A Winter's Walk

It’s been a long, cold, icy winter, and there have been many days when I’ve dreamt of tunnelling into a cave to hibernate. 

Instead, on “nicer” days, I force myself to get out for a walk.  I’d like to take Muscade with me, but at 15, she can’t handle walking for more than a few minutes at a time.  So, for company, I decided that this winter, I’d bring the horses with me on my walks.  That way, we’d all get some exercise, and I could work on the horses’ ground manners at the same time.

The first time I took Maggie out for a walk was a beautiful sunny afternoon sometime in December.  There was lots of fresh, fluffy snow on the ground, so I free-lunged her for awhile in Murray’s paddock first (which, as it turns out, is a great stand-in for a round-pen).  She trotted and cantered happily through the snow, and managed to work up a bit of a sweat.  I planned on a nice walk together to cool her down.

Across the road from our place, a path had been plowed through our neighbour’s hayfield.  It leads to the woods, to an area where logs are cut and trees harvested.  The packed snow made for perfect footing, and I was curious to see how far into the woods the path went.  So, I secured a wool cooler to Maggie’s back, tied the rope halter around her head, shoved a handful of treats into my pocket, and off we went.  While we walked, I worked with Maggie, practicing getting her to halt or walk on command, with very little pressure from me.  I praised her for her efforts with treat after treat.  We were relaxed, and enjoying ourselves. 

Once we crossed the field to the tree-line, the path narrowed a bit.  De-limbed trees were stacked in neat piles on either side of what was left of the path.  I wondered for a minute whether it was a familiar scene for Maggie—who I was told had been used to haul logs out of the woods before we got her.  We walked on for another 30 feet or so, and came to the end of the plowed path.  The road itself continued through the trees and around a turn, but it hadn’t been cleared recently.  I could see sunlight streaming in through the trees where the path started to curve, and I wondered whether there was a clearing ahead.  It was such a beautiful day that I didn’t feel ready to turn back.  So, I urged Maggie forward into the un-packed snow.    

I didn’t realize just how deep that snow would be.  After a few steps, I tripped on what I assume was a log, invisible to me under the snow.  Maggie and I both stumbled blindly over it and onto the other side.   Suddenly, we had dropped down into snow that was up to my waist, and Maggie’s belly.  We staggered on for another 20 or 30 feet, trying to find more stable footing, but the ground was uneven, and the snow too deep.  We wiggled and waded on the narrow path, and managed to turn around to face back toward the field.  That’s when Maggie’s homing instinct kicked in and she showed me what 1300 pounds of pulling power can do.  She dropped her head, threw her shoulders forward, and with a squeal, she lurched ahead in a leaping motion.  She built up momentum and started hauling herself out through the snow like that in a very efficient fashion.  The only problem was that I couldn’t keep up.  I felt her lean into the rope halter as I grabbed the nylon lead with both hands, but I lost my grip as I stumbled clumsily through the snow. The lead slipped through my hands and I had visions of Maggie running free through the field, careening across the road, and then falling on our icy driveway. 

Luckily, there was a knot in the end of the lead, and I grabbed for it as I turned my head to avoid the snowballs flying through the air in Maggie’s wake.  My arm was yanked forward as Maggie bounded ahead of me. I yelled “whoa,” and hung on with all my strength.  She kept going, towing me through the deep snow as she went.  Finally she reached the buried log.  She gave one last leap, and landed on solid footing, dragging me with her.  But my feet got tangled in the log and I fell onto my knees.  I expected Maggie to pull the rope from my hand at any moment.  But she didn’t.  She just stood there with swirls of steam rising from her sweaty body, her sides heaving from her efforts. She waited while I got to my feet and caught my breath.  Then she turned her head toward me with a look that clearly said “don’t I get a reward for hauling your useless two-legged body out of the snow?”  So, I reached into my pocket and fished out several tiny treats for her.  Then, with jelly-like legs (at least on my part), we walked calmly back to the barn. 

At Least We're not the Only Ones.

Wednesday February 16th
I worked for CBC in Halifax today, so Dave and I carpooled into the city. It was dusk when we got home, and as we crested the hill and our driveway came into sight, we noticed the oil truck.

The cab of the truck was halfway out of our driveway, so at first we assumed he was leaving. Dave slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road to give him room. But the truck didn't move.

Me (tentatively): "Do you think he's stuck?"

Dave: "No. He can't be stuck. (pause) Can he?"

Something certainly didn't seem right. The truck was definitely lilting to the left, and it still wasn't moving. We looked more closely and saw snow, lots of it, pressed into the undercarriage of the truck. Yes. The Irving Oil truck was definitely stuck.

Dave got out of the car and approached the driver, who, despite his predicament, was cheerful and friendly. He said he was backing into our driveway about 20 minutes earlier when it happened. He hit the icy hump at the foot of our driveway (a hump created by the plow's middle of the night passes, and our too-busy/lazy-to-shovel lifestyle). When he hit the hump, his liquid load shifted with a lurch, forcing the tires to jump sideways....off the edge of our narrow driveway and into the ditch.

A tow-truck was on its way. We offered the driver a chance to come inside and warm up, but he said he preferred to wait in the truck... besides, the hose on the truck was long enough that he figured he could fill our oil tank from where he was, which he did.

The driver's one big concern was for the two other clients whose tanks he was supposed to fill. One was a private home up the road in Kennetcook. They'd been without oil all day, and the temperature was hovering at something like fifteen below zero. The homeowners called the driver several times to see where he was, and he had to deliver the bad news-- he was delayed.


His other client was a business which repairs large trucks. They too had been without oil all day, and weren't very happy about the situation. Dave and I felt a little sheepish. We had plenty of oil, about a quarter of a tank. We'd just called for a delivery because we figured better safe than sorry. We likely could have gone several more weeks without oil though.

Dusk turned to dark before the tow truck finally arrived. It was a huge truck (about the same size as the oil truck) with a heavy duty winch on the back. At some point, the oil truck driver whispered to Dave that they're supposed to drain the oil from the truck before having it towed. This wasn't done, and I had visions of the truck tipping on its side, spilling thick black diesel onto the bright, white snow. Thankfully, the truck was tugged free from the rutted ditch without incident--well, almost without incident.


With the oil truck out of the ditch and now blocking the entire width of the road, the driver jumped out suddenly and ran to the left side of the truck. I followed. I noticed a four foot long metal box dangling from the bottom of the truck onto the snowy road. It turns out it was a tool box normally attached to a metal frame on the lower left hand side of the truck. But with so much snow shoved up against the bottom of the truck as it was dragged out of the ditch, the frame twisted and the box fell off. Now, the oil truck driver, and the tow truck driver were both sizing it up, trying to figure out how to re-attach it so they could finish work and go home.

Eventually, they decided to use a few bungee cords to wrangle the box into place. The driver shrugged and hoped the box would stay put while he finished his deliveries. Having it bounce off while driving 100 kms/hour on the highway was not an experience he was looking forward to.

At least he can breathe easily knowing that we shouldn't need oil again until next fall.

Dave's Joy-Ride

A few days ago, Dave and I were talking about the horses. I mentioned that it had been quite awhile since he'd been for a ride. This wasn't meant as an accusation, or a challenge, or a call to action. It was merely a statement of fact. I think though, that my loving husband may have misinterpreted my statement. His response was "It's supposed to be nice on Sunday, why don't we go for a ride then?". I wonder now whether he regrets his suggestion.

Sunday January 29th
It's a beautiful winter's day-- warm, sunny, and not a breath of wind. By 11:30am we're ready for a ride.

I'll be honest. I'm a little nervous about this mid-winter escapade. The horses haven't been ridden much. They're pretty fresh, and Maggie has managed to muster a considerable amount of energy during the few recent rides I have had on her. I don't mention my concerns to Dave, and I manage to convince myself that we'll just go for a short, leisurely, and safe walk in the snow.

Before we ride, I scope out the state of the road. It's been sanded, but is very icy underneath. I worry that the hill is too slippery for Maggie's unshod hooves. I'm also worried about the riding ring. There's a fresh layer of snow, but it's not thick, and lurking underneath is perfect skating-rink-smooth ice. I decide our best option is to ride the horses in the large, snow-filled, fenced-in field. The footing is safe, and we'll be in an enclosed area-- a large enclosed area, but enclosed nonetheless.

Dave is ready before me. As usual, he uses the round, two-foot-high concrete crock above our well on the front-lawn, as a step-stool to hoist himself onto Maggie's western saddle.

Me: "Forgetting something?"

Dave: "What? No."

Me: "Are you sure?"

Dave: "Oh, my helmet...I guess I forgot to tack myself up".

We giggle, and I lead Murray back to the barn to retrieve Dave's helmet. I'm a stickler about helmets. I've had two concussions from falls WITH helmets, so I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing the mushroom-like caps.

With his helmet securely strapped to his head, Dave urges Maggie down the path toward the pastures while I go back to the barn once again to smear Vaseline in Murray's hooves. It helps keep the snow from balling up beneath his soles.

From inside the barn, I suddenly hear a squeaky clip-clip in the packed snow, along with a series of ever intensifying shouts of "whoa" intermingled with: "whoa Maggie whoa". I grab Murray's reins and lead him abruptly from the barn as Maggie rounds the corner toward us-- eyes wide and nostrils flared. Dave yells at her and tugs on the reins, but she doesn't stop until she's right in front of us.

Me: "What happened?"

Dave (somewhat breathless): "I tried to ride her through the gate and she wouldn't go through. She spun around, took off, then reared, then took off again."

Me (dismissively): "Well, I think she's stressed about leaving Murray behind. Just wait for me and we'll go in together."

In the back of my mind, my apprehension over this ride is growing. I still don't mention it to Dave though. If I make him nervous, he'll make Maggie nervous, and things will go quickly downhill from there.

Dave has limited riding experience, but the experience he has had has so far has been positive. He's never fallen off, and until Maggie's uncontrolled rear/trot-back-toward-the-barn, he's never had a horse do anything more threatening than a mild spook (though he's watched enough of Murray's antics that he's well aware of how powerful and unpredictable these 12 hundred pound animals can be when they so choose). To this point, Dave's confidence on horseback is fully intact, and I'd like it to stay that way.

I brush my worries aside, and lead Murray to the well, so I can get on. Dave and Maggie are behind me, wandering in the snow on the front lawn. Murray and I make it about 20 feet down the path before I hear Maggie's gait quicken, first to a trot, then a canter. Again, I hear the chorus of "WHOA's", each one becoming more desperate. I stop and turn in time to see Maggie cantering through the knee deep snow in the lawn, with Dave tugging unsuccessfully at her reins (Dave has only ever cantered a handful of times). She leaps a small snowbank and hits the icy driveway at a fast clip. She slips, yanking the reins through Dave's gloved-hands. She manages to stay on her feet, but Dave's reins are now too long to offer any control.

"Sit up and shorten your reins!" I yell. Then I ad my own "whoa's" to Dave's efforts. Maggie slows slightly, to a half-trot-half-canter gait, but she's heading straight for the tractor. At the last possible second, she ducks to the left, nearly unseating Dave, who's still trying to shorten his reins to a reasonable length. Then, Maggie veers sharply to the left again and heads straight for our truck. Instead of crashing into it, she climbs the four-foot high pile of snow behind it, then runs up along the passenger side.

By now, I've jumped off Murray, thankfully Dave has readjusted his reins, and Maggie has exhausted the supply of vehicles with which she can play chicken. With a final "WHOA", and a sharp tug on the reins, Maggie comes to a halt a few feet in front of Murray and me. I reach forward and grab the reins, giving them a few unproductive tugs. I force myself to check my anger, and I look up to Dave to ask whether he's ok.

He's flushed, out of breath, and a little shaken.

Dave: "What a little B*^#&."

I concur.

Me: "Why don't you hop off, and I'll lunge Maggie in the field for a bit before you get back on?"

Dave: "Ok, I'll get the lunge line".

I hand Murray's reins to Dave, and I lead Maggie into the field, all the while whispering to her about manners, and taking care of Dave and how it's ok to behave stupidly with me, but not with him.

I let her out on the lunge line and she bursts into a bigger extended trot than I would have thought possible for her short legs. Then she canters, then she bucks. I dig my heels into the snow and hold tightly to the end of the lunge line until she tires. I figure that should happen soon; after all, she's careening around in knee-deep snow.

Maggie's more worked up than I'd hoped and I'm reluctant to let Dave climb back into the saddle. In the meantime, Murray stands calmly beside Dave, half dozing. I know Dave still wants to ride (he's never ridden outside in the snow before), so I consider the options for a few minutes, then suggest to him that he get on Murray.

Dave: "Really?"

Me: "Yeah, just stay fairly close, and just WALK".

Dave's ridden Murray around on several occasions. He even went over a very small jump on him on the lunge line before. It's certainly unusual for Murray to be the "safer" choice, but today, he seems just that. So Dave scales the fence and gently lowers himself onto Murray's English saddle. The two of them walk calmly back and forth through the snow-drifts while I try to keep Maggie from ripping my arms out of their sockets on the lunge line.

After a few minutes, I bring Maggie to a walk, and I decide to get on to test her obedience level.

I bring her alongside Dave and Murray and for a few minutes, we all walk contentedly through the snow to the bottom of the field. The snow is deeper here, and I notice Murray has added a bit more bounce to his walk.

Me, calmly: "Make sure you sit up, and keep your heels down".

Dave: "Whoa Murray".

Me: "Whoa Murray".

We round the corner so the horses' muzzles are now pointing up the hill toward home.
Murray simply can't hold back his enthusiasm. He bounds into a springy trot, which then becomes a rocking-horse-like canter up the hill. It's really just a lope, but with his 14 foot stride, Murray's lope can out-pace the canter of many-a-horse. He's bouncy at the best of times, but now he's also wading through a foot and a half of snow. Each stride must feel to Dave as though he's just been launched from the heart of a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.

In stereo, Dave and I yell "whoa". But Murray's enjoying himself. He doesn't stop until he reaches the fence at the top of the hill. Seemingly proud of himself for offering Dave such an amusing ride, he slows down. Then, Murray senses that Dave has lost a stirrup and is off balance. Unused to inexperienced riders, and very sensitive to any shift in his rider's weight, Murray becomes worried and confused. He glances down the Hill toward Maggie and I with a worried look on his face, then continues toward the paddock gait in a moose-like trot-- anxious to be rid of the bouncing burden on his back. I'm sure Dave's about to take a dive into the snow.

Miraculously though, Dave hangs on as Murray abruptly changes course and decides to come to "mom" for help. He finally stops when he's back alongside Maggie and me. The look of anxiety on his face matches the look on Dave's. Their eyes are wide, they're both breathing hard, and they both look confused. I hop off of Maggie and gently grab hold of Murray's bridle. With Dave still in the saddle, he relaxes, an within a minute or so, the old boy's eyes are closed and he's dozing in the sun.

Dave (still out of breath): "I thought for sure I was going to fall off".

Me: "Me too. Shall we call it a day?"

Dave: "Yeah, I think that's probably enough of a ride for today."