The sky was so blue, so pure, it didn't seem real. The sun glinted off the accumulated snow drifts and the black ice on the roads was treacherous. Winter had come to Ohio early this year. There were still leaves on the snow-laden trees and the tops of the remaining corn stalks were stuffed with snow.

After several weeks of bad weather, the sun was extra welcome as we mounted up. The hunt club was just a little over a mile away from my farm, and with the temperature in the high fifties, we figured we'd hack over rather than take the trailer.

I settled myself in the saddle and adjusted my hunt coat. Like all ladies, I wore a black melton,jacket, but this was the first time I'd gotten to show my 'colors'. Ah, colors! That award all hunters longed to achieve, that official 'stamp of approval' bestowed upon a member who had successfully completed two full years of active hunting. That little strip of colored fabric, in our case, yellow edged with green, set you apart from the rest of the field.

It was an honor, a status symbol I'd coveted from the beginning, and I'd managed to get mine in just one year, an almost unheard-of feat. Awarded for service above and beyond the call, as it were.

Although we'd already had several weeks of 'cubbing', this was the first official day of hunting. Blessing Day, a day full of ageless pageantry and old world tradition.

Vivienne and I trotted down the long driveway that skirted one side of the hunt club. The pasture lining the driveway was already packed with trailers, and people were in various stages of getting ready. Kids and their ponies were decked out in their finest, and even the scruffiest pony was sporting a braided mane in recognition of the momentous occasion.

I parted company with Vivienne as she walked over to the large group of riders already gathered a couple of yards from the kennel. There would be over fifty in the field today, and most of them were there for the event, not the sport. They weren't club members and had limited knowledge of hunting. They were there for the adventure.

I said hello to Joe, our Huntsman and waited as he prepared to let hounds out of the kennel. Uncoiling my whip, I watched with pride as fifteen couple of the most gorgeous American Foxhounds in the mid-west burst out of the kennels, sterns high in the air, noses to the ground. Joe mounted up while the other Whipper-In, Dave Striley, and I held the hounds at his feet. Then, in solemn procession, we all walked out to the center of the pasture to the waiting priest, the field following at a respectful distance.

The Father, garbed in white vestments, intoned his blessings upon the hounds, the horses, the riders and the fox, in that order. All necessary players in this game. We all prayed silently for the fox. Being the key actor in the play, he was the 'cause Celebre', the star of the show. No fox, no sport, simple as that.

The local newspapers were out in full force, wanting to cover this age-old rite for their readers.

It truly is a spectacular event, rich in protocol and steeped in ancient, time-honored tradition, which is probably why Fox Hunting is such a sexist sport.

Male members of the hunt staff wore 'pink' coats, as could any male field member who'd earned his colors. (The originater of that phrase had to be a color-blind male because the coats were actually bright scarlet.)

Female members, on the other hand, no matter their rank, even Master, wore black coats. End of subject, no court of appeal. That's just how it was.

It was also very regimented, with strictly enforced rules. The Master of Foxhounds led the field at a respectful distance behind the Huntsman and Whips. Behind him came the Field Master, kind of the patrol boy, who kept whatever 'order' was required; then came the field members with colors, followed by field members without colors.

Last to go was the Junior contingent. Many of them also had their colors and could ride circles around the majority of the adults, but it didn't matter. You were a Junior until you were eighteen and no one gave a fig how well you could ride. Back of the field, period.

The arriving guests were handed out 'Welcome' sheets familiarizing them with the Rules and Regs of hunting; where they should stay in the field, and who they were to ride with if they were only 'hill-topping'.

Far in back and off to one side, I could see half a dozen ponies clumped together, three parents exerting what little control they had over their highly stimulated offspring. Like kids, horses are herd animals by nature, and surrounded by so many members of like kind, all milling about, whinnying at each other, they were just about ready to come unglued. It was just a matter of time. Their state of excitement was so high, it's hard to imagine if you haven't seen it. They were dancing, leaping about, shaking their heads, stomping their feet, wild to get on with whatever came next.

Prayers concluded, we all took a good swig from our flasks, raised them in salute to the Huntsman and put them back in their holders. Let the games begin.

I uncoiled my whip in anticipation. From the expressions on their faces, the hounds were raring to go. Joe tooted his horn lightly at them, and they started sedately across the pasture, heading for the woods. The Field kept its proper distance and maintained its decorum, although several of the ponies at the very back of the field were rioting, prancing around and giving their little riders a hard time.

We'd barely gotten out of a walk when my favorite hound, Darter, picked up the scent. Nose burried in the snow, he gave that cry peculiar to his breed, and snuffled harder. The rest of the hounds picked up on him, and rooted in the snow, packed in there next to him. I looked directly ahead of Darter, and no more than a hundered yards from us sat old Reynard. Yes, sat! Guess he felt doubly blessed that day, 'cause I swear he was grinning as he watched the hounds work.

Joe and Dave spotted him at the same time I did, and three direct commands were issued to hounds in unison.

"Darter, view holla." I cried.

"Tally ho!" shouted Dave, standing in his stirrups and gesturing with his cap.

"Gone Away!" came the shrill call from the horn as Joe blew hounds onto the line.

I'd do anything to have the scene that came next on film.

As Joe blew Gone Away and picked up a strong gallop, the Field closed ranks and fell into line behind him.

Several of the ponies at the end of the pack took it literally, and they started running flat out, tails up in the air like banners. They were on the other side of the field from me, and I had an excellent view as one determined little pinto shot out ahead of the others, bucking gaily and almost losing his rider. Herd instinct had taken over, and several more ponies took up the pursuit. Flight instinct would come next, it was a given.

Before long, they'd be running over hounds! The cardinal sin in hunting was about to be committed.

I could see the look of consternation on the Field Master's face as she raced alongside the field, trying to keep herself between hounds and the errant group of rioting ponies. I mean, they were kids, after all, and she couldn't just knock 'em out of their saddles! Five little kids, long braids flying straight out behind their helmets, were being run away with. Hot on their tails were their petrified parents, faces white as sheets as they tried to catch their little darlings.

The pinto seemed to have a destination. He veered sharply away from the field and jumped the low hedges lining the driveway. Evidently he was heading home and galloped even faster as he felt his buddies gaining on him. Last seen, five ponies were tearing across the neighboring field, followed closely by screaming parents. They disappeared over the ridge, their hunting careers ended before they began.

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Gayle's novels, e-books and short stories can be found at www.4SHOWTIME.com