This time of year, the snow comes and goes. One day our world is white, the next a heavy mud, then followed by a day of warm and brown and open ground. But the warmth is deceiving. The ground is freezing. The frost digs in, buries its icy finger deep within the earth, and prepares to stay a while. Five feet under, for months on end, it is a permanent part of our life here, our roots like those of the Spruce and Aspen, lie dormant, awaiting.We do not ride in winter. The land forewarns us. Between the sudden surprise of hidden ice and snow packed firmly several feet thick, our riding days are numbered.
In fact, they may be over for the season, but I resist admitting this yet.
The signs are all around us. The horses’ coats are growing as long and thick as a cow’s. Each morning they stand and watch and wait as I break the ice in their insulated water trough. I work the horses on frozen ground. The stallion slips and falls and looks up at me questioning. And for a moment, for a change, I am glad I am not riding.
And then noon comes, the relative heat of the day, and the piles of manure remain frozen to the core. When my shovel hits a hard center and will not budge, and I risk broken toes trying to kick a pile free… it is time to retire the manure fork for the season, hang it like a memory beside the bridles. Allow them both to gather dust through the long, cold, winter, a time when we live on memories and dreams, reflections and anticipations.
This feeling is captured so well a post entitled, “Bright vision of momentary pastures,” recently published by Julian on his site, White Horse Pilgrim.
I will strive to find the words to compliment his which so well and beautifully capture the essence of this season, but in the meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy his…
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