A Rollicking Ride in the Snow

Tuesday, January 11
Finally, the sticky, brown mud of the last few months is truly gone, hidden beneath of bed of soft, fluffy snow-- the product of a mild weekend storm. I'm as giddy as a small child as I pull a pair of winter-riding snow-pants over my long underwear. I can't wait to jump aboard Maggie's broad back and go for a brisk ride in the snow.

Maggie seems happy for the attention. She even stands still while I mount, though her elephant-trunk-like lips rip several small branches off our apple tree while I lean over to adjust my bulky pants. After tugging the twigs from Maggie's reluctant jaws, we set off down the hill at a lumbering march.

About halfway down, we meet our neighbour Greg on his four-wheeler, wearing a helmet and insulated green coveralls. He's on his way back from their dairy barn. I ask about his 90 head of cattle, and we chat about the weather. As the minutes tick by, Maggie stands politely, moving only occasionally to shift her weight. What a difference from Murray, whose anxious attitude doesn't lend itself well to mid-ride conversation. I promise Greg that Dave and I will eventually get down for a tour of the farm, then we wave and go our separate ways.

Maggie continues at her meandering pace, until we reach the cattle's marshmallow-like rolls of round hay bales at the bottom of the hill. Then we turn and jog unenthusiastically back toward home. It's a slow, but enjoyable pace. The only sound, other than the crunch of Maggie's bare feet on packed snow, is that of a lonely Murray, beckoning with high-pitched cries from his paddock.

Urged on by Murray's whinnies, Maggie manages a moderate burst of energy and we crest the hill at a full trot. We turn down the driveway and head for the riding ring. I'm not sure what the footing will be like. When I last checked (before our most recent snowfall), the riding ring had a smooth, rink-like quality. I had even considered hauling out my skates, but never got around to it.

Now, it seems that ice is covered by several inches of snow. We're able to trot serpentines and circles without a single slip, but I don't trust the footing enough to chance a canter. Time to explore the fields.

We set off at a trot through foot-high snow. Every so often, we come across drifts that rise as high as Maggie's belly. There's a particularly high and wide drift nearing the crest of a small hill. Maggie has to leap like a dear to get through it, but I think she's finally having fun since I no longer have to thump my legs on her sides to keep her going. Enjoying the moment, I can't wipe the grin off my face.

We turn and do a lap on the level, snow-covered grass outside of the ring. As we canter briskly by, I notice Muscade and Zorro playing in the snow. I laugh out loud as I watch their winter game unfold. Zorro hides behind the mounds of snow piled up by Dave's tractor, then as Muscade approaches (head down, sniffing some unknown scent), he leaps out from his hiding spot and scuttles toward her, back raised and tail up. When Muscade takes notice, he changes course and darts back behind another snow bank. It looks like we're all enjoying the winter wonderland.

I decide to take Maggie for a last loop down through the snowdrifts. Her long, thick, black coat is shiny from sweat, and steam is beginning to rise her from back. She's just getting going though. I actually have to hold her back. But as we round the corner and start back up the hill toward the massive snow-drift, I lean forward and give her her head. Her hind end lowers and chunks of snow fly into the air as she picks up speed. We're through the drift and cresting the hill when she squeals. Uh-oh.

Suddenly, with a toss of her head, Maggie gets carried away in the moment. She whips her body into the air with a violent buck-- this is not the kind of frustrated buck she occasionally tests me with in riding ring. No, this is the joy-filled, lurching, twisting buck I've seen her attempt when running side-by-side with Murray out in the field. It's the kind of buck that has often prompted Dave and I to look at each other and say "man, she has power."

Before her leap into the air, I'm perched, jockey-like on her neck, urging her forward. Now, I try to lean back, but I don't have time to drive my seat completely back into the saddle. I'm tossed around like a rag doll as her ample hind-end launches her 1300 pound body well into the air. My feet slip from the stirrups, and I think to myself that at least the snow will make for a soft landing. Her second buck is thankfully less-enthusiastic, and I do manage to hold on as her hooves sink into the snow and she bolts off at a full-out gallop.

Now, I'm someone who believes in treating horses' mouths with great respect. I generally ride in fat, loose ring snaffles, and I don't believe in using a bit as punishment. That said, I had borrowed a harsher-than-usual corkscrew bit from a friend since Maggie has been a little fresh lately. I wanted to fine-tune her responses before letting Dave on her back again. I used the bit once, and decided it might be too much for her. I had considered taking it off before today's ride. I didn't though, mostly because I was too anxious to get out in the snow, and didn't want to take the time to fiddle with the difficult leather.

I forget about the bit as I struggle to stay in the saddle on the steam-breathing black horse now careening through our snow-covered field. In grave danger of injuring my pride by landing on my butt in the snow, I give a pretty sharp tug on the reins. Maggie, who actually has quite a soft mouth, and who was in the middle of a full gallop stride, comes to an abrupt halt. Insulted by my assault on her tender mouth, she shakes her head savagely from side to side and shifts into temper tantrum mode just as I manage to slip my feet back into my stirrups.

When Maggie has tantrums, she reminds me of the stereotypical terrible two-year-old child-- the one who throws her body on the ground, shakes her head and flails her arms and legs from side to side while screaming at full volume. Only, instead of flailing limbs, Maggie pounds her front and hind feet alternately into the ground in a rocking-horse style rear/ buck, rear/ buck motion. Today she even snorts and squeals in anger as she hops up and down on the spot until I manage an apologetic pat on the neck. Eventually though, all is forgiven, and she settles as we walk through the shimmering, sunlit snow, back to the barn. What a great ride.

When the Cows Come Home

The horses got their first glimpse of the neighbour's cows earlier this spring. It was about mid-May when the black and white "ladies" of milk were turned loose into the pastures at the bottom of the hill.

Maggie was the first to make their acquaintance. We were riding down the hill one day when she spotted them grazing in a lush pasture on the right hand side of the road. She stopped in her tracks and stared. Then, unprompted, she started trotting toward them. I like that Maggie is generally more curious than frightened, so I let her have her way and she barrelled on.

Unfortunately, the cows were less curious and more frightened. When they saw this lumbering black beast heading toward their pasture, the whole herd turned tail and ran, udders swaying awkwardly between hobbling hind legs. Maggie, utterly dejected, stared after them until they all disappeared behind the barn's sloping green walls.

The roles were reversed during Murray's first encounter. His ever-searching, high-alert eyes spotted the mottled coats of the cows through the trees when we were still several hundred metres away. He tried to turn around. I gently guided him forward. He warily continued, and skittered sideways when a cow rounded a corner and seemingly materialized out of nowhere. Again, Murray swung his gumbi-like neck around in an attempt to go home.

The cows, however, were divided in their response to him. Several leaped up from their mid-morning slumbers and cantered awkwardly toward the barn. Others merely turned their heads, flicked their tails, and kept right on chewing their cud. Two or three of the animals even ambled bravely toward us.

Murray wanted none of their friendly advances. His nostrils flared, his knees trembled and I decided this was enough bovine exposure for one day. I made him walk a few more steps forward then purposefully turned him toward home, leaving the cows to feel the sting of rejection this time.

After a few similar encounters, the horses and cows stopped paying as much attention to one another. But today the animals took each other by surprise once again.

9:00am
I'm currying the loose hair and dirt from Maggie's coat when I notice Murray outside, staring across the road. I suspect a deer might be passing through, but when I pop my head out, I don't see anything. Moments later, Murray barges into his stall, turns around and cranes his neck cautiously out the open door. He reminds me of a nervous child, peeking from behind his mother's skirts. As I scrape the dirt from Maggie's hooves, Murray darts back out through his door, and stares, statue-like again across the road. I take another look myself, but again see nothing. This routine, with Murray flitting in and out anxiously continues the entire time I have Maggie on the cross-ties. His pacing drives me nuts, but I leave him to it as I lead Maggie out of the barn for our morning ride.

The instant Maggie crosses the threshold, she freezes and her head snaps up. Now that we're outside, I can see what was out of my view before. It's the cows. They've been let loose in the field directly across the street from the house. Maggie lets out a loud snort, forgets that I'm holding her, and makes a beeline for the herd.

I give her a tug on the reins, and a shove on the chest to remind her that she's not to use her 1250 pound self as a battering ram against her owner. I turn her away from the cows, and march her toward the ring for our workout. Every few feet, she swings her head around to try and catch another glimpse of the grazing cattle.

After an unproductive 20 minutes, I decide to let Maggie have her way and we head back up to the road. As we stroll by the barn, I see that Murray is still doing his in-out routine, though his intervals outside seem to be lasting longer and longer.

Maggie's eyes are glued to the herd of 35 cows grazing oh-so-close to our house. She's anxious to get closer, but this time I make sure she takes it slow. The "ladies" seem to interpret her more leisurely advances positively this time. No one takes off in the opposite direction and three boldly make their way toward us. As they reach the fence, they lift their heads and sniff the air with their wet noses.

All that separates the species now is a water-filled, grassy ditch and a few strands of barbed-wire fencing. Maggie pulls on the reins in an attempt to get even closer, but I'd rather not negotiate the ditch today. Instead, I let her stand there watching in awe. Several minutes pass. The calm gawking continues, but I've got work to do, so I turn a reluctant Maggie back toward the barn.

I briefly consider taking Murray out for a closer look too, in hopes that it might ease his anxiety. But I know Murray too well. He's not one to mingle. So I leave him to his peek-a-boo routine, which will likely continue until he's satisfied they're not a threat.