Tally Ho!

In dogged pursuit of a 19th-century sport.

BY JAMIE MARSH
PHOTOS BY NATHAN MARSH

Clad in white pants and green sport coats, a handful of sportsmen gather each weekend from the end of September through March. They meet at farms around Lexington, Berryville and Charlottesville, making use of fields where the crops have finished for the winter. They spend several hours running behind a pack of beagles, scurrying up and down hills and crashing through thick woods. Most Valley farmers simply would call this rabbit hunting, but the mixture of British apparel and baying hounds is more accurately known as beagling.

It wasn’t yet spring when I visited a hunt, but it may as well have been. It was warm and sunny on the Fiery farm, a 500-acre property folded into the foothills near Hightop Mountain.

The beagles were romping on the lawn when I arrived, rolling on their backs and chasing each other in circles. To me, they look like any other pups from a pet store, but these 30 hounds are part of the prestigious Waldingfield Beagles. The pack was established in Massachusetts in 1885 and is the oldest in the nation.

In that era, beagling was called “the poor man’s fox hunt” because the hunters go afoot, eliminating the need for horses. Today, the tradition continues with the Waldingfield now under the care of Dr. Arie M. Rijke, a University of Virginia radiologist who brought them to Virginia in the 1970s.

The Hunt is On

The rules are simple: Rijke will serve as the Master Huntman, directing the hounds with vocal commands and blows on a small copper horn. He has four aides, called Whippers-In. They are agile ladies carrying short whips. They’ll run circles around the pack—never actually hitting the hounds—but cracking the whips in the air to warn wanderers to pay attention.

Then there are the bystanders, dubbed The Field. We observe the chase from a slight distance, careful not to impede the path of the hounds. Retired Army Colonel Hank Shelton is our guide.

When everyone is arranged, Rijke tells the beagles to “Work,” and the adventure begins. The hounds press their noses to the ground. Each beagle is furiously seeking the scent of an eastern cottontail rabbit.
They “work” for several minutes, and my gaze wanders out over the panoramic vista. The estate is mostly cattle fields with a winding stream, anchored by a traditional manor house. In the distance, you can see only one other home. I am enthralled with the deep blue of the mountains, suddenly aware of the beautiful scenery that I daily take for granted. Then there is a loud bellow.

Aah, Arooooooo!

The hounds dart up a hill to meet the whistle-blower, yelping to each other. “Beagle music,” the Colonel tells me. He points forward, and we begin our cross-country clambering.

Rijke is just as fast as the hounds, obviously the pack leader. I am trying to hurry while watching my step in the cow field, when a bushy white tail streaks past me.

“Tallyho!” the Colonel roars. He’s spotted the hare.

The hounds run full force back in our direction as the Huntsman blows the command to “Get In Line!” The beagles tether themselves to the scent, but the hare is faster and more familiar with the territory. It has leaped the stream and disappeared into a bramble, leaving the hounds far behind as they refuse to deviate from the exact trail of the scent.

It’s rare that the beagles get close enough to kill their prey, and even then, Rijke doesn’t allow it. “We like to give the cottontail a good run for his money, but we never kill it,” Rijke had promised before my arrival. “Either it ‘Goes to Ground,’ in a groundhog hole or drainage pipe, or the beagles lose the scent. The whole thing is a bit tongue in cheek, but good fun,” he says.

The hounds splash across the stream, but they have lost the trail on the other side. They start sniffing again, zig-zagging their noses to the ground. And so the performance begins anew.

The End

During the afternoon, this chase repeats with at least three different hares as we crisscross the property. When the beagles are off the scent, I chat with Jock, a retiree from Albemarle County. We discuss the splendor of the Green Valley Book Fair, how to build a split rail fence and the intentions of the founding fathers. I could continue “hunting” for many hours, but the sun is setting.

The Huntsman sounds a long note on his horn: “The End.” The chase is over.

Some of the beagles sing in unison as they rush toward the Huntsman. They were outsmarted by their quarry, but Rijke praises them for an industrious afternoon. They become meek and calm, resting at his feet as he pats their heads. He congratulates them by name.

I am dog-tired as we walk back to the house for fireside soup and tea. The beagles just pant and grin. They are merry little hounds.

» Q&A Meet Billy Bobbitt, president of the National Beagle Club