| Fox Hunter's Paradise, The Hunter's Horn, April 1975 The Hunter's Horn April, 1975 Page Nine Fox Hunter's Paradise By Donald L. Castleman Rolla, Missouri It was the same old dream. I had dreamed it since I was in my teens: standing in the presence of the nation's greatest fox hunters, listening to the music of the most beautiful hounds in the U.S.A. at the "All-American Hunt." From the pages of The Hunters Horn the name of Boles Field had lured my imagination as the sirens lured Ulysses to the rock. It was my favorite dream, and I always hated to wake up from it. This time it seemed more real than usual: I could smell the clean, invigorating Texas air and the scent of warm pine needles in the early morning. I could distinguish individual voices of the hounds and detect something of the character of each of them. This time the other hunters of my consciousness--I could identify each and every one of them: there was Tom Brides, James Burke and Bill Wise from Henderson, Texas; A.N. Nichols and Sonny Boy Nichols of Vaughn, Mississippi; and that Dean of American Fox Hunters, Hinkel Shilings of Center, Texas; Mr. and Mrs. L. J. Beasley of Terry, Mississippi; and my friends Earl Allen, Earl Balke and Marvin Odell from Missouri; and many others. I wasn't dreaming; I was really here. There is no experience in the world to match the thrill of the hunt. The music of the chase is as much a part of the American tradition as "The Star-Spangled Banner." I am sure no opera lover ever found greater satisfaction in his favorite aria than a hunter finds in the cry of a well-trained pack. I have attended field trials all over the United States, but I have never attended one which gave me as much pleasure as the Boles Field "All American Hunt." It isn't just the air which makes cities and polution seem far away; there's the feeling of warmth and hospitality which makes you feel you are not, and never have been, a stranger to this place; there's the spirit of camaraderie at the hunt, from which you realize the same thing is happening to everybody else, so you don't have to waste words trying to explain it to them. Above all, there is the over-all feeling of well-being, the feeling that you want to pursue the chase until there is no strength left in your body. The judges rode as genuine sportsmen and gentlemen. They worked hard, and judged the hunt with precision dn professionalism. After spending two days at Boles Field I had heard more running than I have heard in all the other field trials I have attended. The second day, Hinkel Shilings of Center, Texas, gave me a tour of the cemetery in Boles Field where such noble hounds as Texas Open Ch. Mark S. and Champion Dawson Stride are buried. In Boles Field he has a unique Hall of Fame: by burying these noble hounds and commemorating them with individual monuments he has actually kept them alive in the memories of sportsmen and hunters throughout the United States. I am sure each time he visits these gravesites, he must say to himself with regret, but also with happiness in his heart at the remembrance of their long, happy lives with him, "Here lie those who loved me, and whom I loved." And no matter how deep their sleep, I am sure they hear him, and not all the power of death can keep their spirits from wagging grateful tails. It was an awesome experience to visit this spot and to hear the wonderfully nostaligic stories Mr. Shilings recalled. Everything I had always heard about Boles Field and Texas was true. But what I had heard falls far short of being the whole truth. No words could have prepared me for my experience during those two days. It wasn't just the first taste of that clean, keen air, or the first sight of those beautiful, high-spirited creatures, impatient to begin the chase. It was also the warm, friendly welcome that had been arranged especially for my comfort and enjoyment; the overwhelming reception I received everywhere I went in this area. The phrase "Texas Hospitality" doesn't give a clue to the kind of treatment a visitor receives from these wonderful people. It left its mark on me. I've got to go back. And if I don't go back--or even if I do--I know what I want to find in heaven. Far be it from me to tell the Almighty how to run His business, but if He wouldn't mind just a little suggestion, --well, I'd like to wake up to the smell of warm pine needles, open one eye very carefully, and look straight up into a mass of tall, slender pines forming a circle around the morning sun. Then I would like to open my other eye to see Champion Dawson Stride and all of the other great champions of old streaking into the distance beyond me. Then I would jump to my feet and follow, as the voices of all the great champion hounds of America came back to me in a song that sounded like, "C'mon, Lazybones. Nobody sleeps past daybreak in Boles Field!" |
