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?
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