Forty years ago I experienced my first Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve fox hunt. I was an impressionable teenager with a feisty pony riding with the Fairfield County Hounds, based here in Newtown. These rides left such an impression it compelled me to write about them as a senior in high school years later. I recently unearthed that manuscript, handwritten on lined notebook paper. As we celebrate this holiday week, I invite you to take a trip back in history on how I used to spend my holidays on horseback. And to enjoy (or recoil) at my grasp of the English language as I present "The Aspects of Fox Hunting."

We pick up the action on Christmas Eve 1975. I had been on only one hunt previously, my first real fox hunt ever - the October opening meet in Newtown - with my pony Gingersnap. A week later I broke my foot in a jumping accident…

"I couldn't ride for six weeks. Hunting went on without me. Finally, when I returned to the hunt it was December and very cold. The next hunt I went on was in Roxbury. When we arrived it started to drizzle a little. We mounted up and were off. About an hour into the hunt it started to sleet, and an ice storm was approaching. The hunt was just about to be called off, and we would return to the trailer in one piece. Wondering if this was a good idea, the hounds made the final decision. They caught this strong scent, breast high scent, and there was nothing we could do to stop them, so we followed them. Our horses were galloping flat out. The hounds took us through this field which led into the woods. Oh, but then that damed fox took a left turn onto this main road that looked like a highway. Great for the horses hooves, very tender footing! One half hour later we were still running.

Suddenly, the sleet turned into huge hail stones the size of quarters, maybe dimes. Our faces were being bombarded with hail at full speed, no less, it was painful!! Everyone's face was bright red. Onward we went, silly us. After what seemed like an eternity, the hunt was still close on the fox's trail. Galloping up this little incline on the road, we came to the top of this hill. Looking down, you saw 100 yards of downward hill at an 85% angle, it was steep. By now the roads had about 1/2 inch of ice on them, and were quite slick. But our pace never slowed, over the hill and down, down, down we went. Most of the horses slid all the way down, not taking one stride. Just bracing their front feet and sitting down on their hocks and skating down this hill. I was never so petrified in my life. I thought I was going to kill my pony and me for sure. So did everyone else.

At the bottom of the hill, everyone prayed for thankfulness. The hounds ran along for 5 more minutes then suddenly stopped. They had lost the scent, and had no intentions of finding it again. Their pads were bleeding from being cut up on the ice. The snow was red. The Huntsman called it a day, and we all went home. It was rather a wasted day, as far as the hunt was concerned. So much misery and no fox! Still, it was one of the most thrilling and most scary experiences I have ever felt.

Of my hunts with Ginger, my most memorable was a happy hunt. It took place in South Britain. It was late December and the days were always cold and grey. As procedure had it we were early. So I slept in the warm car for a bit. Finally, everyone had arrived and that's when the fun started. It seems someone had brought enough sherry for a stirrup cup, for the whole hunt. Hurray! All of us hunters got very warm before the hunt, indeed! We could hardly feel the zero degree weather.

I liked this hunt because it was quite scenic. Halfway through the hunt, pure white snowflakes began drifting downward. It was quite lovely. Also, we had a good run, which led us to some…"

And then I'm missing page 29 of the 57-page manuscript. Of all the pages to go missing? Not the boring ones with all the glossary terms like 1st Whipper-In, Tack man or the Stud Groom. Or the ones that had photographs on them I'd ripped out decades ago to put in my photo album. No, the one page describing "my most memorable" and "happy" time riding to hounds is missing. And what's weird, is that I vividly remember that terrifying Christmas eve ride like it was yesterday. Yet, the happy ride escapes my memory. I image I felt solitude in the snow, alone in the cold with my warm pony beneath me. I image a whirlwind of flakes, landing on my cheeks, licking them off. I image soft canters in the deep snow. I image jumping coops, stonewalls and natural logs. And I image hearing the hounds speaking to a line. Or maybe it was the stirrup cup having its effects on me.

I'll end with a poem called "Hunting," authored by An Old Farmer. I'd written this in blue marker on the title page.

When the fence is black

And the ditch is wide

And the Lord knows what

Is on the other side

Here's to the man who will ride

Will ride

His, I say is a brave man's name

He risks his neck for the love of a game

Lisa Peterson - lifelong equestrian, show dog breeder and award-winning journalist, public relations specialist and podcaster - writes about horses, hounds and history at LisaUnleashed.com. Reach her at lisa@lisaunleashed.com or @LisaNPeterson.