Tour of the Battenkill (Farm Girl Style): Part 1

Every spring there’s a big event here in Washington County, The Tour of the Battenkill Bike race. Bicyclists from all over the country convene here with their army of fans and followers to participate in a 120-mile course through our farmland. It’s both an amateur and professional endeavor, with weekend warriors and famous cyclists alike. For a few days the sleepy town of Cambridge becomes a festival, and thousands of people in very tight clothing driving extremely clean hatchbacks take over. I’m not a cyclist, motor or otherwise, and so I generally cut the town a wide berth that weekend. I can avoid the hubbub, but not the race. Three thousand people weaving through a hundred back roads in every direction is hard to avoid unless you want to spend the entire weekend in your living room. Even then there’s a good chance you’ll see a pack (or seven) speed by your property. They are unavoidable.

Not that cyclists should be avoided, mind you. I may not be a fan but I do respect their verve. It’s not every human being who wakes up and says, “Hey, Today I am going to travel over a hundred miles across the landscape without an engine of any sort!” As someone who is beside herself with satisfaction if she manages a three-mile jog, the amount of physical dedication that must take floors me. Just because their spandex freaks me out doesn’t mean they aren’t the next step in human evolution. Any fool can see that. I mean, have you ever met a 60-120 mile a day cyclist?! They are in wicked good shape, tawny and lithe as Amish pre-teens, calm as monks, pleasant to chat with, smart as whips, and can drink like fish. Laugh at their tiny shorts all you want, they are winning the gene pool game hands down.

It was on this celebrated weekend that my friend Patty had an idea. She thought it would be fun to take our horses and carts out among the race on an 8-mile round trip for ice cream. We could watch the cyclists go by, waving from the buckboards as they peddled madly toward the finish line. It would be exciting, and fun to show off our fancy horses in harness, too. And what city slicker wouldn’t love the country charm of watching their spouse pump past a horse and cart on their weekend rural race? So it was settled, we were going to harness up and step out for the big race. We rallied some friends, polished the tack, groomed the horses and prepared to hit the road grinning.

Patty and her Percheron Steele were in their new harness, hooked up to a beautiful green and yellow wagon that comfortably fit four people. At nearly a ton, Steele was large enough to pull them without hindrance. Merlin, my draft pony was half Steele’s weight but built just as sturdy. He was pulling a metal forecart, a lighter vehicle for two, and I was in the drivers seat. Beside me was my friend Tom, a farmer in his own right from Massachusetts. He was visiting for the weekend and had never been out on public roads in a horse drawn vehicle before. If he was nervous he didn’t show it, and I took that as a silent nod of confidence for both my horse and me. When all the harnesses had their last minute adjustments and everyone aboard had their last minute bathroom breaks we flicked the lines and asked our beasts to take us away.

We saw no cyclists for the first two miles, which were spent along the paved and dirt roads that connect Lake McDougal to Black Creek Road. Steele and his wagon lead the small parade and Merlin was eagerly trotting behind him. I ride Merlin all the time and bought him so I would have those adventures in the saddle, but on days like this I realize I have a driving horse that tolerates me on horseback. And that isn’t to say Merlin isn’t a fine trail mount, but Brigit’s Fire does he move in harness. Without complaint or hindrance he kept close behind the wagon full of our friends. Tom was having a good time, taking in the view from the seat of the cart and helping by flagging past nervous automotives. People in cars and trucks do one of two things when they see a horse-drawn vehicle on the road they are using. They either are overly cautious or wicked. Some slowly rumble behind us, thinking it is dangerous for all concerned to pass on the left. And the other kind of driver just roars past without any consideration at all. They must assume if a horse is on a road it must be treated like they would treat any other car. This isn’t necessarily untrue, but if you are ever in our neck of the woods and see a horse cart in your path, treat it like a car, but treat it like a car driven by a little old lady. You could pass her but do so politely. Get the job done kindly and efficiently by cutting her a wide berth. Don’t speed past with inches of space between you, slam on your horn, or drive alongside her to take her picture.

The sun was hiding behind clouds, but we weren’t cold. A mild wind kept the horses noses to the air, probably smelling the new foals with their mother’s and red-tailed hawk nests high in the trees. The people on this trip were all chatting away. I sang occasionally, because that’s what I am used to doing when out with Merlin. I only know the first two verses of Loch Lomond, but I sang them with a horrible Scottish accent and Tom and I laughed between the clip clops of the two draft horses. The trees around us were still barren and only the eager poplars and some sun-luck maples were sporting buds that would promise leaves. The stubborn locusts and oaks remained as bare branched as if it was the dead of winter and if it wasn’t for the puddles and mud under the horses occasional stride I may have believed it was an oddly warm day in January.

However all comparisons to winter faded at the first pack of cyclists. They were pumping up a hill from behind as me turned onto Black Creek Road. We weren’t sure how the horses would take this? I wasn’t concerned but I also wasn’t an herbivore strapped with strips of a dead animal to a metal contraption pulling weight on paved roads. In a flash of neon spandex and the metallic fizzing of tiny angry wheels the mob whizzed past us in a flash of frenzy. Merlin didn’t even lift up his head. I don’t know if Steele was as calm, but the wagon ahead didn’t stop or bolt so I assume he was equally unimpressed. This was good because in the next mile or so it took to get to the Creamery we would be passed by hundreds of competitors in the race.

We didn’t know that the Creamery would be a checkpoint for the race, but as we trotted the horses up the small hillside to the entrance the crowds thickened and more and more flocks of spandexed minions started gaining on us. We asked the horses to move faster, and moved out of the way of the race by turning into the Creamery’s parking lot. Once the horses were set into two parking spots Patty offered to hold their heads while the rest of us when indoors for coffee, ice cream, and a bathroom break. While waiting in line for a scoop of coffee in a cone (my happy compromise) I could look out the windows of the creamery at the strangers coming up to patty to ask about the horses. Patty glowed like a proud mother at a talent show. She let kids pet the horses and fielded questions. By the time I walked out to stand by my own black steed I could hear the current race of conversation. Folks wanted to know if we were with the race or just locals out on a jaunt? When we explained we do this all the time their expressions went into this plateau of contentment, like they had somehow wandered into Narnia and had any doubts of their whereabouts confirmed.

Part Two: Coming Soon

THE BIRCH IS BACK! (Chapter 4 Preview)

Lara ran her hands up and down Sur's white blazed nose. Her palm under his forelock, gently and subconsciously telling the horse to relax. Anna had been away from her cart, and her Haflinger for over an hour. The last time Lara saw her she was milling about the Freight Yard's market stalls, and she didn't see where she had wandered from there. Sur had though, and kept turning his large head back towards the town's center shops. He was a calm animal, but leaving any creature to stand in a combination of leather and metal with his mouth tied to an iron post's ring causes a bit of boredom after a while. Certainly when the person who unties that knot had scuttled off in such a rush.

Meredith came to the cart then, both of her market baskets filled to the brim with a combination of squashes and pork. Lara looked at the two toppling baskets her cousin had adorned herself with, bug eyed.

"For Anna." she explained, somewhat sheepishly "She lost that side of pig and all those pumpkins on her ride home last night, and I don't gather she'll ever explain rightly why. But I do know a side of pig salted and some pumpkins in the cellar last a long time, and we have a lot of winter left and that dear heart is alone"

Lara was taken aback for a moment being reminded of her cousin's wealth, which was only made apparent at times of commerce. (She didn't act like an aristocrat around Lara or the rest of the Thomason Family.) Still, Lara was a farm girl and had been her entire life. The only way they held a piece of meat at market was if they were selling something they raised. And to choose to buy so much whole, without a hand in the work of raising it, was a decadence she rarely partnered on the receiving end. Lara was a humble woman, but loading a horse cart with that much wealth almost made her want to load it far in the back where everyone could see their fortune. Hot Dog.

"Fine Christian Charity, Mer." And swallowed a silent gulp as she nodded.

"I know. A bit much."

"No no, it'll be welcomed with open arms, be sure." And she helped her load them right behind the bench seat and cover it with the wool blankets.

"Did you see where Anna ran off to?" Meredith asked as she wiped her hands onto the apron tied to her skirt. "Last I saw she was marching right out of the yard and towards town. I didn't catch what shop though?"

"I'm not sure." Lara kept her hands on Sur's neck, keeping the beast calm was a second nature. The way a mother rocks a child back and forth to stop it from fussing while keeping the conversation at a good clip.

"I didn't see, myself. Whatever the rush, it isn't like Anna to leave her horse like this. Not this long. Could you wait here while I go search some?"

Lara wrapped the wool sweater with the fur-lined hood around her head and started walking towards the library. She had an idea Anna would be there. And if she wasn't...she had a few questions for the man who used to sing a song about a monster who left black bones in the snow...


more soon!

Catch up on the story:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Interlude I

Birchthorn is a work of community fiction, a story of the Battenkill Valley in 1919 dealing with a mysterious creature of local legend and song. Readers of the CAF farm blog are part of it, becoming characters, names of places, horses, and so forth. Reader emails and suggestions help move the plot along, and create the mystery. Each chapter is supported through donations to the "Story Pot" which is the donate button on this blog, always located on the right-hand side, under the heart image and also below this post. If you like what you read, and want to read more, please throw in a dollar or two and send an email with your thoughts and ideas. It may become legend!

Handsome Boghadair

Firewood Already Started

Just as the woodpile dwindled down to splinters and the sun has blessed us with seventy-fiove degree days, it is time to start collecting firewood for next season. Winter is no joke, and this past winter was my first heating entirely with wood stoves. It was worth it, but I am glad for the break from keeping the house warm. I can stay out late now, hang with friends into the night, and not have to get up to stoke fires or come home to heat. If that sounds like it was limiting, it was. It kept me close to home and my farm. I liked that.

This load was carried out of the woods by Jasper, not a bad haul for a small pony. Every time I harness him for cart training I bring out another load like this to split. One load is good exercise and training for him and a reasonable amount for me to split at a time. So far the once barren porch is now starting to look like a firewood shelter again. Ash and cherry are piling up in the size I need for my Bunbaker. I can thank Mark Wesner for that, who cut up the downed tree from last year's Antlerstock with a chainsaw during the last pig slaughtering in winter. Now that the snow is melted the wood is waiting in rounds like you see here, ready to be carried back by pony power to the house for chopping and stacking.

I understand that thermostats give you flexibility and freedom. But I wouldn't give up this kind of honest heat for anything.

Beltane Bonfires, Part-Time Jobs, & Past Lives

On the last night of April I had a campfire at the farm. It was a very humble affair, nothing like the way people were celebrating elsewhere. I mean, over in Scotland the Beltane Fire Society puts on a show that would make Lady Gaga blush. There are fire dances, a May Queen, and people naked and painted red and blue, dancing and reenacting old rites and stories of Scotland's past. It looks like a hedonistic romp, or something from the set of Game of Thrones, but it is actually a college performance of the Scottish Studies Department at the University of Edinburgh. Over 300 dancers and collaborators donate their time and tickets always sell out. I'll let you search online for videos and other pictures, as I think it would offend some of my more conservative readers. But let me tell you something folks, they know how to party over there. You can see some nice BBC coverage from last night here.

I lit the bonfire because I would not be painted blue or running around naked. I just don't have the time. But I do try to light a campfire every May Eve. Legend says that if you jump over the flames on the evening before Beltane you gain the luck and favor you need for the coming year. I jumped over the backyard fire with as much intention as I could manage. I'll take what I can get.

Yesterday was Beltane. May 1st. That's a holiday around here and I spend the day as if it was a holiday. I did the usual chores and writing requirements but besides that I enjoyed myself doing the things I love. I'm very, very, fortunate to have access to those things in my backyard and if there was ever a day to be grateful for a horse and a bow and arrow, it was then.

Speaking of bows and gratitude, I'll have you know I may have landed a part time job! I will be interviewing next week for a gig as an Archery Instructor over in Manchester Vermont. A large resort called the Equinox has a falconry and archery school and I emailed them to see if they needed help? As a falconer's apprentice and active archer who adores teaching people skills I thought it would be a perfect fit. I show up next Tuesday to see if I fit in!

This job is necessary as things keep getting tighter and tighter around here. With a few months until I get paid the next part of my current manuscript's advance, I keep needing to find ways to keep this place going. I'm one month behind on the mortgage, which is scary. But I talked with the bank and they are going to help me refinance to get a lower interest rate, which is a blessing. Between that and the new job I may just keep this place going strong, which is the only thing in my life not up for negotiation. I will always keep Cold Antler afloat, whatever it takes. More income is needed but I see no reason not to make it doing something I love, outdoors, with people just as passionate about the things I love as I am. I will get to meet new people, shoot every day, and get away from the farm a bit. This is exciting to me, all this. And it was part of what was going through my mind as I cleared the flames.

The rest of the holiday I worked with both the horses. I trained Jasper in the cart with some friends from Common Sense (that little guy is coming along!) and took Merlin for a trail ride up the mountains at sunset. I sang to him the whole time. I made up a song about May, and the holiday, and anyone who could hear me would have laughed at the silliness but I was downright happy on that black pony.

I confess I always start singing because I'm scared. Every time I get on Merlin there's the fear of a beginner, that hesitation and understanding that I am about to mount myself on top of a thousand pounds of powerful muscle with a brain of its own. So when we start up the trail I sing, because it relaxes me and so it relaxes Merlin. A horse can tell if you are tense and assumes it's for reasons that make sense to a horse. There must be a predator, danger, something to be worried about. When I start into a few verses of a familiar tune we both breathe deeper and start to enjoy ourselves. I start to enjoy the ride halfway through. Maybe someday I'll enjoy it at the beginning! Half the battle is going out and riding. You only win the battle if you keep doing it. And every day I am getting better with horses, just as I am with my archery.

Sometimes people haves told me they think I am an old soul. That because I'm in love with Scotland, archery, horses, hawks, folklore and agriculture than perhaps that's because it was who I was in a past life. That's a romantic notion, for certain. It sure would explain why a Slovak girl raised in a small town without a farm, horse, bow, or trust fund would find herself in a kilt on horseback on a Tuesday afternoon, but I think I like my mother's idea about reincarnation better.

My mother always said that if you can inherit your grandfather's eyes, or your aunt's red hair, than why couldn't you inherit their memories and interests? What in our DNA (which we only understand at a basic level) stops who we are mentally from carrying over into the next generation? She didn't believe in reincarnation, but she did believe you could experience deja vu and it would be accurate because it may be a memory from someone related to you in the past. Perhaps my desire to play the fiddle, ride horses, and travel are just part of my gypsy blood stream? Maybe far back in the forest of my own family trees there was a Scot in the Highlands, a tinker in Ireland, or an exile to Prague that slipped some of his or her self down through passion and history to me. I like to think that's why I am who I am, and how I will get where I am going. I prefer to think we are who we are through human actions like sex, decision, and passion then random rebirths at some deity's whim. At least, that is what I was taught, and I'm sticking to it. My mom always said "Science can only bring us closer to God", that it's the exact same thing. The more we learn about the universe and earth the more we can understand our source. I see so many people online arguing that science and religion are enemies? How is that even possible?

This became deeper than I thought it would be. But that's what holy days are for, right? I spent mine with horse sweat and fire jumping and perhaps you did the same? Maybe you just planted peas and felt the sunshine on the back of your neck? It doesn't matter, it's all the same. And that's the most sacred truth of them all.

Well, that, and you may have inherited your grandfather's memories. But you'll have to ask my mom for details on that one.

Sneak Peak of One Woman Farm!

My next book comes out in late October/early November. It's called One Woman Farm and it is a beautifully illustrated gift book featuring a handwritten journal of one year on this scrappy farm. It's darling, and I'm very proud of it. You can get a sneak peak and read some of it here. And feel free to pre-order a signed copy from me (and Gibson if you want and request his paw print, but you have to special request it!) from Battenkill Books right here in Washington County. Just go to battenkillbooks.com and email Connie. She'll hook you up!

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