The beauty and terror of it all--a few days on the farm and in my head

Thursday night I was extra excited for G to get home from work.  We had someone come and cut our hay field, and I was looking forward to grabbing a bevie and heading up to the field with G to have a look.  It was a beautiful evening, the type that sets us both at ease, and lets us enjoy our land and fruits of our labours.  Fall light is low and lends beautiful shadows to rows of cut hay.  Textures and colours and smells, with a breeze to rustle the aspens, and the last warm rays before dusk on our faces.

I feel lucky to live in a place where I can reach out with all of my senses, not needing to block things out like when we lived in the city.  Needing to dull oneself to sounds purely as a defense mechanism (so you don't go crazy) is a reality of city life for many people.  I have noticed that it's hard for people to learn to open up again when they come to a place where they can let their guard down.  There is so much they don't observe, since they've been 'switched off'.  That's my working theory anyway. I've also recently learned that a person with an (pathologically) overactive central nervous system can find themselves having a very hard time in cities, because they simply can't switch off, and are hyper aware of all noises.

When G and I have to go into the city we can only tolerate it for so long, because we hear EVERYTHING.  A blessing and a curse perhaps.  I remember back in Victoria a few years ago in one of the busiest parts of downtown I interrupted my friend as she was speaking to me, so I could pinpoint the whereabouts of a hummingbird high up in a tree who was chattering to himself.  G calls that my 32 channel receiver.

Oakley's work collar, his new custom work bridle, and the single tree we bought for $5 at the Northern Minnesota Draft Horse Association field days. 

Friday evening G rushed home for our driving lesson with Oakley.  Steve and I had already started. Oakley had a major spooking episode just walking out of the paddock with the extra weight in his sled, but it wasn't because of the weight.  He was already completely worked up because of the ducks. He knew they were out ranging, heading toward the paddock, but he couldn't get a clear view of them because the sunflowers were blocking his view.  Steve reads horse so well, that he'd offered to take the reins as we started out, even though I've driven Oak straight out of the paddock many times now. Good thing he did.  There was a bolt and half rear, another bolt, all while I was at his head.  Didn't really surprise me that much, since I know how Oakley can get.  I was sort of glad G wasn't there to see this.  Don't really think my heart rate even spiked, but G might have been spooked by this. I'm sort of glad that Steve has a better idea of Oakley's psychology, and that I'm not making it up.

We got Oak to step back one, then Steve unhitched everything, including the single tree, so we could go back to scratch.  We went around the L corner, up the path, into the riding ring where we worked until he was comfortable.  I drove him back down the path to the paddock, turned him, backed him to the single tree.  What a good boy!  Steve hitched him, we drove up again to the ring with a half load. After that was successful we drove back down the hill again to add weight.  This time there was no problem.  His walk really stepped up with the extra weight, and I wondered if I'd have to hold him back from a trot.  G came home at that time and was so impressed with how Oak was stepping out.

In case you aren't sure what the singletree is, it's the piece of wood that the trace chains are attached to, that you in turn attach to what you are pulling.  This photo is from the Elk River workshop I went to.  This is Steve working with his Morgan mare Val.  The 'singletree' does not refer to pulling a log!

I wish I had photos of that night.  Oakley did great despite the scary start.  The mosquitoes came out during our session, and something that bit even harder.  I could see a lump forming on Oak's chest where he was having an allergic response to a bite.  I was bitten as well, and I reacted just as badly as Oak! For about four days I had something akin to poison ivy blisters on my arm from that tiny biting fly.  Between that episode, the flush of ragweed pollen a few weeks ago that first set Oakley's breathing off it's not surprising that our recent hay episode made him worse so easily.  

The next day was our trip to the field days. So much fun!!

Pepper our lovely hen has started sleeping in the duck nestbox.  Not sure why, but dramatic changes in behaviour are something to be concerned with.  She is old, so I am worried that she's got something going on that will take her too soon.  It's always too soon, no matter how old they are.

I found a dead rabbit in the paddock.  Have no idea what happened.  Consider it foreshadowing.

That night the coyotes were out early.  We still had the sheep in rotation through the corn, squash, turnips and millet fields.  Then the coyotes were very close, yipping and roaring.  One of them had a more terrifying hoarseness to his voice, and I found this particularly primal.  We both started to worry about the sheep, and discussed moving them back to the barn the next day. Then right before bed I received a most distressing email from my friends back home.  They'd lost several chickens to a mink attack.  Both G and I were very put off  by this news.  It just felt personal, even though he's never even met these people.  It must be because it's what we all fear, hear stories about, work so hard to prevent from happening.  And of course we were sad for their loss.  

We slept with windows open, fan off, no earplugs for me.  We both slept horribly, our subconcious minds on guard and waiting for any little noise to alert us to trouble outside. The coyotes started again around 3 am, and I woke up with heart pounding out of my chest.  Then around 5 am we heard a loud thud, and then G heard Oakley squeal.  It's common for him to kick out and strike the aisle wall of the barn when he's territorial about his food, but not to squeal.  G got dressed and went out to the barn in the dark to make sure all was well.  

We tried to go back to sleep after that, and of course shortly after we started to drift off the roosters started up. 

What a horrible night.  Our cortisol levels must have been through the roof. 

So that's what a few days can be like around here. 

Seeking some homeostasis.