A typical day (so far) at the Education Barn, home of the Professional Horseman’s Course

8am: School begins in the classroom that is attached to the 100 year old wooden barn known as the “Education Barn.”

8:15: We dress warmly, put on our muck boots and gloves, and jump in the bed of a pickup truck along with 6 bales of Timothy hay. There are about 7 large, fenced in grassy pastures with run-in sheds in our section of the Park, and we’re responsible for feeding the 30 or so horses who live there, twice a day.

8:45: Back to the classroom, where we have a lecture that lasts about an hour. If there’s a project due, we present our homework to the rest of the class. With a total of 5 students, there’s a lot of discussion, and plenty of opportunity to answer questions posed by our instructor. I’ve found a nice balance between participating when I know the answer, and being careful not to be the obnoxious “know it all” in the class.

11am: If we’re planning to ride that day, it’s time to catch our assigned horses (this takes from 5 minutes to 15, depending on the mood of the horse!), bring them into a stall in the barn and groom them. If we’re not riding, there might be a “lab” related to the lesson plan. For instance, we’ll have a hands-on lesson using a horse to demonstrate proper clipping and grooming technique, or pile in the pickup truck and ride around the park to find examples of common equine colors/markings.

12 am: Lunch! It’s the only time during the day (except for during lectures) that we’re sitting down. The rest of the day, we’re lifting, shoveling, catching horses, cleaning stalls, throwing hay, using a lot of “elbow grease” when grooming the horses, riding, hauling water buckets. . ..

Afternoon: Not every day is typical where horses are concerned. For instance, on Monday, we spent a few hours catching mustangs (15 of them!) and bringing them from their pasture to the barn to be evaluated for participation in a clinical trial. Each of the horses were led into the barn and then trotted up and down the barn aisle as a vet looked on. If a horse appeared to have some sort of lameness (very common in older horses like the mustangs), a flex test is performed to exaggerate any problem joints, then radiographs are taken to see the nature of the problem.

Out of about 15 horses, 5 qualified for the trial. Yesterday afternoon, we groomed and vacuumed their coats, then loaded them in a stock trailer and brought them to the equine vet. We were allowed to stay and watch as one of the horses was evaluated. Once again, the horse was trotted while the vet looked on, but this time a nerve block was injected into the joint to make it possible to isolate the problem area. After the injection into his fetlock, the horse was trotting without any sign of lameness, which was confirmation to the vet that the fetlock was the problem area on this particular horse.

Because they’re evaluating the efficacy of a new medication, its important that each test subject have only one joint that is effected.

“Charlie,” my assigned riding horse, actually qualified for the clinical trial, so he’s going to be out of commission for the next week. But, if the new drug they’re using helps him to be more sound and free from pain,  it’s a very good thing for him!

It’s day 7 of the Professional Horseman’s Course, and our “mini” internships have begun. Each of us has a one-week rotation in the various other barns and departments “on Park.” It’s a chance to get to know the other breeds, network with other professionals learn as much as possible about how things work, and, of course, work my butt off.

This week, I’m assigned to the Draft Horse Barn from 8am to 10am. Also known as the “big barn,” it houses all of the large draft horses who supply the power for the trolley and carriage tours throughout the Park. It’s similar to the barn where we have lectures and take care of about 35 assorted breeds of horses, except everything is MUCH bigger. The wide center aisle is lined with antique carriages and they have a heated wash stall to keep the horses spotless, clean and shiny.

The past two days, I’ve mucked out stalls, filled water buckets, helped to harness and hook up a pair of Clydesdales, took a short trolley tour in the nearly deserted Park, groomed a Shire horse, medicated a Belgian draft horse, and today, I spent about an hour washing, soaping, scrubbing and carefully rinsing the white “feathers” on a pair of Shires. (Feathers are those thick, fluffy hairs you see above the hooves of Clydesdales.)

I’m learning to ask questions if I don’t understand exactly what’s expected, and find it easy to admit my ignorance about parts of the job that are new to me. Those are just two examples of a new attitude I’ve been cultivating. It’s constant, physical work (5 gallons buckets of water are heavy!) but I’m happy to report that I can keep up with the 20-somethings nearby, and, as silly as it might sound, I’m grateful to have it.

It was an overcast, chilly January day in Lexington when I left the campsite with camera in hand and followed the paved road that meanders through the KHP.

Spread out over 1200 acres of pasture, polo fields, barns, event centers, museums and shedrows, this horsey wonderland entertains about a million visitors annually.

As I walked the equine version of a celebrity “red carpet,” I had an unsettling feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be there, that I had wandered “backstage” without permission and would be confronted by the mounted police unit, and then banished from this unique horsey wonderland.

I knew that the winter would be a slow time for the usual tourist invasion, but I never expected to be the only visitor.

Occasionally, an official looking pickup truck or golf cart would whizz by, and I’d smile, make eye contact for a split second and give a friendly nod or wave in the drivers’ direction. Each smile or wave in return provided reassurance that I was welcome.

In my years of intently focused (some might say suspicious-looking) wanderings around public areas with binoculars or a camera, (which may or may not include hiding behind trees or crouching low to the ground), I’ve come to realize the necessity of non-verbal communication. It’s a language that the horse has known all along.

The language they are born knowing is expressed in the glint of the eye, the swish of a tail, the wrinkling of a nostril, the subtle, near imperceptible shifting of attention that is easy to miss, but always precedes “unpredictable” behavior.

Walking along the equivalent of a “red carpet” for horse fans, I continued down the path leading to the open and airy barn known as the “Hall of Champions.”

Bordering the path and set flush against the grass were stone slabs that marked the final resting place of past residents of the Hall. I stopped to bear witness to the horses who had spent their final days being adored by fans and visitors, and were now forever remembered on this Memorial Walk of Champions.

Even though the horses interred here accrued winnings in the tens of millions of dollars, it was their accessibility to racing fans that firmly cemented each individual’s place in immortality.

I read the epitaphs of Forego, Bold Forbes, Kona Gold. . .  all remarkable individuals that earned this place of honor. Their epitaphs were sweet and succinct, with no mention of the number of dollars they amassed.

——————————————————————–

I stepped across the threshold and entered the barn feeling that same sort of anxious reverence that is usually reserved for visits to temples, war memorials and natural wonders of the world.

I found myself standing in the exact spot where I had “met” and photographed John Henry when he was a cantankerous but obliging 28 year old. Nine years had passed, and so had he, stubbornly succumbing to the infirmities of old age on Oct 8 2007, at the age of 32.

With a personality, heart and tenacity that has been described in countless stories, books and documentaries, his memorial stands at the beginning of the path leading to the front entrance of the Hall, where his carefully crafted likeness stands in bronze.

It’s clear that the sculptor took great pains to capture the one physical attribute that refused to soften with age, the part of every horse that communicates without words, and says more than any epitaph could. Even in bronze, John Henry’s eye communicated his greatness.

Every private RV campground has an obligatory “we are not responsible for” clause hidden within the rules and regulations every camper receives at check in. At an RV resort near Virginia Beach, a sentence in bold type caught my attention: No refunds for the discomforts of nature.

I can only imagine the heated discussion between the staff and camper(s) that made such a disclaimer necessary. Was it the rain, the heat, the bugs, or the cold that was behind their request to be compensated for a camping trip with more “nature” than they could appreciate?

This December morning, there was (finally) a seasonal nip in the air in the woods of Aiken, SC. Even though I’m living in a small RV outfitted with a furnace and every other “comfort” of home, it began its life as a Chevy van. The most convenient method to take the chill off and warm my world is to start the engine and turn on the heat.

As far back as I can remember, (which varies from day to day, believe me!), chilly mornings have always been at the top of my list of natural discomforts.

Throughout those frigid New England winters, and in an effort to conserve resources (the money kind, not the natural ones) my parents set the thermostat to 62 when they turned in for the night. In an older home with a vintage thermostat, there’s no doubt that the actual temperature was closer to 59 degrees. And that’s without factoring in an adjustment for the wind chill factor in such a drafty house.

On school days, my mother would wake up a few minutes before me and turn the heat up to a (relatively) toasty 68 degrees. On especially cold mornings I would press my legs and the palms of my hands against the cast iron furnace grate that was mounted low on my bedroom wall. What I really wanted to do was tunnel under the covers for “just a few more minutes,” safely ensconced in a warm cocoon, determined to pupate until Spring.

These were the mornings when I’d trudge downstairs to the kitchen to find my mother blatantly ignoring the manufacturer’s caution about using the gas oven for “comfort” heating. The door to the Magic Chef would be propped open a few inches, “just to take the chill off,” she explained.

Feeling chilled to the bone is one of those overwhelming physical states that make it difficult to think about anything else. Over the years, it’s become apparent to me that it’s only in these physical discomforts that I am truly and unashamedly living “in the moment.”

An Inside Job

My father accepted the inevitability of winter, and plotted a defensive strategy to keep the frigid air outdoors, where it belonged. A generation before it was considered “green” or a necessary skill to learn in the event of biological warfare, he annually sealed the drafty windows, thereby sealing us in.

Wrinkled and worn rectangles of cloudy plastic would be brought up from the musty cellar each fall, and he would spend a whole day with a roll of double-sided tape and weather stripping material. Some years, he opted for the newfangled method that included using a hair dryer to “shrink” the plastic in place.

Whether the promise of a more reasonable heating bill offset the effects of indoor air pollution (did I mention that everyone in the household smoked?!), I’ll never know. What I do know is that my father looked victorious as he pushed his index finger against the pillowed-out plastic that was keeping the drafts at bay.

It was demonstrative evidence that he had won the latest battle over the discomforts of nature.

Finding exactly what you’re looking for is one kind of satisfaction, but it’s the discovery of the unexpected that fuels every beachcombers passion.

Sometimes I wonder if there is a gold miner or treasure hunter far back in my family tree. Or, maybe everyone gets the same kick from hunting (and only occasionally finding) that certain “thing” regardless of their particular genetic inheritance.

Christmas morning on the beach along the Edisto Beach State Park was no different than any other day along the coast, with massive volumes of sand being moved twice a day by the roiling seas. But there were brightly colored packages waiting for me.

The bright, garish color of this poisonous organism is nature’s way of saying “back off, I can really hurt you.” I don’t know if dogs can see such bright colors, but I was struck by the fact that even off leash, none of the dogs came within 6 feet of the dozens of man o wars on the beach that morning.

What I didn’t find was what is all too common along the coast line of New England: rocks, trash and all manner of detritus. This beach was all soft sand and shells. Not a single rock dotted the entire length of the beach.

Waves come in scalloped, the dunes mimicking the offshore topography, invisible under the ocean. None of the predictable, straight line of surf rushing in then out along the miles of coastlines. Here, sections creep along the sand from all angles, some more ambitious than others, appearing to choose their onshore target and then rush to meet it.

I employ the nudge test: using my foot to test if there’s a big shell under that sand; any chance to avoid having to stoop/bend over is worth it. I found a nearly perfect 9 inch long knobbed whelk shell by nudging the tiny piece that was visible. Its resistance to my prodding proved that it was worth checking out. Like finding hidden treasure

The weight of the shells: all of that energy, that work that goes into making a home. The power of the tides and the friction against the sand is evidenced by the majority of shells that are broken, shattered, piecemeal, blemished, scarred, pock marked, nicked, drilled through.

See a slideshow of more beach photos here

If Santa is making inquiries about our location, you can tell him we’ll be spending the next week at Edisto Island State Park, just an hour and a half south of our current location in Mt. Pleasant, SC.

As I’ve been surveying the area and taking photos of the odd commingling of autumn color and palm trees, I can almost feel the weighty burden dragging down the limbs of just about every species of tree in the area. Usually, there’s some sort of benefit to each species in this kind of “relationship,” but I had to do some research to figure out what it might be.

It turns out that Spanish Moss (featured in slideshow and taken in December in SC) is actually a bromeliad, a member of the pineapple family. It is a rootless epiphyte that grows by draping itself on tree branches, thus “stealing stature” to increase its exposure to the sun.

The relationship between the host tree and the Spanish Moss has been used as an example of commenalism, where one species is used to the benefit of the other without causing undue harm to the host.

It’s a sort of “let me hang out here for a while and I promise I won’t be a problem” kind of relationship that even humans can relate to. It’s only when the Spanish Moss (think houseguest) takes advantage of the situation and piles on more and more weight that the tree (think host) may be impacted negatively.

Part One: Thinking “outside the box”

If you’re bringing your cat along and he’s used to “doing his business” out of doors, the standard  litter tray will be all you really need  for those few occasions when going outside isn’t a safe option.

If your cat is a digger, and gets real satisfaction by jettisoning his litter onto the floor around the box, a standard covered litter box will fit your needs.

But what if you’re traveling with a cat who has a sense of humor about his bathroom habits?

My 15 year old cat Gyro delights in urinating while standing upright in the litter box, which results in a puddle of urine all over the floor. I thought that a covered litter box would solve that problem, but boy, did I underestimate his twisted sense of humor!

Enclosed litter boxes come in two parts. The upper “cover” portion usually has snaps or levers that lock the two pieces together. It seemed like a great solution. . . until Gyro figured out that he could use the cover as a sort of backstop, and if he aimed it just right, there’d be yet another puddle on the floor.

That’s how we ended up with a top-entry Clever Cat litter box. Picture a small storage bin with a cover that has a circular cutout. It only took him about a day to figure out how to use the new style of box. Finally, no more “surprises” on the floor, litter tracking is minimal and I haven’t even come close to stepping in it.

Although its large and bulky, it fits perfectly between the two front seats while we’re parked and camping. When we’re driving, the box fits above the steps at the side entrance, where it’s out of the way but still accessible.

It’s been about a month since we’ve hit the road, and these milestones often bring to mind the beginning. . .

So far, we've journeyed about 1500 miles

Before we left the Cedar Point, NC campsite yesterday, Miss Direction (the tiny woman who lives inside my GPS) let me know that it would take about four and a half hours to reach my next destination in Mount Pleasant, SC. That would make this latest leg of my journey one of the longest planned drives. I include the word “planned” because on day one of the journey, it took me about six hours to get from Boston to  Mystic CT, after finding the Copake, NY KOA shuttered for the season.

That long, unplanned drive turned out to be one of those “learning experiences” that only become valuable in hindsight. I had chosen Mystic, CT as a first-night destination. It was only a few hours drive, and I wanted some time at the camp to get comfortable hooking up for the first time. But, when Miss Direction kindly asked me to take the exit, it seemed too soon, and much too close to home. As the off-ramp disappeared in the rearview mirror, I had made my decision: push on to the next KOA in Copake NY, just over the CT border.

Gyro (the cat) had taken a break from his constant, heart-wrenching yowls of protest, and I was beginning to get more comfortable negotiating the highway in my new camper van, and physics being what it is, I stayed in motion and headed Northwest.

The wide and roomy lanes of I 95 give way to two-lane secondary roads that dip and turn and narrow as I worked my way towards the Northwest corner of Connecticut. I never realized how “hilly” this state was, and how “rural” it looks as dusk approaches. As I begin to wonder if I’m headed in the right direction, I catch a yellow KOA sign with an arrow pointing straight ahead, and Miss Direction concurs.

Unfortunately, that sense of relief that comes with “getting there” in the nick of time was quickly replaced by a knot in my stomach as I read the “closed for the season” sign at the campground entrance. Talk about a rookie mistake. As I turned around and headed back to a nearby gas station, I quickly weighed my options: find another “open” campground somewhere in the vicinity, drive another 200 miles to another KOA or backtrack to a sure thing , 3 hours away in Mystic, CT.

Just the thought of having to “backtrack” seemed like a loser move, like “giving up” before I had even started. But, it was the only sensible move I could come up with. Once my mind was made up, it was a matter of just “doing it” and finding a safe place to spend my first night as a brand new camper.

Those same narrow, curvy and hilly roads became even more treacherous in the dark. There were sections of the trip where I had to concentrate on the white fog lines near the shoulder of the road as impatient local drivers flashed their high beams before passing me at highway speeds.

It was a little scary, finding my way back to civilization, navigating in the dark and worrying about the cat, (who could likely sense the building anxiety in the van), but it was the kind of “trial by fire” introduction to my new life that forced me to think on my feet, and that’s always a good exercise when you’re driving in the dark.