The Moore County Hounds

Southern Pines, North Carolina, is one of the oldest, most venerated, most active and most colorfully dedicated hunts in the nation. The township is also beautiful to look upon (rolling, lovely country, part wooded, with open stretches, hilltops, glades and vales), rich, insular and inhabited for the most part by men and women of immense vitality whose vocation and fondest love is the hunt. From the day that summer's heat abates until spring zephyrs gentle the hot blood, these Nimrods and Dianas live to hunt — but definitely not vice versa. Such mundane activities as earn-ing a living, such plebeian pursuits as going to an office, are as foreign to them as to the dramatis personae of a stylish Victorian novel about the British aristocracy.

One crisp winter day, the Southern Pines Pilot published a Page One story titled "Playboy painter to Sketch Annual Hunter Trials," which said, in part, "LeRoy Neiman, one of the nation's outstanding painters of urban life and regular contributor to Playboy Magazine, arrived here yesterday on a special assignment to ... paint the Moore County Hunter Trials and other activities in connection with this event ... to be published as part of the magazine's 'Man at his Leisure' feature."

So it was that Neiman entered this world apart, observed the ancient and arcane sport of pursuing renard over hill and dale, met the well-favored followers of the hounds, observed them in their recherche' habitat and transferred his vivid impressions to sketch pad and canvas. The scene has been written about by insiders and for insiders; it has been rendered in etching and old print. This is probably the first time, however, that a contemporary urban artist has spent five days as the guest of a hunt, caught its spirit and savor with total freshness of vision, and made notes — in words and pictures — of those things which struck him as unique and memorable.

It was a windy, bright day when Neiman arrived at Southern Pines. Already, members of hunts from all over the country had arrived, virtually all of them as guests of the local gentry. This was the height of the hunting season — in five days Neiman observed three hunts — and the culminating event for which all had gathered was the Hunter Trials (a keen competition over a closed course simulating all the conditions of the hunt field), to be followed by a formal Hunt Ball.

Neiman had been picked up from a commercial airport by a hunt member in a private plane (he was soon to learn that flying and riding to hounds seem to go hand in hand) and had an opportunity to scan the landscape panoramically, from a low altitude. He saw estates, mile upon mile of fine old houses in magnificent settings, a few farms among them, woods, rugged country and manicured grounds — and more estates. Everyone in Southern Pines, he discovered, is involved with hunting in some way, so that even the farmers' fences are paneled, that is, provided with post-and-rail sections over which the horses of the hunt soar — or fall — at full gallop.

Once on the ground, Neiman made another discovery: dogs and dog hair. In sports cars and station wagons, in houses and out, wherever one sat, his clothing was liberally flocked with the hairs of the Dalmatians which are the standard and ever-present pets of the hunt-field elite. The hounds of the hunt (never, ever, referred to as dogs) are not pets; (concluded on page 72) they are working partners in the hunt.

"Man at his Leisure," says Neiman, "is a title that needs be be qualified. These people seem never to rest. Leisure in the sense of not having to work, yes; but I've never seen so much activity. I think you might call these people kinetic personalities; all their huge energy, all their self-expression, is poured into physical action. I've never seen such rugged health combined with incredible grace and physical coordination. Riding, walking, driving, flying a plane — everything's done beautifully, and to the hilt. And with this kinetic expression there seems to go a kind of spirited recklessness which you might call courage, but I think it is more aptly conceived of as joy in danger. Come to think of it," Neiman says, "I don't believe they are aware of danger as such; I think they automatically respond to hazard as a challenge. But the main impression is of activity, a continuous outpouring of energy, of which they seem to possess an inexhaustible amount."

The meet (i.e., the gathering together of members for the start of a hunt) may be as early as five in the morning — though as the season progresses it may be as late as 11. And those who hunt may have jogged to the meet from miles away, leaving their home stable in total darkness. It is a seemingly disorganized and brilliant scene: huntsmen mounted and on foot, grooms everywhere wiping boots and saddlery, the whips shouting at the yipping pack. (Neiman recalls that Ozelle Moss, Master of Fox Hounds of the Moore County Hounds, knows each hound by name, knows which are leaders and which followers, which steady and which apt to run off on a false scent.) This hunt's colors are navy blue and scarlet in the field (scarlet and royal blue in the evening) and in the winey air of a Carolina morning the meet struck Neiman as being a stunning spectacle of color and motion.

Later, with the hounds on the quarry's trail and the field following the cries of the hounds, the single-minded riders get down to the raison d'être of their lives. At such times their expressions are impassive; horse and rider may grunt in unison from the exertion of going over a jump, but neither sees the painter, sketch pad in hand, watching the field stream by: whips with hounds, M.F.H., older members of the hunt, then the younger people, then the children and the grooms training green horses, and finally the local farm owners — who are always invited and who accord the hunt the use of their lands — dressed in ratcatcher tweeds.

If the hounds split or have scattered too far, the M.F.H. calls a check; when the horn calling the hounds is heard, all riders head for it; and' then, from the check point, the hunt is on again. It may last a few hours; it may last most of the day. Renard may get away — which is OK with all, provided he's given them fine sport. If there is a kill, the M.F.H. will award the fox's brush (tail), pad (paws) and mask (head) to riders who have done exceptionally well or are in at the kill. "After an early-morning hunt," says Neiman, "when ordinary mortals who'd ridden that hard would be exhausted, these supermen and super-women enjoy a hunt breakfast, where the day's serious drinking and eating begin. This 'breakfast' may go on until the cocktail hour — with people going in and out, hopping into cars to go visit friends or go home and change clothes, then returning or going on to a cocktail party at still another estate. And there is talk. Animated or bored, there is talk — about horses, about riding, about riders, complete post mortems of the morning's hunt with frequent references to earlier hunts and comments on tomorrow's. Not once in five days and nights," Neiman says, "did I hear a word about world affairs, politics, business, the arts. All these people are widely traveled — but their talk about foreign countries is concerned exclusively with their relative virtues as places to hunt. These incredibly handsome people are great name droppers, too — of horses and families, not celebrities. And when they aren't talking about horses or hunts, they talk affectionately about 'foxy,' or about how wonderfully a 70-year-old huntsman still rides, or how well a seven-year-old is coming along.

"As for the artist wandering in their midst — me — they couldn't have cared less. I was treated with courtly courtesy verging on indifference; I roamed their houses — all beautifully furnished in authentic antiques — and gazed at the hunting prints and trophies and mounted pads and masks on their walls; and I looked in vain for a painting that wasn't a huntsman's portrait, or a book not connected in some way with the huntsman's and rider's world.

"And I tried to keep up with them. Not in drinking, which would have been impossible (although no one appeared especially drunk), but just in the social and sports rounds they made. After a hunt, hunt breakfast, cocktails, dinner and after-midnight bedtime, there they were at a meet the next dawn, looking ruddy-faced and vital, full of spizz and ready to go. A particular morning I'm thinking of was the start of a drag hunt, in which a spoor of rags is trailed over the countryside some hours before the hunt, which culminates at a tree in which meat has been hung. The hounds took off, then the riders in hot pursuit; it was one hell of a ride. Then the interminable breakfast with horse talk— and this time, for the first time, I heard talk about flat racing, a form of equestrian competition for which the hunt people feel complete contempt. As a matter of fact, the only other form of riding they seem to accord any real status is steeplechasing, perhaps because of its grueling danger and because gentlemen riders participate.

"Here were all these people — all the girls with the Grace Kelly look: long blonde hair, dark glasses, fur coat thrown over riding habit — and all of them bursting with humorless vitality. I was curious to hear so much talk about hunting the day before, since I'd been told there was to be no hunt that day. It turned out there wasn't — so these people had got up at dawn to shoot ducks.

"I mentioned that the hunt crowd all seemed superb physical specimens. That may in itself have something to do with their dedication to sport — rather than the other way around. It probably also accounts for something else about them I noticed: I saw no overt sex play, overheard no make-out talk, never saw a man and girl steal off alone — but all the time the atmosphere seemed charged with a kind of animal spirit which had overtones of sex about it. It's hard to explain, but I got the feeling that most of these people were quite aware of sex without making a 'thing' out of it, or stressing it, and didn't feel the need to parade it. Perhaps their formal code of conduct is so perfectly learned that the usual evidences of flirtation simply aren't seen. I think, though, that this marked lack of sexy behavior may reflect an acceptance of sex as an important, natural part of their lives."

Neiman's last day in Southern Pines was the day of the field trials over one of the toughest and most famous courses in the world. "Here," says Neiman, "a man at his leisure who's not part of the fox-hunting set may enjoy watching them in action. Parking space for car and occupants is ten dollars and the parking area, which overlooks the course, is a social center for drinking, chatting (about horses and riders), eating out of huge picnic hampers and cheering the riders. Believe it or not, they all had the strength — riders and spectators — to go on that night to the formal Hunt Ball."

Two things struck Neiman particularly forcibly. One was that this tight-knit group of participants in the pageantry and protocol of the sport had a tacit awareness and esthetic appreciation of their own colorful role in it, "like costumed members of some tribal ceremonial," says Neiman. The other thing was this: Neiman went direct from Southern Pines to Miami. "You won't believe it," he says, "but the people in Florida suddenly seemed small and puny by comparison — and pale !"

Above: A colorful panorama met the eye of those invited to the 26th Annual Hunter Trials held by the Moore County Hounds of Southern Pines. Each year, the gala event draws entrants from hunts all over the nation and there is spirited competition over the intricate course — to the accompaniment of much visiting back and forth among riders and spectators in their sports cars and station wagons. Horses, riders, guests, grooms, hounds, horse vans, and the lovely rolling country in the crisp air of late February made for the memorable scene LeRoy Neiman captures here. Mounted, her back to the artist, is Mrs. Winston Guest, buttoning her weskit while a groom holds her jacket. A bit to the left, in the middle background, are three judges seated atop a tallyho, a kind of four-in-hand carriage. This trial course is one of the best in the country.

Left: LeRoy Neiman's quick eye captured this humorous moment at the mounting steps.

Above: At hunt's end, Master of Fox Hounds presents brush to a rider for fine performance. She rides sidesaddle; both are formally clad. Below, M.F.H. and hounds. When "hunting his own hounds" (i.e., working them) he wears a hunt cap instead of high silk hat.

Above: At hunt's end, Master of Fox Hounds presents brush to a rider for fine performance. She rides sidesaddle; both are formally clad. Below, M.F.H. and hounds. When "hunting his own hounds" (i.e., working them) he wears a hunt cap instead of high silk hat.

Above: The hounds are on the scent and the field's on a run, taking a jump at full gallop. Spills are frequent but the pace does not abate. Hunt protocol calls for the M.F.H. to lead the riders — unless he's hunting his own hounds, in which case he's up ahead with them and the whips. Then follow the long-term, most respected members of the hunt, then the rest of the riders, finally children, and grooms who are breaking in untrained horses.

Right: The quarry of the hunt is affectionately known as "foxy," earns only praise if he manages to escape—provided he's given the field a good, hard ride. There'll always be another time, when foxy may be outfoxed.

Above: From this hillside vantage point, LeRoy Neiman painted the hunt-field scene. The hounds are hot on foxy's trail, the riders come pelting through the valley behind them.

Below: End of a drag hunt—for which, hours before the hunt, a fox-scented sack is dragged over a tricky course, culminating at a tree in whose branches a hunk of raw meat is cached. The hounds are baying at it now, the riders assembling; the meat will be thrown to the pack.