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December, 2009

Weekend Warriors

The setting of the December, 2009 narrative is Southcentral Alaska. I note early on that horses are four-legged oxymorons. They are at the same time, extremely strong and extremely fragile. Therefore, providing the proper amounts of food, water, and exercise should be an exercise in mindfulness, particularly in the winter.

The phone rang and I answered it. My friend Ethel said that she and her husband Fred were on their way over to my place. We’d agreed that it would be a good day for a ride earlier in the day. I hauled the last basket of wood into the cabin, donned my winter gear, and met them at the driveway’s edge. I glanced at my watch; it was 3:30 p.m. Ethel said they were late because they’d had a difficult time separating Fred’s mare Stedda, and Foli, her seven-month old foal. The pair unloaded Stedda and Ethel’s gelding Bassi. I gave their horses and mine a flake of hay each.

I hadn’t given our trail ride plans much thought. It had been a high traffic snowmobile day on both our loop road and the adjacent trails. It was the first weekend after a major snowfall, and so the machiners had been out en masse. They were in such large numbers that the smell of exhaust hung heavy in the late afternoon air. Their sheer numbers had also had an adverse affect on area moose—earlier, while out on Tinni, I’d seen several ungulates in neighboring yards.

Moose-phobic Raudi had been restless all day. She repeatedly sidled away when I went to brush her. I took a few deep breaths and moved in a slower and more deliberate fashion, all the while thinking that time was of the essence. It was 5 F and the temperature was dropping. As a rule of thumb, I don’t ride my horses in below zero weather after 2 p.m; I like to have them to get what warmth they can from the sun before it sets. Ethel and Fred were ready to go by the time I’d finished tacking up.

We rode down the driveway to the base of what I call the loop, a mile-long residential road that encircles our neighborhood. I’d decided to go left, which was a more indirect way of getting to the trailhead. This way, I could more easily ascertain how anxious Raudi might be. If I were going solo, I’d have her expend energy by moving out quickly. This wasn’t an option. Ethel wasn’t yet up for going at a speed other than a fast walk. She was a returning rider who’d previously taken a few falls. She’d gotten Bassi in September, and had done a few outings with him; however, she still feared being dumped..

I turned left. Fred, turning right, said to us both that he was going directly to the trail. Raudi attempted to follow the fast-moving pair, then when I asked her to whoa, did a little jig. I dismounted, and stood deep in thought. I was once again in a situation when I was indirectly being asked to mediate between the desires of a rider who had no confidence and one who had an overabundance of it. This wasn’t the first time that this had happened. On our last ride at our place Fred had taken off up a steep trail, leaving Ethel and I at the base. Then, like now, I decided that it was in Ethel’s best interest to do a less strenuous ride. We ended up doing a short jaunt on what I call the Meadow Trail, a relatively flat, treeless, and open stretch of land.

It was 4 p.m. The sun was below the low-lying cloud line. Over the past year Raudi and I had logged hundreds of hours on the local trails. However, only two of these hours were at night. That evening we’d had a bear encounter. She huffed and puffed and we returned to the safety of the road. The bears were now hibernating, still . . . my gut feeling was that I should ride Tinni who generally moves at a slower clip than does his young stablemate. I returned Raudi to her pen, ran back up to our cabin, swapped out the bridles, ran back up to the cabin, bridled Tinni, hopped on his back, and rejoined Ethel.

It was now 4:15 p.m. I told Ethel that because it was getting dark, that we should just ride the loop. She seemed relieved to hear this. We rode quietly and engaged in idle chit-chat, mainly about horse care. I’d become her horse mentor shortly after she acquired Bassi. We’d spent the fall doing groundwork, mainly TTeam training. Bassi had lived up to expectations, both on the ground and in the saddle. Ethel mentioned to me that she and Fred were concerned because both Bassi and Stedda were a bit on the thin side. I told her to get a scale and weigh their hay, explaining that the standard unit of measure is 2.2 pounds of hay per 100 pounds of body weight. I added that lactating mares and performance horses need more, and that idle horse need less.

Ethel was the first to see the three moose. They stood quietly as we passed; the horses, while not bothered, let us know that they were there. Bassi glanced to the right and Tinni snorted. Our moose-musings were interrupted by the high-pitched whine of two snowmobiles. The drivers came around the distant bend fast, too fast to talk much about what we ought to do. I leapt off Tinni and grabbed Bassi’s bridle. Our mounts stood calmly as the riders passed. I, who was riding bareback, had to get back on Tinni. I couldn’t get on him directly from the road; my Refrigerware suit was too bulky. I walked over to and mounted from a snow berm, a process that ate up an additional five minutes of daylight.

We’d now ridden three-quarters of the loop and were at the base of the trailhead. It was somewhat dark; however, the snow illuminated the road and the nearby banks. I surmised that it was too dark to ride on the trails, and so I instead suggested to Ethel that we go down Murphy Road. This, the road that leads to the loop, is slightly winding but like the loop road, relatively untrafficked. I pulled my headlight out of my snowsuit pocket and fastened the strap around my helmet. I remarked to Ethel that it was just by chance that I had it on hand; I’d slipped it into my pocket after doing my morning chores. We continued on and were passed by a handful of cars, some of which were going to our place. We turned for home a half-mile later, at the furthest bend in the road. Tinni, who knew that he was heading back to the barn, began hoofing it in a more energetic fashion, with Bassi following suit. By now it was very dark and I could barely see the road. The batteries on my headlight were running low; I repeatedly tapped on it with my crop to get it to work better. I cursed as the strap slipped upwards and entire unit popped off my helmet. It fell to the ground; once again I got off and back on Tinni.

We turned back on the loop road. I hopped off Tinni and unfastened his girth, and Ethel did the same. I then did what I called a sweat check, feeling both horses’ chest and back. Tinni’s front was slightly damp, Bassi’s less so. Their backs were dry. My toes and fingers were now cold; this, my own form temperature assessment, indicated that it was about -5 F out. We arrived home. I put Tinni away, helped Ethel untack Bassi and then trudged back up to the house. Several friends had gathered, and a pizza party now was in full swing. I laughed about the jokes that centered around our not having enough power with which to blow dry my horse, and with towel in hand, headed back outside.

Fred returned shortly thereafter. He tied Stedda to the trailer, unsaddled her, and along with Mariann, went to check out the festivities. I dried Tinni off and blanketed him. I also scooped some poop and gave my horses their evening hay. We water our horses by hand, which required me to make yet another trip up to the cabin. I poured the water on the woodstove stove into buckets and listened to Fred tell our guests about his ride. He’d gone up the trail that leads to what we call the bench; it’s a fairly steep mile-and-a-half climb from the trailhead to this, the foothills of the Talkeetna Range. I asked him how Stedda did, he said that she quivered a bit going downhill, but otherwise did fine. I then asked him if he wanted me to give her some water. His response was no, that she’d eat snow. I said that I’d at least check on both horses.

Bassi was okay and but Stedda was hurting. She was sitting sternal, on her uneaten hay. I knelt down next to her. She had a dazed expression and her usually upright ears were flopped to the side. The ears were also cold to the touch. I felt her thick coat; it was sopping wet. I dashed back up to cabin and asked Fred if Stedda always laid down after a ride. He said no, this was very unusual. Fred threw on his boots, grabbed his coat and headed out the door, in order to check on his much-loved horse. I was on his heels. He agreed with my observation that Stedda was colicking. I ran to grab my one extra blanket, a fleece cooler. Fred pulled Stedda to her feet and then went to get what he had on hand, a wool saddle blanket. Fred then walked the wobbly horse up and down the driveway. I ran behind and picked up the blankets, both of which repeatedly slid off Stedda’s broad back.

Fred handed me the horse and pulled forth his cellphone; he called Lucy, Stedda’s half-owner, Mariann, and their veterinarian. I listened in and at the same time did ear slides belly lifts, and zig zags; TTouches that had worked when both Siggi and Raudi had digestive upsets. The consensus was that Fred should take Stedda to the veterinarian’s clinic. My suggestion, that we walk Stedda around the loop fell upon deaf ears. Instead, he loaded her into the trailer. The last thing he did before heading off was to hand me Bassi’s lead. I suggested that he and Ethel should take him with, but Fred feared that the gelding would be hurt if Stedda laid down. I considered putting him in the small pen adjacent to my larger paddock but backed off on this idea when I realized that I’d have to put Tinni in with Siggi. (I separate the pair at night. Tinni once bit Siggi and it took two years before the wound to heal. I’d since been super-vigilant because I didn’t again want this to happen again.) I acted on the second-best option, which was to tie Bassi to our hitching post. I checked on my horses, returned to the cabin, and visited with our guests.

The Gentry’s returned three hours later, telling us that the veterinarian was keeping the horse at her clinic for the night. She’d said that the mare’s energy reserves were down because she was nursing a seven-month old foal. Stedda was dehydrated and for this reason she was giving her intravenous fluids. She advised the Gentry’s to separate the pair. Fred and Ethel were fairly sure that Stedda would be okay . They are the remaining few slices of pizza, loaded up Bassi, and returned home.

Lessons Learned: Human beings are the only animals who have the gift of hindsight. Those of us who have it learn from our mistakes. Those of us who don’t learn make the same mistakes. The goal should be to become more astute horse owners. This was why, over the next few days, I talked at length with Ethel about what had happened immediately before, during, and after our impromptu trail ride.

Ethel readily admitted that she and Fred got off to a late start because they’d had a hard time separating Stedda and Foli. We all agreed that right then, we should have acted on our second option, which was to go cross-country skiing. My observation, that doing some groundwork with the mare and foal would later save on time and counter possible human and equine stress-related issues was well-received.

The three of us also concurred that that pre-ride preparation and planning is an excellent idea. The bottom line is that Ethel and I were lucky. Nothing bad happened, although we were setting ourselves up for an accident. Tinni was at the onset of the ride, stiff. Doing some body work on him prior to the ride would have been in his best interest. And my putting a saddle on him would have been in my best interest.

I repeatedly said that I’d wished that we’d talked about our ride plans in advance of our taking off. What remained unsaid was that the trail conditions were questionable; the day before gone out at dusk and punched through a soft patch of trail. Raudi went up to her chest in snow, and I was pitched over the top of her head, onto the packed trail. And like then, the late afternoon snowmobilers would also be returning to the parking lot. There was a cutoff trail that led back to Loop Road. My thinking was that if the three of us had elected to this, we’d all be back on the road before dark. Dick’s departure forced me to explore other options. His argument might have been that he was an experienced rider/backcountry guide who knew what he was doing, that the trail was fine, his horse was used to snowmobiles, and he’d more than his share of night riding. He also had a cellphone on hand. My counterargument was that its always best to err on the side of safety. It would have taken a while to get Fred and Stedda medical assistance had she gone down on the trail.

I didn’t err on the side of safety on my side trip with Ethel. I rode a black horse and was wearing dark clothing. I own three reflective vests. I should put one on and lent my other two to my friends. I hadn’t planned on bringing a headlight along, I just happened to have one in my pocket. I’d also failed to let Pete know where we were going, which is something I usually do.

Fred didn’t warm up or cool down Stedda, which contributed to her distressed condition. I felt as though I did right by all the horses after the ride. I was hungry, cold, and a tired when I got back, but made it a priority to tend to Tinni. To me, ownership doesn’t have boundaries. This is why I offered to give Bassi and Stedda warm water. Eating snow contributes to dehydration because the body burns energy in its attempt to warm itself up.

There was considerable confusion as to what should be done with Stedda, some of which could have been avoided. Keeping one’s cool when a horse is ill is difficult in the daylight, and even more so when the sun’s gone down. Light or dark, it would have been in her best interest if Fred and I had taken a moment and talked about the situation. At the time, I was somewhat dubious about Fred’s decision, which was to take Stedda directly to the clinic. This particular veterinarian had once told me that taking a colicky horse for a trailer ride is a good idea. My veterinarian agreed with me--mildly colicky yes, extremely colicky, no. Stedda was unsteady on her feet, and on the trip to the clinic could have fallen down and hurt herself. If it were my horse, I’d have insisted that the veterinarian make a housecall. In the meantime I’d have monitored her vital signs, taken her for a walk, given her a warm mash, and continued doing body work. However, Fred did do what at the time he thought was best for his one horse, based on his knowledge of such things and his better judgment.

Actually, Fred also did what he thought at the time was best for his other horse, by putting Bassi in my care. However, we should have talked about this beforehand. It was fortuitous that we had a hitching post because I wasn’t about to risk Bassi or my horses’ safety by quartering them close together at night. Even so, Bassi’s ability to stand tied up at night, in an unfamiliar place, was an unknown variable. It was another instance in which lucked played us a good hand. He neighed repeatedly for Stedda and was agitated, but didn’t attempt to break free. I gave him additional hay and water.

The Gentry’s place is a half-hour’s drive from my place, hence the lack of preparation. But I’m now convinced that even short trips require advance planning. If the group ride is at my place, I’ll do some serious pre-ride planning. And if the ride is elsewhere, I’ll also make sure to find out where we’re going and how long we’ll be out. Lastly, I intend to be very picky about who I choose to ride with. My horses and my own welfare mean too much to me to have it any other way.

 

Internal Parasites

Pasture Management

Riding Bage Program

Warm Up and Warm Down

Water Management

Weekend Warriors