Howard County this morning was socked in with warm, damp fog. The farm was floating green and nothing else. The fence lines blended into the white sycamore tree trunks which blended into the fog which blended into the gray, overcast sky. No shadows. The occasional dark gray smudge moved in the light gray fog, a horse. There was no wind. There was no noise.
We cast off from Harwood, the historic farm just down the road. The barns there are painted lemon yellow. The fence rails are black. The corn is down, early because of the summer drought. The landing strips through the cornfields were bright green, where the biplanes landed before WWII. The green was dusted with dew. I wore a brown wool tweed with a dark green stock tie and my brown hunt cap. I rode my chestnut paint mare Hannah. Hannah together with my coat and my tie blended into the harvested corn, the turning tulip trees, the red maples, the browning oaks, the green landing strips and the evergreens. The hounds were white and brown and black specks, glimpsed only here and there. There was still no wind. The fog was still dense. The sun little more than a light spot in the gray sky.
In the quiet windless woods the horses steamed and the steam rose up and blended in with the fog, which blended in which the gray sky. The yellow leaves of the sassafras and tupelo undergrowth were bright against the dark mud of the trails. The woods smelled powerfully -- of root beer from the sassafras, of onion from the wild chives, of peppermint from the shrubs, and of tomatoes and chocolate somewhere in the mud. The crickets were awake and chirping, loudly. No birds.
Our hounds hit within 5 minutes, tore through the cornfield in the back corner of Harwood, and put the fox to ground in the bog behind the old wooden house on the honeysuckle ridge. We watched them go down the hill -- altogether and flat out. We ran flat out too, 100 yards away, parallel to them through the rolling corn field. Everyone was turned to watch the hounds, both horses and humans. The occasional "look at that!" and "they're so beautiful!" rose from the field into the fog. The soft, windless air reddened our cheeks as we ran through it. We ran after them into the chocolate woods, through the cedar trees, and stopped short on the honeysuckle ridge, breathing the forest into our lungs.
The morning spread out thereafter in three pungent, soft, moist, dark, matte-hued hours. We picked our way along the upper Patuxent River, following the hounds to the north and west. We went deeper and deeper into the woods, miles off of any marked road or plotted property. Our horses were cushioned by the mud and the leaves and the soft, chocolaty woods. The air balanced perfectly between pleasantly cool and pleasantly warm. The river water brisk and chatty, sparkling darkly without much light. We parked for some time on its banks, deep down in the muddy bottom, listening for the huntsman's horn. The occasional yellow maple leaf drifted down and into the mild rapids, the crickets chirped, the undergrowth dripped, the mossy logs settled and creaked, the horses sighed and stamped. The steam rose from their flanks.
The humans strained to listen, in silence. After a time, the horses stopped grazing, stopped shifting, lifted their heads and turned to listen for the horn, too. Silence but for the crickets and the river. The river became almost overbearingly loud in the quite of the deep bottom, rushing past granite rocks and under fallen logs and moss, eddying in whirlpools. It still sparkled darkly, no brighter than the light of the gray fog and gray sky or the white sycamore trunks. Our piece of the woods a slice of silent, vibrant, color sandwiched between gray and white. The modern-day world had vanished entirely.
Then we heard it, away off towards Hipsley Mill, out the other side of the Patuxent River bottom and across three open corn fields behind the back of Annapolis Rock. Floating through the root beer and the tomato and the onion smells. The hounds baying and the horn confirming it. Along the river banks. Carried through the fog on the still, damp warm, air. Quietly and very far away. But we heard it. The horses heard. The crickets heard it. And we were off….
We cast off from Harwood, the historic farm just down the road. The barns there are painted lemon yellow. The fence rails are black. The corn is down, early because of the summer drought. The landing strips through the cornfields were bright green, where the biplanes landed before WWII. The green was dusted with dew. I wore a brown wool tweed with a dark green stock tie and my brown hunt cap. I rode my chestnut paint mare Hannah. Hannah together with my coat and my tie blended into the harvested corn, the turning tulip trees, the red maples, the browning oaks, the green landing strips and the evergreens. The hounds were white and brown and black specks, glimpsed only here and there. There was still no wind. The fog was still dense. The sun little more than a light spot in the gray sky.
In the quiet windless woods the horses steamed and the steam rose up and blended in with the fog, which blended in which the gray sky. The yellow leaves of the sassafras and tupelo undergrowth were bright against the dark mud of the trails. The woods smelled powerfully -- of root beer from the sassafras, of onion from the wild chives, of peppermint from the shrubs, and of tomatoes and chocolate somewhere in the mud. The crickets were awake and chirping, loudly. No birds.
Our hounds hit within 5 minutes, tore through the cornfield in the back corner of Harwood, and put the fox to ground in the bog behind the old wooden house on the honeysuckle ridge. We watched them go down the hill -- altogether and flat out. We ran flat out too, 100 yards away, parallel to them through the rolling corn field. Everyone was turned to watch the hounds, both horses and humans. The occasional "look at that!" and "they're so beautiful!" rose from the field into the fog. The soft, windless air reddened our cheeks as we ran through it. We ran after them into the chocolate woods, through the cedar trees, and stopped short on the honeysuckle ridge, breathing the forest into our lungs.
The morning spread out thereafter in three pungent, soft, moist, dark, matte-hued hours. We picked our way along the upper Patuxent River, following the hounds to the north and west. We went deeper and deeper into the woods, miles off of any marked road or plotted property. Our horses were cushioned by the mud and the leaves and the soft, chocolaty woods. The air balanced perfectly between pleasantly cool and pleasantly warm. The river water brisk and chatty, sparkling darkly without much light. We parked for some time on its banks, deep down in the muddy bottom, listening for the huntsman's horn. The occasional yellow maple leaf drifted down and into the mild rapids, the crickets chirped, the undergrowth dripped, the mossy logs settled and creaked, the horses sighed and stamped. The steam rose from their flanks.
The humans strained to listen, in silence. After a time, the horses stopped grazing, stopped shifting, lifted their heads and turned to listen for the horn, too. Silence but for the crickets and the river. The river became almost overbearingly loud in the quite of the deep bottom, rushing past granite rocks and under fallen logs and moss, eddying in whirlpools. It still sparkled darkly, no brighter than the light of the gray fog and gray sky or the white sycamore trunks. Our piece of the woods a slice of silent, vibrant, color sandwiched between gray and white. The modern-day world had vanished entirely.
Then we heard it, away off towards Hipsley Mill, out the other side of the Patuxent River bottom and across three open corn fields behind the back of Annapolis Rock. Floating through the root beer and the tomato and the onion smells. The hounds baying and the horn confirming it. Along the river banks. Carried through the fog on the still, damp warm, air. Quietly and very far away. But we heard it. The horses heard. The crickets heard it. And we were off….
