The horses had their hooves trimmed and cleaned. He shucks the gunk out of the base and trims off the excess hoof, then files it to a nice clean line. It’s a horse pedicure. You need a strong core and physique to do farrier work. One farrier I know has bone spurs in his back. The first time I even heard of bone spurs, I was snowboarding and living in my van in the Rockies. I was hanging out in the lift shack with a ski patroller, who was groaning about the bone spurs in his heels from cliff jumping. He said at the end of the season he’d have surgery to grind them down, till then he just sucked it up cause the snow was too good.
Jack, Sunny & Tinkerbell. Sunny and Jack came from a auction in Southern Alberta. They were on the block as biters and kickers, which meant they were being sold cheap for horse meat. The Teamster, who went to the auction on behalf of the farm to pick up a different set of Clydesdale’s, couldn’t let this pair of 8 year old’s go to slaughter. He bought Sunny and Jack as well, and told the theatre, “If I can retrain them, you can have them, if not, they’ll stay with me.” It took a few months, a volunteer team of dedicated and experienced horse trainers but they came around and are now a sweet team, who pulled audiences in the winter sleigh show last year. Tinkerbell, is more than happy to follow these handsome, dappled gents around.
This is the morning after the thunder storm that redefined what I understood the skies capable of; blasts so loud the bed shook, a spoon in a glass rattled, every lightening flash showed Luka, ears erect laying like a sphinx, I’m surprised she didn’t crawl into bed with me. We took a hike up Rose Swanson mountain.
This marks the boarder of the Shuswap/Okanagan, where sage brush and ponderosa pines meet a micro climate rainforest. It’s a short but very steep drive from the farm. The dense cedar canopy and elevation stay much cooler in the summer. I was almost cold walking through the woods. The trails wrap all over the mountain, jutting views of gridded farm plots below.
Luka and I wandered down to Coyote Rock in the back 40. We cross the field and followed a deer trail up a dense moss laden hillside to Booty Cove – as named by Maryke when she rebuilt it in 2005. That summer for Cabin Crawl, she dressed like a pirate, installed a sail, a skull and cross bones flag and served some sort of filthy grog, electric blue jello shooters in a deep baking dish that had so much alcohol, it never set. I remember people just scooping it out by hand and eating it. There were a lot of bad pukes that night.Tibeau really gussied it up this summer. He’s left it as a nice, midday reading lounge. He slept here for a few weeks with just a sleeping bag and a tarp overhead. It juts out over a cliff and feels like the most remote camp spot on the farm.