The sky was leaden, a grayish-white that blended in so well with the accumulated snowfall it was difficult to tell where land ended and sky began. We were riding down a wooded trail with tall trees on either side of us. About three inches of new snow rested lightly on the accumulated pack, muffling Goldy's hoof beats.

We had been invited to bring hounds out to a member's farm for a change of venue. It was exciting to hunt in a strange place, new to human, horse and hound alike. It can make for some very interesting sport.

Big fat snowflakes fell so steadily that they caught in my eyelashes. The visor of my helmet gave some protection, but we were heading into what little wind there was, and the feather-light snowflakes swirled upwards, seemingly with a life of their own. It was just cold enough to feel good. A quick flick of the tongue brought them to my lips. They were so cold!

I stroked my mare's neck and cupped an ear for hounds. They were to the right of us, I knew, fanning out into the valley below. We rode along the crestline, trying to keep hounds in sight.

As Whipper-In, my job was to keep hounds working together with the Huntsman, and to head them off if they should pick up on a false scent or scatter into separate groups and riot. I don't ride with the field. Whipping is a solitary job; just you and your horse working hounds. What you miss of the social aspects of hunting can be made up in the clubhouse over cocktails. But if your real pleasure came from watching hounds work close up, being a Whip was the best.

Another gust of wind blew a flurry of snow upwards into my face. I laughed with exhilaration. It made my heart sing in a way I'd never felt before. Off to the left, a snow-laden tree limb shifted with a tearing, rending sound, and the accumulated pile of snow dropped to the ground with a plop. Goldy bulged away from it, eyes wide, ears alert, and then regained her composure; on we went down the trail.

It was so quiet, it felt like being wrapped in cotton batting. Because I could hear everything so clearly, I could almost imagine being deaf; the silence was that profound. There was nothing but my horse's hoofbeats, muffled in the soft, powdery snow.

Up ahead, a beautiful stand of birch trees provided the perfect setting for an Ansel Adams photo. The trees had been stripped of every vestige of leaf. The strong, thin trunks snaked out in all directions, raising their silvery limbs to the truant sun. Snow clung to every available surface, and the low-lying clouds gave that tight, closed-in, other-worldly feeling.

I was jerked back to the present by the sound of hounds speaking, immediately followed by the Huntsman's horn blowing Gone Away. We picked up a smart trot, watching for hounds to ascend the hill and cross our path. I could distinctly hear the sound of two different groups of hounds. Evidently they had broken off and were each on their own hunt. I heard crashing in the underbrush some distance ahead of me and Goldy and I took off at a canter. Just then, Darter, one of the dominant males in the pack, spoke. There was no doubt about it now, they'd split down in the valley and were following two different scents.

I uncoiled my hunting whip, eyes searching frantically for the rioting hound. He came streaking across the road, nose down.

"Hold up!" I shouted and cracked the whip smartly, twice. It sounded like gun shots, echoing off the trees. "Darter, hold hard!"

The lone hound never even paused. He slipped through the fence along the road and disappeared into the woods. He had a plan.

Goldy and I continued along the trail as I listened for Darter. He was running parallel to the road and in the general direction of the other hounds. Maybe I'd distracted him just enough to break him off the scent. He wasn't moving fast enough to be on anything fresh. Besides, he was not a silent runner.

'Well,' I thought, 'saved the day on that one. Hound had no idea where he was headed after all.'

The left side of the road had a three-rail picket fence that helped to keep livestock in and trespassers out.

All of a sudden, I heard hounds singing below me in the distance, and so did Darter. He gave his high, peculiar tongue and started to run back to the pack. The road up ahead turned sharply to the right, and I needed to go left, so there was only one thing for it. We jumped the fence, easily, cleanly, and for about five feet, we were fine.

All of a sudden, the bottom dropped out of the world and Goldy and I were having a skiing lesson. Good little girl that she was, she sat down on her haunches, forelegs stiff in front of her, taking the hill like an equine jackhammer. There was nothing I could do but sit back, keep a hold on the reins so that the mare had something to lean on, and pray.

We were almost at the bottom when what must have been tree roots snagged her hind legs and we went down. I flew through the air with the greatest of ease, landing several feet away from the mare. I don't think I was out for long, probably only moments, when I regained my wits. Goldy stood there next to me, but she was looking out into the field ahead of us, listening intently for hounds.

I led her over to a fallen tree, used it for a mounting block, and regained my seat. I'd barely gotten my feet in the stirrups when, from out of nowhere came a fox. He was about two hundred yards away, just standing there, looking over his shoulder at the pack far behind him.

Far off to my right, I could see the Huntsman casting hounds in an attempt to regain the scent.

I stood up in my stirrups as tall as I could get and shouted, "Tally ho!" at the top of my lungs. I waved my helmet to get his attention. I called "Tally ho" again, and watched with pleasure as Darter came bounding out of the underbrush behind me. He had dutifully responded to my call.

Quietly I called to him, "View holloa, Darter. View!" He swung his head around, searching. He and the fox saw each other at the same time. Darter spoke in his clear, ringing voice, and hounds in the pack responded as one. He charged after the fleeing fox as it bounded out into the open meadow. The clear chilling sound of the Huntsman's horn rippled through the air as he blew Gone Away! It echoed to the heavens.

Goldy was doing the two-step in place, anxious to be off, but I held our position until it was clear that hounds in the pack had spotted the fox. If they followed my call, they'd be off scent. But no, they'd picked up on Darter and were in full chase with the field in hot pursuit.

Goldy and I picked up a trot, staying to the left of the field, in the perfect position to watch the run and head off hounds who'd lost scent. For almost thirty minutes the fox gave sport and then, as so often happens, hounds lost the scent again. We cast and recast the pack, but they never did pick up scent again that day.

We packed up hounds and turned back towards the original meet. The Huntsman praised the hounds that surrounded him as he moved along. Ten couple of purebred American foxhounds, thoroughly pleased with themselves, trotted next to him, sterns held high, waving in the air.

They'd provided good sport today and gave grudging respect to the fox.

"He who lives to run away, lives to run another day." The true hunters anthem.

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