A Chapter In The Poor Farmers Almanac -This One’s For You- In one stunning instant, my whole world was reduced to one simple goal, survival. All five bodily senses were on high alert, trumped only by the height of my adrenalin level. Everything I could touch was wet. The grass over which I was being dragged was wet, and every stitch of clothing I had on was wet. I couldnt see anything except the blackness of the cocoon which used to be my hooded sweatshirt, but now was the vehicle rocketing me along. I could hear the squeaking of the wet grass flashing by, the creaking wood which seconds ago was my vehicle, and approximately 15 feet ahead of me, huge horse hooves pounding along at a gallop. I could taste the bitterness of ignorance and stupidity, and I could smell disaster! Basically my whole mental condition could have been summed up in three letters, WOW. I dont even remember where we found the rotted remnants of what used to be an old logging skid or bobsled. It would be safe to say that it was either out behind someones barn, leaning up against an ancient stone wall, or camouflaged away in the nearby woods, engulfed by weeds and brush, with no doubt, a couple of trees growing up through it. The aging odometer on my rusty old truck had tracked many a mile out on bumpy New England back roads as we scanned the landscape in search of yesteryears transportation and machinery. The smell of combusted fuel was the smell of retirement for countless horses and the smell of death by slow decay for the equipment which they powered. Every trip I made became an excuse to get lost out in the country, stalking the old forsaken farms which dot the landscape everywhere in search of rusty metal and rotted wood. Obsession might be the best way to describe my new adventure which was given birth by the arrival of an old Belgian mare named Mitsy. Past her prime, yet still willing and able, she possessed two qualities which have made her my forever favorite... experience and patience. Take good care of her, and shell take good care of you! was the final piece of advice choked out by the old man who had raised, trained, and worked her. It was more of an emotional plea than textbook instruction. As longsuffering as any mannequin, Mitsy withstood hours of on-again, off-again harnessing. She offered no complaints at an upside down collar or tug lines dangling from her shoulders while the shoulder hames hung off her rump. She never blinked when the big day came and we backed her up to our first Roman chariot,... the remaining rear half of a rotted bobsled. She even restrained herself from offering a stinging, I told you so, when the tongue disintegrated within the first ten feet, yanking me off my precarious perch atop the semi-rotted bunk. Impatiently we wiggled loose as much of the hardware as we could salvage, acquisitioned some discarded oak beams from an old hay wagon, which still had enough good wood left in them to fashion a new wooden tongue, as well as patching up some of the more tenuous parts on the skid. We even added the luxury of a nice weathered board for a seat! Painfully, I have to admit that several times the question did cross my mind, How does one stop a contraption like this from sliding right into the horse on a downhill? Most horse-drawn equipment operates with shafts, if driving single, or a pole if driving multiple. The push of the equipment when going downhill is then transferred to the britchen strap which runs around the horses rear legs. Feeling the britchen strap tighten up becomes the signal for the horse or horses to dig in and lean back, thereby holding back the load. This skid was simply hooked to the horse by means of a chain, which is fine as long as there is enough friction to hold it back. The unknown for me was what happens when that friction is gone? Intelligent people probably read books which doubtless, were written by people like me, who habitually learn things the hard way. Some call it trial and error or conditions and consequences. I call it the school of hard knocks. However one wishes to label the course, it operates on one overriding principle, the more it costs or hurts, the better you remember! Indeed, most of the lessons in farming which are stamped indelibly on my traumatized mind were learned the hard way. Never turn your back on a ram, especially if he looks like he doesnt notice. Never try to save a goat when it is running between the rear legs of an unsuspecting horse. Never think you can keep up with a rampaging cow by hanging on tighter to the rope. Never try to lead a nervous bull using a long lead line. Never tie him securely to the rear of a 4-wheeler either. Dont mess with baby pigs when the mother pretends to be sleeping. Never hook an untrained pony to your favorite cart, especially if there are stone walls or wooden fences nearby. If youre bow-legged, never attempt to stop a running pig...in fact, never try to stop a running pig in any case, or you will be bow-legged. Never forget the doorway height when youre racing your kids on horseback back to the stall. Never surprise an angry cow with skis strapped to your feet in heavy brush. Never try to corner an Emu barehanded. Never stand between two horses when you are introducing them head on. Never try to ride a log being dragged by horses turning a sharp corner. Dont forget to warn your neighbors when your ram gets out. Never let a horse in season stand in front of a plate glass window, especially when its your neighbors,and they are inside. And never ride a brakeless skid, chained to a horse, down a wet slippery hill. Was it my fault that it happened to be raining on the day we finally got the old skid patched back up? Was it my fault that my farm happens to be located on the side of a mountain leaving one no choice but to eventually go downhill? Wasnt it observant of me to notice that the gap between me and the rear legs of my unsuspecting horse was rapidly shrinking? Could it not be argued that it was a very heroic thing to try to slow down my flying skid ship, as it was eating little chunks of hide out of the rear heals of a very astonished horse, by digging my boots into the ground in front of the main cross member, especially when I dug them in so hard that they caught and sucked me right off my seat and under the skid? And how was I to know when attaching the seat using a bolt which hung down under the seat two inches longer than it needed to, that on our maiden voyage,it would catch my hood on the way by, in affect hanging me prostrate on the ground. Desperately, blindly I groped for the reins which had been snatched from my hands during the violent transition from topside to bottom, but to no avail. I knew we were gaining speed by the rapid succession of bumps on the back of my head from the skid above me, as we careened across the field. Mitsy, apparently convinced that the driver had abandoned ship, was simply doing what every horse does when scared...heading home as fast as she could. I would love to say that I breathed a silent prayer and my horse suddenly stopped, but that would be a lie. What I did do, after realizing that the situation was hopeless, was what generations of horsemen have done; I relied on a well trained horse to get me out of a mess. Whoa Mitsy. It was a begging plea, not a brash command. Easy there girl...whoa there girl...easy Mitsy. Words cannot express the relief that flooded over me as I felt our speed slowing down. I could have, and would have, kissed the old man who had patiently and lovingly trained such a powerhouse to listen and obey even when it didnt make any sense. From the blackness of my cocoon, I envisioned those big ears pointing forward at full speed, quickly rotating backwards trying to distinguish the muffled cries of the sodden mass dragging along under this mysterious demon which was biting at her heals. Gradually she slowed to a walk as I tried my best to reassure her that it was okay. Whoa there big girl ..easy now. I winced as another rock dug a furrow up my ribcage, the skid thumped me one last time on the head for good measure, and we stopped. I could hear her blowing quick snorts and nervously stepping about, but she stopped. Reaching up, I followed my severely stretched out hood to the bolt and unhooked it. As quickly and quietly as I could, I squirmed out from under my trap. Relief washed over me and I made my way on shaky knees to the head of my horse. She looked at me wide-eyed as I attempted to wipe the wet grass and mud away from my eyes. Clearly she was baffled at my rapid transformation into something akin to a freakish looking swamp monster. To this day, never has a horse looked so beautiful as she did right then. I carefully wrapped my arms around her massive neck and just talked softly to her for a few minutes. Sorry about that old girl...its okay now...good girl. Since I was alone, I took the liberty to break a cardinal rule on our farm...if you start something, you finish it.( i.e. if you get bucked off, you get right back on.) I had had enough for one day. Gathering the reins up in my hands, I mumbled apologetically, Come on girl, lets go home. We walked slowly back to the barn where I released Mitsy from the innocent, yet offensive, contraption. True to her good nature, she had settled down quickly and appeared to hold no grudge as I gently worked ointment into the backs of her feet. Thankfully my pride was wounded more deeply than her lower legs, and my gracious horse forgave me long before I forgave myself, which is actually ongoing to this day. Over the course of the next few days, I did something which was very out of character, I actually engaged my sixth sense-common sense. If you dont have the answer, find someone who does! How in the world do you stop a skid from tailgating your horse going downhill? I poured over every book and magazine I had collected. I asked everyone I could think of that might have some recollection of back in the day. My big break came one evening as I was looking over some pictures of horses being used to gather sap. If ever there was ever a need to hold back a skid, it would be when there was a big tank full of sap riding on it in the snow. Greedily I scanned the old photograph and it was there that I found my answer. Hanging in front of both runners was the simplest form of emergency brake, a little loop of chain. Most of the time there was enough friction on the runners to hold back the skid, but if conditions are right, all the driver has to do is kick the chain over the top of the runner, whereupon it slides back till the top catches on the cross-member and the bottom drags between the runner and the ground. As is characteristic of that era, it was cheap, flawless, and dependable, combined with the biggest allurement to horse drawn equipment, simple. Maybe its because that pretty much describes me (except the flawless part). No matter, I was back in the game!! I bid an incredibly sad farewell to my forever favorite old friend years ago, but that ancient skid is still going strong. It spends most of its life leaning up against a wall somewhere on the farm. But every year when the conditions are right, I take it down and hook it up to the next generation of horse power and away we go. If you ever see a picture at our little farm of a whole line of screaming kids in sleds hooked to a long rope, follow that rope all the way up to the still semi-rotted oak skid. Get a good look at the front of the runners, and you will see a simple loop of chain hanging there, just in case. It remains one of my favorite vehicles for wintertime fun. Simple, quiet, and low to the ground, it offers a great view of the massive engines pulling it. Every once in a while when the distance between me and those beautiful flashing feet begins to narrow, I kick that little loop of chain with the toe of my boot, watch it drop into place, and whisper to my old friend, This ones for you, ole girl! Pete here for the Crazy H Farm
Posted on: Sat, 10 Jan 2015 02:40:13 +0000