Today’s flight was somewhat lower and slower than yesterday’s. I never got much higher than the back of a horse (although I think I got some good air between my seat and the saddle at one point), and we didn’t quite approach yesterday’s
hair-raising speed. Although the numbers might seem a little less impressive, I still think I’d have to rate today’s experience as a little more exhilarating. That was actually a pleasant surprise, because at first I feared that today might be a repeat of Wednesday, which wasn’t much more than a trail ride.
Actually, Wednesday’s slow pace was somewhat self-induced. For several reasons, I opted to ride with the hilltoppers instead of first flight. It was the first hunt of the season, after a summer when Arthur and I did no jumping. Without my trusty brother, whose activity has been severely restricted as a result of being run over by a hay wagon a few weeks ago, I was a little leery of risking anything that might render me unable to drive home. The Bitch Pack members out that morning were all riding in the back, so it seemed like a good place to be. With Sunday’s hunt scheduled for easier country, that seemed like a good opportunity for a confidence-building opener, instead of tempting fate on Wednesday.
Surveying the crowd gathered at the meet this afternoon, it looked like the first flight was going to be totally lacking in the kind of comaraderie that keeps me hunting, so I decided that maybe it would be another good day to hilltop. Then, as we were leaving the meet, the Bitch Pack split, and some of them rode past me to catch up with the first field. That was all the encouragement I needed, and I gleefully followed.
We had a good time. Arthur was wonderful. Heading into the first jump, I felt him sending me that familiar message: “Stay back where you belong and out of my face and we’ll do fine. Screw up and you’re toast”. I did as he asked, and we cleared all jumps beautifully without hesitation. We moved at a fairly conservative pace between the first few jumps, but then we found a couple of coyotes and things got fast for a while. I stayed in the saddle, or at least somewhere above the horse, for the entire afternoon, and I couldn’t ask for anything more.
The only downside to the day was my commission of the greivous sin of leaving the sanctuary of the hunt field without emptying my flask. I don’t know whether St. Hubert will grant a dispensation on account of the weather. With temperatures over 70, Bourbon didn’t seem to be in great demand. In fact, I don’t think any of the pagan souls in the first field partook. Towards the end of the afternoon, the fields merged, and I was able to find some drinking Bitches, and even some Republicans, to help lighten the flask. But we didn’t get to the bottom. I’ll have to check with the Church of St. Hubert to see if I can confess my sin and receive my penance online.