Winter comes but once a year, but every year, it takes horse people hopelessly by surprise. 

We are shocked by its sudden vigor, its lack of pity. The absolute relish Mother Nature seems to take in our small, acute moments of suffering.

Take, for instance, the delicate air kiss of snow that somehow puffs into your face, down your clothes, and onto your driver’s seat, no matter how carefully you clean off your windshield and door.

Running late and fending off that already-defeated feeling you get the moment you leave your bed’s down comforter, you acquiesce to sit on that dusting of snow in your front seat. Undoubtedly, it will melt. And undoubtedly, the questionable “pee” spot it leaves behind on your upper thigh will be a reminder to you: Use the scraper next time.

No matter, you press on.

Your tires crunch loudly on the hard-packed snow as you pull into the barn driveway. Not only is this a sure sign that it’s cold as f*ck, but also, that your horse has likely noticed. 

And yes, there she is, waiting attentively for you in her stall, all bright eyes and bushy—Wait is she swishing her tail? It must be your imagination, but something seems up with her. You can tell.  

You brush her warily, one suspicious eye on her suspicious eye—an eye ablaze with the cold, her general lack of turnout, and the usual amount of mare. She half-passes like a member of the Village People in the crossties. 

Good God, when was the last time she went out? 

Suddenly, you’re reminded of last night in your warm bed (now but a distant memory), when you spent two hours tossing and turning, worrying she might need another blanket; that she might not have manure in her stall. 

Once again, your anxiety rises as you hang your bridle on the hook. You look at your mare, she looks back at you. You both know this is a dumb idea. 

You lift off her blankets, pausing at the monstrosity currently forming on the tail strap. Like the ancient glaciers themselves, a slow accretion of ice, snow, and a thousand defecations has somehow formed this glistening slick of brown, knotty rope before you.

Your glove is off, and you’re vaguely horrified you might have touched it. And then, you remember: You’re a horse girl. A lifetime of aerosolized dirt and grime has fully inoculated you against this kind of nonsense, and probably Smallpox and Covid as well. You should clean the strap, at some point.

I can’t think about that right now, your inner monologue interjects, channeling its best Scarlett O’Hara drawl. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow… when its warmer. 

You wipe your hand on your coveralls and drop the blanket in the corner.

Lunging would be a good idea, you know. But you’re already behind schedule. Your mare seems unaware, mentally making her way through the second chorus of In the Navy, her hindquarters skittering away from the mounting block as you attempt to swing a leg over. Somehow, you scramble aboard. 

And there you sit, a Carhartt-bedecked knight on the eve of battle. Through the layers of long-underwear, fleece-lined gloves, and triple-wool layers, your maneuverability is limited. Softly (you think), you apply your lower leg. Your mare responds, leaping forward into space. A little less.

Your heartrate quickens as she breaks into a trot, your cooler streaming gallantly behind you. And what adventure awaits!

Each corner you pass is a brave new world, a veritably Narnia of unseen lions, witches, and creaky wardrobes that only your horse can conjure. She snorts, she crow hops, she ponders a spin. The sweat beads beneath your ample Gore-Tex.

With every spook and false start, the tension is building in your neck and shoulders. Slowly, it morphs into red-hot, unjustified anger at your general milieu. 

What is WITH that trainer rustling grain bags in the feed room?

What idiot left that cavaletti along the rail? 

For the love of GOD can someone get hay for that horse stomping in the aisle?

And then you hear it, another sound, one you know all too well. 

Your stomach drops as the snow rumbles above you, breaking loose, and beginning its long, slow slide down the metal arena roof. It’s accompanied by a seismic roar of sound, one your mare—any mare—can’t tolerate on the best of days, let alone sub-zero ones. 

At this moment, toes frozen, morale dampened, staring down your impending doom, it can be difficult to remember your “why” in the horse world. But fret not, dear reader.

As Scarlett O’Hara said (or maybe just implied), “Tomorrow is another day, and failing that, a hot shower always awaits you back home.”