The Arabs are individualists, with little consideration for law or gospel; they stand at the beginning and the end of civilized systems-savagery and the most highly developed socialism; they are, children in thought, with the wisdom of ages, unbridled in passion, with super-human restraint. Living in their midst is going back to the time of Abraham, and of the Chaldeans, or of the pastoral one peoples who inhabited the steppes of Asia before they scattered to the four corners of the earth . . . like their forefathers, the present day Bedouins feel the exultation of a successful combat with nature, the lure of a wandering life, freedom from care of property, the fascination of boundless space and time, the joy of unleashing primative instincts, and the opportunity of realizing a closeness to their maker. W.R. Brown (1929), The Horse of the Desert, New York, The Derrydale Press p. 4

How else could I begin to try to share with you what participating in a hunt can be like? It isn't always the mood Brown sets, but the Ishtan Cup hunt was - and it was wonderful being in field. I won't bother giving a course by course analysis because, for me at least, that isn't what made the day so pleasant; the coursing wasn't the finest I've seen. But, that's typical for a hunt. Sometimes there are beautiful courses; lots of times the runs are "average." And yet, the day was marvelous. I'm sure I'm not alone in saying I've experienced the feeling before. Maybe it's because, when it does happen, when this particular feeling pervades a hunt it is the mutually sensed effort of a group of people giving every ounce of physical strength they have to accomplish a common goal. A group of loosely related (through our Salukis) individuals come together in a silent, open place with a shared goal ... we become a tribe . . .

I know that must sound like pure corn-but, you have to experience it to understand. I'll sketch a few of the "facts", then you'll be able to fully grasp how crazy the whole thing is, and how great. I have to do this from a personal vantage point because each participant experienced it a bit differently. Some things were common to all, others personal.

Everyone has to drive farther than could possibly be considered sane to arrive at a Denny's or some such midnight (6:30 a.m. roll call!) gourmet breakfast haven. Only the hard core regulars manage to eat - the rest of us either don't try or choke we're trying to get so much food in per bite.

The next thing that happens is everyone's nightmare is realized with the luck of the draw - all bad because all the competition is good! Whichever Saluki you feared most, least wanted to run against, be sure, that's the one you'll draw. If your entry runs best with a warm-up, you'll probably be in the first course. If your dog is a good distance runner, yours will be a speed chase for the bushes, the hare finding cover before your pride and joy even begins to show what he's made of! But, wait, I've gotten into the field before we've even left Denny's! I forgot to tell you how you know your luck in the field will be as I sketched - when you get to the field and the huntmaster says, "We'll have to park here (100 miles from where we'll hunt) and walk in. It's too muddy to drive in." The faint of heart or any I.Q. approaching normal at this point should scratch their entry. But, no, we all go on! We're so busy talking the reality of sinking 3 inches with every slippery step somehow fails to warn of the next 8 hours walking-or was it 10 hours - or at least 5!

Finally we move off the slippery canal bank down into a brushy, semi-solid area and the huntmaster says "This is where we'll hunt. You have to be quiet because the rabbits here" are multi-lingual and easily offended . . . no, that's not what he said; you can see how silly I was feeling even before we started to move through the cover... "let's have a right gallery, a left gallery, first course on the line...." and there I was with my wonderful boy facing my nightmare, the hottest new girl in the field!

And for each of us, what happens with that first slip? Any arrogance, any bloodline bias, any intellectual hostility one may bring into the field against this bloodline or that . . . when the rabbit breaks, the huntmaster cries "tally-ho" and the hounds are slipped ... off the line flash three Salukis, each carrying the genes of the East and the heart of a hunter -the competition comes from every bloodline and every Saluki out there deserves respect. And, every Saluki out there earns the love of its owner for trying. That in itself is rewarding to see. Everyone comes wanting to win the course, or the cup or whatever. The Salukis come to run and they're so beautiful as they fly by in their bright blankets, heads down, leaning into their strides . . .

We walked and walked ... the courses were on schedule; it almost appeared we'd be done "early." So, instead of lunch, the huntmaster steered us towards a brushy area where, upon entering, I was ankle deep in mud and beginning to panic for fear of being sucked under! Somehow the gallery was moving by me . . . help! For what seemed like an eternity we trudged through this slimy marsh with a chemical film covering all the vegetation. Silently everyone must have thought the same thought. But no one said a word... and Brown came to mind again

Arabs are actually children in development and intellect. With the exception of a few leaders who do the thinking and planning, they could be taken to Russia and not object. They have certain codes of generosity handed down from their forebears which clash with their natural tendencies, they are brave and cruel, passionate and reserved, trusting and suspicious, all in streaks. (ibid, p. 22)

Yep, that was us and the rules of the hunt - never question the huntmaster! And, demonstrating the wisdom of one who has participated in many forced marches, our huntmaster turned us out of the chemical slime (which no rabbit would ever set foot in). We dragged ourselves onto firm ground, our mud caked boots and mud bogged muscles suddenly feeling light; we were NOT permitted to sit down and rest - pure genius because most of us would have collapsed. On we trudged, on we dragged. The slime was our lunch break. And all through this the light conversation and tinkling of wine glasses and forks on china float through our minds what's left of them... Well, we were all still talking. Not a grumpy word had been uttered... all through the slime. And, on an up note, the Salukis in every course were sighted before tally-ho was called; a sensitive huntmaster indeed!

Finally we have run all the preliminaries. The finals are announced. On we trudge. The finals are run and field #2's judge comes up to us (as we finally collapse in a bunch, awaiting the placements) and tells us in a perfectly pleasant manner that no finals have been run for his field because he couldn't see the courses. He then naively turns his back and is not murdered on the spot! Instead, the President of NOFCA, as if nothing unusual had just happened, shouts, "field 2 finals will be rerun." Miraculously no one kills him either! No one said anything at all. Everyone struggles to their feet and we begin again.

In that moment hopes for the cup or placements were crushed for several participants. Yet there was not one word of protest, not one public word. Hearts may have sunk but sportsmanship demanded the hunt proceed. And it did. It was a totally sportsmanlike and honorable ending. It was the best that coursing people have to give in the field. Due to the repeated final, the field 2 winner was too exhausted for a runoff. When she returned, her owner looked at her and conceded the cup. The two field winners decided to share the cup and suddenly the ground seemed firm and we trudged toward the cars. Everyone was still talking with the person next to him; there wasn't a single hostile vibration. All those hours, all that effort... we shared it.