Back to Reality: Haying Time

At right: Our pasture timothy is down and curing. Picture me out here on the weekend, hoisting bales of hay.

I came home from my mini-vacation to face one of summer's realities: haying time. That's been a June-July fact of life for me ever since I was a little girl.

While the town kids rode their bikes around town (on pavement...lucky them!), the brothers and I would be running the hay rake, bucking bales, and filling up the hayloft for the upcoming winter. While the town kids cooled off in the public swimming pool, we sweated from our labors and fought the itch of hay dust.

Although the equipment is considerably more sophisticated, haying time is still about sweat and itch. Ordinarily, we have our hay delivered by a grower, and then muscle it into the barn ourselves. But this year, we're adding something new to the stockpile-hay chore, by cutting and baling the timothy produced by our horse pasture.

In the past, it didn't make economic sense for us to do this. Local hay was cheap and easy to obtain, whereas the cost of buying or renting hay-making machinery was high. But now things are different. The hay we purchased last year for $140 a ton (up from $75 a ton in the late '90s) is going to cost $250 a ton. The difference more than pays for the cost of cutting and baling our 10 acres of pasture grass. Every ton of our own timothy that goes into the barn is a ton we won't have to buy.

We will, of course, pay another kind of price--the one of the sweat and itch!

Out of the Closet (More on Cowgirl Camping)

In one of yesterday's posts, I made mention what I do to decorate my vintage travel trailer: Basically, I just empty a closet (or two), and a corner of the tack room. So today, I thought I'd share a photo of the results.

At right: I'm about to give tours of my Western-bedecked trailer, whose name is The Sister I Never Had.

Put 50 or 60 of these little cowgirl boudoirs in one campground, for a Sisters on the Fly event**, and they're bound to attract some attention. People just can't seem to help themselves from wanting to come over and take a peek inside. So, some trailer owners offer tours. (SHORT tours, considering size of most of the trailers.) Here, I am welcoming folks to my trailer, whose name is The Sister I Never Had.

**H&R included Sisters on the Fly in one of its August 2007 cover stories, "Riding Clubs That Rock." Even though riding is just one of many things that the Sisters do, it's a contributor to their motto: "We have more fun than anyone." Horsewomen find themselves at home here.

Obviously!

A Fine Concept: "Camping Silver"

If you are of a certain age, you will remember when silver-plated serving items and tableware--trays, bowls, champagne buckets, candlesticks, coffee sets, even candelabra--were the coin of the realm in show awards. Competitors of consequence amassed lots of the stuff, much of which now resides in the basements, attics, and garages of America.

Cuz who uses such things every day? Or even once a year?

Enter Margaret N., a cowgirl camper from the Pendleton, Oregon, area, who follows a favored ethos of women who pull trailers for fun: If you're going to haul, don't haul empty. She brought enough of her family's old trophy silver to our get-together to dress every table in the dining area, and then some. Along with adding an unexpected touch of glamour to the woods, Margaret's tote-along items generated lots of remember-when conversation.

Margaret brushed off compliments (of which there were lots) by saying, "Oh, gosh, that's just my camping silver."

"Camping silver. " Now there's a whole new meaning to that "affordable luxury" phrase from my previous post.

Tip o' the black hat and a badge for style to Margaret!

At right: Here's Margaret (I'm in the hat), who hauled enough old trophy silver to dress up a large group dining area.

At right: Just a partial glimpse of Margaret's "camping silver," with a birthday celebrant basking in its glow.

Magazine Cowgirl on Vacation

What most of you suspect is true: I have one of the world's great jobs. Even so, there are those (rare) times when I get to leave the nag-mag world behind for some personal R&R. (JST translation: NO writing! For four whole days!)

Not that the cowgirl stuff stays home when the magazine cowgirl goes on vacation. Nope. It comes right along. I spent my precious days off by attending a Sisters on the Fly event in the mountains of central Idaho. As you could see from a visit to the SOTF Web site, sistersonthefly.com, the cowgirl mystique is highly revered by this group of fun-seeking women. As are all cowgirl trappings.

Perfect. For that, I don't even need to go shopping. I just empty out the hats-and-boots closet, grab some tack from the barn, and I'm set.

At right: My vintage trailer, all 13 feet of her, was the only RV of any kind at the first campground I stayed at on my road trip vacation.

Some observations re: the road:

* My trip was 200 miles, each way, and the whole time I was driving, everything seemed sharpened--in this weird "better now than never" way. I was keenly aware that "affordable luxury" (that of buying fuel for recreational travel) is on its way to becoming a one-word term. I savored it while I could.

* The reduction in highway traffic, from last summer to this summer, is profound. The only drivers I saw in any numbers were big-rig truckers. It seemed pretty lonely out there in two-lane, U.S.-state-highway America. I spent my first night out at an RV campground that came complete with high-speed wireless Internet service--and was the only one there.

* Those big house-on-wheels rigs that such places were built for? I saw more of them parked at the ends of driveways, with FOR SALE signs, than I did ones going down the road.

* The 60 or so Sisters who defied today's fuel logic, and showed up anyway, were NOT there to complain about the cost of getting there. They came to play, and that they did. I didn't hear any discussions about fuel prices. But I did pick up on that same appreciative vibe, the one with the little voice that says, "I'm going to enjoy doing this now, while I still can."

Anticipation (Not Just a Carly Simon Song)

A friend and I were just having a little e-mail exchange about the value of anticipation. She agreed with my theory: Life's just not as fun if you don't have a reason to look forward to something. Anticipation is one of the juicy, delicious emotions. Quite unlike dread, which generally goes along with dental visits, and doing your taxes!

At right: I'm looking forward to spending a few nights in my cowgirl trailer, with Button tucked into her suitcase that slides in under the bed.

I've spent the last couple of days revved up in anticipation of a Sisters on the Fly outing I'm taking with my cowgirl trailer. I get just as big a kick out of looking forward to these little adventures as I do from the actual participation. Same thing with trail rides into new areas, or the article-seeking missions I go on for Horse&Rider. That sense of "I can't wait!" is a psychological elixir that I think of as my mental vitamin A.

At left: "Take me, too, Mom!" For a lesson in the rev-up value of antici-pation, look no further than the dog who knows what's coming next as soon as she sees you start to pack.

There's another anticipator in the household today, namely my Schipperke sidekick, Miss Button B. Barksalot. As soon as she saw me get my suitcase out, she loaded herself up into her own suitcase that serves as her traveling dog bed.

"An-ti-ci-pa-a-tion...."

What's On Your Screen Saver?

My screen saver image--a foal I raised named No Other Option, a.k.a. Carson.

Some people put their horses' photos in frames and keep them on their desks at work.

Others of us just go digital, and use favorite horse photos as screen savers on our computers.

When I open the lid on my laptop, I see one of the foals I raised, a Quarter Horse colt registered as No Other Option (barn name: Carson). Carson is 2 now, and being schooled by the trainer who acquired him from me. But even though I no longer own him, I still enjoy looking at his picture every day. Just something about that carefree, indolent phase of foalhood captured on a summer day that's appealing to me, I guess.

Carson, by the way, is Tiffany's full brother. She is the gray filly who's been in previous posts. Their sire is Absolute Option, a Quarter Horse Congress champion, and their dam is Gust A Gray. As her name implies, she's the one who gave both their gray color.

Is there a horse on your screen saver, by any chance?

If This Doesn't Beat All: Snow on June 10

As some of you swelter today through triple-digit heat, and others of you battle floodwaters, or keep an ear tuned for tornado sirens, here's what's up in the world of weather for the Idaho panhandle on June 10, 2008:

It's snowing. Hard. And sticking. To the astonishment of humans and horses alike.

Gee...why did I bother to plant tomatoes?

On the plus side. We are really getting our money's worth from our stash of winter horse blankets!

One of Life's Privileges: A Ceremonial Moment

Two of the important people in my life: George Hatley, "Mr. Appaloosa," and his wife, Iola, now a member of the Appaloosa Hall of Fame. Photo by Edward Sala.

Every now and then, a person is given the opportunity to do something that amounts to a privilege. I had one of those moments on Saturday, when I got to say some words at Iola Hatley's induction into the Appaloosa Hall of Fame.

Iola has been a faithful servant of the Appaloosa breed since the day she married George B. Hatley in 1947. Now known as Mr. Appaloosa for his own lifelong efforts on behalf of the breed, George was the association's new executive secretary, and trying to get it back up on its feet after its moribund years during World War II. He was its 45th paid member; Iola was (and still is) member #99.

The couple housed the organization in their home for many years. Initially, Iola worked at outside jobs to help finance its operation. Later, when there was enough money for employees, those workers reported to work at the Hatley home. Besides running the office and managing the staff, Iola also set up all the registration files, supervised all the correspondence, and took all the meeting notes and minutes. (She was my first boss when I joined the Appaloosa Horse Club staff, fresh out of college, in 1975.)

Iola served in this office-manager capacity for 31 years, retiring in 1978. By then, the Appaloosa Horse Club was newly housed in its own modern building, with over 100 employees and a rank as the third most popular breed of horse in the United States--behind only Quarter Horses and Thoroughbreds.

But as I said on Saturday, Iola's retirement from the association didn't equate to a retirement from Appaloosa work. To this day, her dining room table is always covered with Appaloosa correspondence in progress, photos, history articles, and other breed-related materials. She serves as secretary of the Appaloosa Museum & Heritage Center. Basically, not a day goes by when she doesn't give of her time to Appaloosas in some way.

She is one of my role models, one of my mentors, and certainly someone I am proud to call a friend.

As I said on Saturday, her inclusion in the Appaloosa Hall of Fame is an honor that's richly deserved, and long overdue. And when I see the look of pride on her beloved George's face...well, that pretty much says it all.

Scenes from My Latest H&R Road Trip

Texas trainer Charlie Cole keeps tortoises at his ranch as well as world-level equine champions. Photos by Cappy Jackson.

When I go on road trips for Horse & Rider, like the one I did last month to Texas, I expect to see certain things: accomplished trainers, gorgeous horses, pro-level tack and equipment, maybe a trophy room or two.

But I can guarantee that my stop at Highpoint Performance Horses, home of world-champion training partners Charlie Cole and Jason Martin, yielded a first--namely, an introduction to the hobby of tortoise-keeping.

Besides their barns filled with famous performance horses, like Harley D Zip and Show Diva, Charlie and Jason also maintain a stable for their exotic reptiles. Among its residents are two female Galapagos tortoises, each about 20 years old, and a bevy of other tortoises (babies, in this case), small enough to fit into the palm of your hand.

And to think that someone asked me just the other day when I plan to retire. Retire? When work-day surprises like this one still are out there? Don't be looking for my exit to the rocking chair anytime soon!