hunterseat df: Hunter Seat Equitation is a division that is judged on the ability and the style of the rider. The riders can be judged both over fences and on the flat.
Although true, hunters DO eat, at least the skilled ones do, my name derives from the world of horses.
And because the word hunter is in my name, people automatically think I'm a guy. Not even close.
Whenever I meet someone named Hunter I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying "That's my name, too!"
Although true, hunters DO eat, at least the skilled ones do, my name derives from the world of horses.
And because the word hunter is in my name, people automatically think I'm a guy. Not even close.
Whenever I meet someone named Hunter I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying "That's my name, too!"
Wouldn't Have Missed It for the World!
Posted 03-09-2015 at 05:11 AM by hunterseat
Do you see the title of this? Let’s read it again. Wouldn't have missed it for the world! I said that to someone yesterday when I saw an old picture. And the declaration resonated over and over in my head.
A yellowed newspaper clipping about foxhunting in Virginia included a picture of 79-year-young Phil Stafford. He’s taking a warming sip of brandy from his pewter flask, traditionally carried in a “sandwich case” strapped to the side of an English saddle. He is in full hunt attire, though the picture only shows him from the neck up, but I know he is. My very limited experience as a foxhunter was because of this man. Thank you, Mr. Stafford. Tradition is a constant in foxhunting. It’s done on the coldest of winter mornings when the scent clings to the ground and the fields lay fallow. The scarlet coats of the senior members brighten the dreary landscape like stars in the black sky. The voices of the hounds make the sweetest music to the ears of humans and horses alike. It’s an exciting, if freezing cold, experience. I can imagine the morning of that particular hunt. I picture him gathering his equipment, gleaming buckles and well cared for leather with a life that’s stretched across decades. If he moved a little slower it was with no less certainty. Load up the horses in the pre-dawn darkness, steamy breath taking its place in the landscape with the steamy truck exhaust as everything warms up. Motivated by thoughts of past hunts and swift chases, old friends and great horses, the preparation is complete and headlights cut through darkness as the truck eases its precious cargo down the road. This is a passion, it has to be. It’s life at its finest. And he would not have missed it for the world. It’s been 14 years since the world said farewell to such a great man. But seeing this picture of him, doing what he loved most in life, and at age 79 brought to mind my own mother.
My mom passed away last fall at the age of 79. She lived as a recluse, shutting out all but the chosen few whom she paid to do her bidding. Her yard man, her care giver, her veterinarian assistant who provided gentle companion dogs as mom outlived her pets one-by-one. She shut out all family members and old acquaintances. So for years my children, and those of my sister, were denied the opportunity to give her their love. She didn't go, didn't see, didn't do. It was her choice and we tried to respect it. But the contrast between a vibrant man who had many foxhunts to go surrounded by beloved friends and fine horses and the reclusive woman who withered away, parked in front of her television, rarely answering her phone is stark and startling. Exact same age. And there’s the phrase: wouldn't have missed it for the world. My mother missed it, I’m afraid. Maybe she got the world she wanted. But I can’t help thinking about what she missed.
I wouldn't miss it for the world. I’m still hanging on to the reins of life, loving the wind in my face and the thrill of the chase. There are many more adventures out there. I’m not sure I’m ready to get off the horse yet. But when I do, it’s still not over. There’s the hunt breakfast at the end with the tall tales and good food. We get to laugh about the things we missed that happened to others in the hunt as we busily focused on our own rides. Still we have to go home one day, parking the truck and trailer, unloading the horse and cleaning up the equipment. Even after the hunt, there’s still a great pasture to graze in. Trading the thrill of the chase for the thrill of the chaise? I wouldn't miss it for the world.
A yellowed newspaper clipping about foxhunting in Virginia included a picture of 79-year-young Phil Stafford. He’s taking a warming sip of brandy from his pewter flask, traditionally carried in a “sandwich case” strapped to the side of an English saddle. He is in full hunt attire, though the picture only shows him from the neck up, but I know he is. My very limited experience as a foxhunter was because of this man. Thank you, Mr. Stafford. Tradition is a constant in foxhunting. It’s done on the coldest of winter mornings when the scent clings to the ground and the fields lay fallow. The scarlet coats of the senior members brighten the dreary landscape like stars in the black sky. The voices of the hounds make the sweetest music to the ears of humans and horses alike. It’s an exciting, if freezing cold, experience. I can imagine the morning of that particular hunt. I picture him gathering his equipment, gleaming buckles and well cared for leather with a life that’s stretched across decades. If he moved a little slower it was with no less certainty. Load up the horses in the pre-dawn darkness, steamy breath taking its place in the landscape with the steamy truck exhaust as everything warms up. Motivated by thoughts of past hunts and swift chases, old friends and great horses, the preparation is complete and headlights cut through darkness as the truck eases its precious cargo down the road. This is a passion, it has to be. It’s life at its finest. And he would not have missed it for the world. It’s been 14 years since the world said farewell to such a great man. But seeing this picture of him, doing what he loved most in life, and at age 79 brought to mind my own mother.
My mom passed away last fall at the age of 79. She lived as a recluse, shutting out all but the chosen few whom she paid to do her bidding. Her yard man, her care giver, her veterinarian assistant who provided gentle companion dogs as mom outlived her pets one-by-one. She shut out all family members and old acquaintances. So for years my children, and those of my sister, were denied the opportunity to give her their love. She didn't go, didn't see, didn't do. It was her choice and we tried to respect it. But the contrast between a vibrant man who had many foxhunts to go surrounded by beloved friends and fine horses and the reclusive woman who withered away, parked in front of her television, rarely answering her phone is stark and startling. Exact same age. And there’s the phrase: wouldn't have missed it for the world. My mother missed it, I’m afraid. Maybe she got the world she wanted. But I can’t help thinking about what she missed.
I wouldn't miss it for the world. I’m still hanging on to the reins of life, loving the wind in my face and the thrill of the chase. There are many more adventures out there. I’m not sure I’m ready to get off the horse yet. But when I do, it’s still not over. There’s the hunt breakfast at the end with the tall tales and good food. We get to laugh about the things we missed that happened to others in the hunt as we busily focused on our own rides. Still we have to go home one day, parking the truck and trailer, unloading the horse and cleaning up the equipment. Even after the hunt, there’s still a great pasture to graze in. Trading the thrill of the chase for the thrill of the chaise? I wouldn't miss it for the world.
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