Fox hunting in East Knox County? You betcha. But catching the beast isn't the goal of this game.

by Joe Tarr

The hounds are getting restless.

They yelp and frolic among each other, but are kept at bay by men on horseback who sway imposing whips in front of the dogs' noses.

The people are getting anxious, too. The sun has burnt the morning fog off this rolling pasture in East Knox County. Breakfast has been served under a canvas tent, along with several glasses of port wine. The bagpiper has stopped playing, and a bonfire smolders off to the side.

Hunters dressed in long black boots and uniform wool black and red coats line up in formation on their horses. Facing the riders some 70 feet away are more than 100 spectators. Among them are family members of the hunters, many from West Knoxville, and they wear blazers and cardigans and designer pants. Many East Knox locals, dressed in dungarees and ballcaps are watching as well.

Everyone is ready for the fox hunt to begin.

This 10-year-old Thanksgiving day tradition has been bringing together Knoxville's elite, insular riding society with the simple landowners of East Knox County for 10 years.

Today's demonstration hunt kicks off the fox hunting season which will last until March.

Hunt is really the wrong word. Or so everyone says. They never kill, or even catch their prey. They simply chase them around until they lose the scent, chase the fox to its den, or get tired.

Mike and Lisette Milner, who helped found the Tennessee Valley Hunt club 10 years ago, say the foxes generally run the show.

"The foxes are a lot faster and cleverer than the hounds are," Lisette says. The couple have seen foxes run around a cow pasture—losing its scent among the manure—then watch from a nearby hill as the baffled dogs wander in circles, unable to find the scent.

"He'll go by his own den three or four times during the hunt," adds Mark. "When people say to me, 'You really think they enjoy the hunt?' Yes, I think they do."

The couple don't hunt as much as they used to, but they still love to come out for the annual Thanksgiving tradition. Mark works at Knoxville Beverage Company, Lisette trains horses and riders for dressage. Today, they are roaming the grounds with Baroness, a Scottish Deerhound—a shaggy, bony animal who stands waist high. The dog stays calmly by its owners, never barking. "She's an 18th century dog. You can tell she's from royalty," Lisette says.

Today's hunt is really more for show—a PR day and thank-you to the landowners. The hounds won't be searching for a wild fox. Instead, they'll chase the path a scent bag has been drug through several acres of pasture and woods.

But the hunt can't begin until the hounds are blessed. So they are herded up in front of the Rev. Jim Tubbs, an Episcopal priest dressed in a white frock. Tubbs raises his arms over the dogs and says, "Hear our humble prayer, O God, for all animals, especially those in whose companionship we find joy and help."

As Tubbs prays, one of the pups sidles up beside him, raises his hind leg and pees onto the priest. A collective gasp rises from the crowd, but Tubbs doesn't bat an eye. He's given the blessing here many times, and simply goes on to bless the riders, landowners, horses and even the foxes.

Now, it's time to begin the hunt.

Unfortunately, fox hunting isn't much of a spectator sport. It involves watching people in fancy riding clothes gallop off in a line. From the distance, you can see them stop before a fence. One by one, they jump over. And then they continue on their way.

The first tier of riders follow the hounds, explains James Schmidhammer, who organized this year's event. This group is comprised of the more experienced riders, who are able to jump the fences and navigate the cattle fields, as well as the huntsmen and whippers-in, who control the dogs. Another group of riders—called hill-toppers—follows the hunt from the less treacherous side roads and paths, Schmidhammer says. A third group, not dressed in formal riding gear, may follow still further back.

All members of the Tennessee Valley Hunt have black coats. Members who prove they are excellent riders earn their colors—a green collar worn on the jacket. Men who have colors are given a red coat, while women continue to wear black.

After today, the club will begin hunting wild fox twice a week, usually at this spot off of Rutledge Pike. Formal clothing is worn only on Sundays. Rat catcher attire, a less formal tweed coat and tie, is worn on Wednesday hunts.

Schmidhammer is quick to point out that hunters never harm the foxes.

"We really don't hunt foxes. We chase them. We don't kill them. We don't want to kill them. If we killed them, we wouldn't have any foxes to hunt," Schmidhammer says. "It's really important for us to have a lot of fun. Sometimes the foxes come out to play, sometimes they don't."

Fox hunters in England kill their prey, because the animal is considered a nuisance for killing livestock. Animal rights groups protest fox hunts in England, and is the reason everyone here is so touchy about it.

In the United States, foxes do little harm. In fact, they're being encroached on by coyotes in some areas, Schmidhammer says. In the Nashville region, fox hunters hunt—and kill—coyotes. Not as sly as foxes, coyotes simply try to outrun the hunters.

To give spectators a better view of the chase, there are carriages drawn by either Clydesdales or a tractor. Others take their cars and watch from the country roads.

At one intersection, a pickup truck is parked to watch as riders drive by. Amy Neary stands next to it, talking to a woman and an older man. Neary works at a nearby stable and eight of the horses boarded there are in the hunt. She was up much of the night braiding their manes for the event—a requirement for today's ride.

"I think they're all crazy. They're all half smashed," she jokes. "They drink lot of port and fall off their horses."

Then, she adds more cautiously, "It's nice. People that have family can come down rather than sittin' in front of the TV watching the Macy's Parade." But it's clear that she really does enjoy it.

"I was going to bring my lab up here and have him blessed," chimes in the older man, leaning against Neary's truck. The joke sounds as much a tradition as the hunt, but it's still funny.

About a mile down the road, the hunters are gathering in a field as the chase winds down. In the past, the ceremonial opening hunt has lasted five hours. Today, it takes only about two.

It looks sort of like a cocktail party on horseback. They pop champagne bottles and pour glasses for everyone, including the visitors who are of age. Several riders sip from stainless steel flasks. A few slur their words. The people mingle.

Attorney David McCord says that he grew up on a farm and likes to be outdoors. "It's something to get you out in the wintertime while everybody else is watching TV."

From on top of his horse, Hugh Faust III announces to a reporter, "This is my hunt. What do you want to know?"

Holding a small pewter cup in his hand, one of the first things he says about the hunt is: "Hunting is the wrong word. It should be called fox chasing."

Faust grew up hunting quail with bird-dogs, but there is not enough cover in this part of the country for the birds. He's been hunting fox 15 years. Watching the dogs work fascinates him. Glands on the bottom of a fox's feet release a scent, and that is what the hounds are tracing. The club owns about 50 dogs, which are known as Penmardel Hounds—for the Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware region where they were bread. Some of the dogs' names are Acme, Eager, Preacher, Molly, Gabby, Wendy, Avalon, Uncle, Velvet and Willow.

Today's demonstration hunt went well, Faust says. The inexperienced hounds eagerly lead the chase; the veteran pups knew they weren't following a live scent but followed along.

When asked to spell his name, Faust punctuates it with the initials MFH. "Do you know what MFH stands for?" he asks. "That's master of foxhounds."

A few minutes later, he rides his horse to the back of the minivan where the champagne is being distributed. A woman there asks Faust if he thinks they brought enough bubbly for the occasion.

"Just perfect. Nobody's fallen off their horse yet," he responds.