Chance the Middle-aged Morgan: A Stallion-type Dude Even in the Blizzard of '10

Vermont. We here in the Northeast are getting utterly DUMPED with heavy, wet snow. It is the most we’ve had all year—two feet in 24 hours! And it’s supposed to continue like this for another two days. Luckily the power is still on and the temperature is in the mild mid-30s.  But I just broke out the snowshoes for future treks to the barn.

Chance the Middle-aged Morgan seems unconcerned with the blizzard and the crust of snow encasing his mane, ears, head, eyelashes, whiskers, and long tail. He is wearing his rain jacket to protect the rest of his body, but atop that sheet, along his spine and big butt, there have accumulated small snow mounds that I have to shake off every few hours. 

What a funny animal he is, our Chance the Middle-aged Morgan. Before he arrived at Thanksgiving, Jim built him this gorgeous run-in shed attached to the barn, and I put down comfy rubber mats (anti-mud) and installed a hay rack so he could get out of the elements on inclement days like these and live like a king.

But as I wrote in these pages before, Chance the Middle-aged Morgan is an outdoors kind of guy, a stallion-type dude (minus his ba two important appendages) who prefers to camp under the stars, in the torrential rain, a howling blizzard, or in a lake of mud. He hates his stall, pacing nervously and pawing when tied, so we’ve reserved the tortuous imprisonment for times when he absolutely needs to be enclosed.

For some reason, probably due to a nasty event in his mysterious past, even Jim’s open-ended run-in shed feels suspicious to him. With his delicious hay (thanks to Edie at Trumbull Mountain Farm) protected in the run-in during this extended storm, he has to work up the courage to enter the shed, then grab a mouthful of hay, spin around and position himself at the open end of the shed, getting snowed or rained upon while chewing his mouthful. When done, he spins back around, snatches another mouthful, and returns to his wet/snowy spot at the entrance to chew some more. I watch him from the house and laugh as he disappears and then reappears to thoughtfully chew the next mouthful.

I think this routine has to do with Chance’s prey status, meaning that horses are prey animals. This biological fact is primary to understanding horse and, indeed, most animal, behavior. Everything horses do is based upon this: they are prey animals vulnerable to predator animals. A prey animal is always on the lookout for danger from predators. A predator is always on the lookout for tasty prey animals to eat . . .  like Chance the Middle-aged Morgan.  Predators might be lurking just outside Chance's enclosure and trap him without recourse to safety.

The horse’s primary tool for escaping danger is flight. Their consuming instinct is to sense possible danger and RUN AWAY AS FAST AS POSSIBLE. This is their survival technique. A horse will run to escape a perceived threat (mountain lions, wolves, etc.) and only stop to further assess the threat at about 50-100 feet away, their exquisitely developed senses in high gear. They exhale and inhale with loud nasal drama both out of fear and also to detect odors that will give them possibly life-saving data about the threat. They prick their ears forward to hear better, hold their heads as high in the air as possible, the better to see with, and remain motionless while they try to determine whether their next move is more flight, relaxation (O phew!  it was just a twig/piece of paper/snowmobile/Jim's chain saw/neighbor's mailbox), or sometimes curiosity, generally to do with happy opportunities for food or fun.

Once we humans who love horses can put themselves into their horse’s minds and GET the prey/predator thing, we will have a lot easier time training and riding them safely. Overcoming survival instincts is a tough task, even for us “smarter” humans! Horses need to develop a lot of well-earned trust to make that leap of faith when we ask them to do certain things. Think about it. 

A couple of good links to further understand animal psychology are http://extension.usu.edu/files/publications/equine2.pdf and http://www.gentlehorses.com/the_nature_of_horses.htm. 

Now take a look at the snow overhang above Chance's head in this photograph. When it melts, what will happen? I think his natural wariness is absolutely brilliant!

No dummy, our Chance the Middle-aged Morgan.

Ya Just Gotta Scratch It!

Our recent water crisis was solved with 3 lengths of garden hose in a not-so-icy midday hour that allowed me to fill the water tub to the brim, enough water to last the rest of the week. The following day, whatever was frozen in the standpipe, unfroze.


Two days ago, Chance and I went out to tour our little village, frigidity notwithstanding, as the cold sunshine was irresistible. After some good groundwork to work out the bucks and farts (by lunging) and when he had softened and become respectful, it was time to spontaneously saddle up and head out.  All horsepeople know that sudden itch. Ya just gotta scratch it.

Though only a resident of my backyard for two months, he has become comfortable enough with his neighboring surroundings that I now feel safe riding alone. If we turn to the west from the barn at Mt. Pleasant, we head down to the small, historic village that is clustered around the beautiful Peter's Brook. Its waters come from high in the Green Mountains and the waterfall that tumbles over the cascading rock ledges behind the old Candle Mill becomes dramatically engorged and furious at times of severe rain or snowmelt.

Bundled up in a down jacket, gloves, scarf and wearing fleece-lined britches, I look like a puffy black butterball.  We walk slowly on the right of the road, checking out any changes in the landscape, listening to the birds, and wary of approaching vehicles. Chance is stable in traffic, but if some idiot decided to rev his engine or, heaven forbid, blast his horn, we'd both freak, so I am ready, sitting deep and balanced in my Wintec saddle. Most drivers pass carefully, some slow or even stop until I wave them on.  And yes, some are just plain assholes. I mutter creative, dark imprecations about their asshole-ness through my fleece neck gaiter.

We pass by my old riding friend Kathy's house. She and her Morgan moved far away to Pawlet, and I very much miss having a buddy to ride out with looking for adventure.  We walk past the spot where Remember Baker, one of the Green Mountain Boys, is said to have built the village's first grain mill, right next to the photogenic waterfall, then pass the maple tree I planted in 1992 in memory of my mother; it looks like a giant now. Every season, I duck under its branches and give the tree a hug, whispering my status updates to Mom.  I am delighted to tell her how happy my life has become.

Then Chance and I cross the empty street, passing the antiques shop and the chocolate shop to mosey up to our friend's Ez-Pz Cafe. Anna is a horse lover and always comes outside to greet us, no matter how icy the temperature. Despite the flapping flag, Chance loves these social visits and the admiration he receives.  When Anna can no longer tolerate the weather, we turn and head south on Ice Pond Road toward the town's dominant, historic homestead and the pond where they cut ice in the old days.

Ancient maples still dot the landscape but their dead or rotting limbs indicate they are at the end of their long lives. Back in 1992, I planted 28 young "memorial" trees (lindens, crabapples, and maples) along the main roads of this village, and they are now sturdy, full-branched residents of the townscape that increase the pleasure of inhabitants, visitors, and middle-aged women on horseback!

Once on the empty road, I urge Chance into a good trot. He is shoeless and just a tad ginger on the pavement, but when he gets going his ears prick forward, he moves briskly out, and we find our rhythm. I lost all my riding muscles after Athena died, but they're coming back now and I can post for quite some time. Chance hadn't been ridden but once in an entire year before he came here, so both he and I are getting fit and muscled again.

We finish the village circle and start back up the hill, past the fire station, Leslie's quaint framing shop, the post office, the Ez-Pz Cafe (which Chance tries to visit again), and the waterfall and historic buildings of the former Candle Mill toward our home at Mt. Pleasant.

When I ride, I find nearly complete peace and happiness in my world. It's just always been that way for me.

How about you?