his grand exit.
He raced across the open cattle field headed for a giant stick pile Farmer Stewart had built over the past 20 years. It was enormous, and all the Mosby foxes used it as a sanctuary. No hound had ever been able to penetrate the tangled labyrinth of discarded fenceboards ,vines and branches .
Whimsy followed Charles’ scent full bore through the field of Angus and with a flying leap reached out for the white tip of CM’s tail as the fox disappeared.
She was too late.
Charles was smaller and more agile, and Whimsy was no match for him. He drew his tail around his legs, pressing deeper into the stick pile to evade his pursuers, thankful he hadn’t headed home early, accidentally leading the hounds back to his den. He knew Rosemary would have been very upset with him for bringing the pack to their home.
She’d be concerned he was late, but she’d have been mad if there was a pack of hounds on her doorstep.
The huntsman blew his brass horn, praising the hounds for a job well done. Flasks came out and the riders toasted Charles Mosby.
By now it was snowing steadily, and they rode away, headed to their own warm homes.
Charles crept out of the stick pile and started to trot back home, rather proud of his antics. Little did he know, he had one quiet pursuer still in pursuit. Dinwiddie had broken away from the pack and was trailing him stealthily.
The snow was coming down hard now, blowing sideways, but that did not deter old Dinwiddie. He wasn’t ready to go back to kennel. Storm be damned! He was finishing his ninth season, and he wanted to hunt CM right back to his den.
Charles slipped into his dark, warm home to find a very cross Rosemary. She scolded him. “You’re really pushing it coming in this late,” she hissed.
Charles ignored it. He put on his slippers and smoking jacket, and grabbed his corncob pipe off the shelf.
Charles started to tell Rosemary of the exciting run, the snow, the cold, the cheers and toasts to his wile and whimsy when all of the sudden there came from the door a familiar bellowing voice. “I know you’re in there! Let me in Let me in!”
Rosemary sat straight up in her chair. “Is that you Dinwiddie,” she screeched.
“Indeed it is,” Dinwiddie barked in reply. “It’s snowing like the Dickens and I can’t get back to the kennels. For the love of animals, let me in!”
Now, there’s a little known camaraderie among the woodland animals that humans have long lost. They communicate, and they communicate directly. And an even deeper secret pervades the Free State region. A special, secret password between the Free State hounds and the Free State foxes signifies a “truce” of sorts. It it taught to every kit and every pup during cubbing season.
“What’s the password, Dinwiddie,” Rosemary asked quietly, ready to tunnel deeper if it was a nasty trick.
Dinwiddie thought for a moment, willing up the phrase he’d learned so long ago. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy log,” he said with a pant, and, with that, he let himself into the small den.
That night, Dinwiddie, Charles and Rosemary shared the glorious feast of suet and mouse casserole.
“Tastes a lot like chicken”, said Dinwiddie, jowls drooping a bit after his fifth glass of port. They swapped stories of the grand old days and reminisced about their favorite runs. They agreed that the biggest thing foxes and hounds share is a deep love of open spaces to run and play and raise their families.
After a toast to Rosemary’s soon-to-arrive cubs, they curled up for a long winter’s nap.
The next morning Dinwiddie dug his way out of the den and made his way home. Huntsman Washburn took a long look at Dinwiddie as he walked up. “Where’ve you been boy?” he admonished. “I’ve been blowing my horn for you all night.”
Dinwiddie looked up at him with those puppy-dog eyes and put his paw on his leg. He wished his huntsman could understand.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I could tell you.”
The end
She was too late.
Charles was smaller and more agile, and Whimsy was no match for him. He drew his tail around his legs, pressing deeper into the stick pile to evade his pursuers, thankful he hadn’t headed home early, accidentally leading the hounds back to his den. He knew Rosemary would have been very upset with him for bringing the pack to their home.
She’d be concerned he was late, but she’d have been mad if there was a pack of hounds on her doorstep.
The huntsman blew his brass horn, praising the hounds for a job well done. Flasks came out and the riders toasted Charles Mosby.
By now it was snowing steadily, and they rode away, headed to their own warm homes.
Charles crept out of the stick pile and started to trot back home, rather proud of his antics. Little did he know, he had one quiet pursuer still in pursuit. Dinwiddie had broken away from the pack and was trailing him stealthily.
The snow was coming down hard now, blowing sideways, but that did not deter old Dinwiddie. He wasn’t ready to go back to kennel. Storm be damned! He was finishing his ninth season, and he wanted to hunt CM right back to his den.
Charles slipped into his dark, warm home to find a very cross Rosemary. She scolded him. “You’re really pushing it coming in this late,” she hissed.
Charles ignored it. He put on his slippers and smoking jacket, and grabbed his corncob pipe off the shelf.
Charles started to tell Rosemary of the exciting run, the snow, the cold, the cheers and toasts to his wile and whimsy when all of the sudden there came from the door a familiar bellowing voice. “I know you’re in there! Let me in Let me in!”
Rosemary sat straight up in her chair. “Is that you Dinwiddie,” she screeched.
“Indeed it is,” Dinwiddie barked in reply. “It’s snowing like the Dickens and I can’t get back to the kennels. For the love of animals, let me in!”
Now, there’s a little known camaraderie among the woodland animals that humans have long lost. They communicate, and they communicate directly. And an even deeper secret pervades the Free State region. A special, secret password between the Free State hounds and the Free State foxes signifies a “truce” of sorts. It it taught to every kit and every pup during cubbing season.
“What’s the password, Dinwiddie,” Rosemary asked quietly, ready to tunnel deeper if it was a nasty trick.
Dinwiddie thought for a moment, willing up the phrase he’d learned so long ago. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy log,” he said with a pant, and, with that, he let himself into the small den.
That night, Dinwiddie, Charles and Rosemary shared the glorious feast of suet and mouse casserole.
“Tastes a lot like chicken”, said Dinwiddie, jowls drooping a bit after his fifth glass of port. They swapped stories of the grand old days and reminisced about their favorite runs. They agreed that the biggest thing foxes and hounds share is a deep love of open spaces to run and play and raise their families.
After a toast to Rosemary’s soon-to-arrive cubs, they curled up for a long winter’s nap.
The next morning Dinwiddie dug his way out of the den and made his way home. Huntsman Washburn took a long look at Dinwiddie as he walked up. “Where’ve you been boy?” he admonished. “I’ve been blowing my horn for you all night.”
Dinwiddie looked up at him with those puppy-dog eyes and put his paw on his leg. He wished his huntsman could understand.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I could tell you.”
The end
