December 5th, 2002 with photographs

December has arrived to the Piedmonts in a wintery flurish. The tiny blizzards on the 1st did more to send the ponies scurrying to the gate, hollaring to come in, than it did towards leaving any traces of white on the fields. However, we were soon to taste real snow on the 5th with a storm that dumped over a half a foot on snow on our countryside. The road crews out in the hunt country tend to skim just the tops of the roads, leaving a thin surface of hardpacked snow that is perfect for sleighing. It took us about a half hour of moving the carriages around so we could get the sleigh from the back of the carriage house, but it was well worth the effort. The fields were deep with exquisite powdery snow, and the sleighing conditions were magnificent. As soon as I get the opportunity to get the pairs pole configured to the Portland cutter, I'll be able to take the pair out as well.

In between the winter storms, my friend, Linda, is still trailering her horses over to ride, anxious to get in every spare minute of warm weather there is left in the waning season. The other day we hacked out in between snow bursts, judging the weather and the distances for us to be out and back before the worst. For her it was an adventure, but she laughed when she said it was probably nothing for me. After all, my Welsh/Arab pony "Itch" and I had just returned the prior weekend from my first 2-day 100 mile endurance ride which took place in the middle of the NJ pine barrens, in mid November ....in the middle of a full blown nor'easter.

No joke.

Of course, I hadn't planned it that way. It actually started out innocently enough on a balmy, 70 degree morning outside a small, northern Virginia town where, at 9:30 AM sharp, my trailer pulled up alongside that of another Virginian endurance rider waiting to meet me. The two of us had planned to convoy to the Mustang Memorial 30 50/50 2-day 100 Endurance Ride in southern New Jersey that weekend. We would be joining almost 80 riders from as far north as Maine, and quite a few from as far south as Virginia, for this annual ride in the pine barrens of Wharton State Forest -- the largest single tract of land within the New Jersey State Park System. The protected barrens stretch over three counties, encompassing 110,017 acres with 500 miles of hard packed sand roadbeds and paths, and extensive creeks and waterways. This was to be our final ride of the year, but unlike Miriam --who would be doing just 50 miles, I had decided my pony and I were ready to close out the season with our first 2-day 100.

The drive to New Jersey was perfect. Miriam and I chatted via our walkie-talkies the entire way up I95, arriving at our destination in a quick four hours. The weather still so congenial that we set up camp and checked in with plenty of time to wander around, still in t-shirts, greeting old friends before saddling up for a small ride to pre-scout the trails.

Three hours later the temps had done a complete about-face, plummeting 30 degrees into the chilly 40's. By the time night had fallen and the crowds had gathered for dinner and the ride briefing in the picnic area, parkas and winter jackets had replaced the summer t-shirts. The forecast of a severe storm rapidly developing along the eastern seaboard and slated to move inland by morning was the sole topic on everyone's lips. The ride management had taken the forecast seriously, and crews in gloves and warm hats were hard at work securing side tarps and lashing extra ropes to the timer and vet tents.

The Ride Committee didn't waste any time after dinner, filling in the details of the trail as the attending crowd huddled in the cold. Because the trails were located in a vast, unbroken expanse of forest, the main concern of some riders was on being assuring the trail markers were plentiful enough not to risk getting lost.

"You WON’T get lost" Ride Manager Donna Curtin assured the crowd. "The trails are really well marked," she continued, "plus the reason we’re sending you all off at 7:30AM is because we send the jeep out at 7AM to make sure the everything is still up and in place."

"You’ll want to take a gun with you anyway" piped up one voice from the crowd. "Because if you DO manage to somehow get lost, you’ll want to shoot yourself because you will NEVER find your way out!" Through the roar of laughter the vets then took their turn, the crowd calming down once again as the vetting procedure, the impending cold, and the 60 pulse parameter were announced and discussed.

The briefing ended with dessert, only a few stalwart souls lingering around to socialize. The majority were quick to hurry back to their warm trailers, as did Miriam and I. After checking on our ponies and making sure they had plenty of hay for the night, we sat in my trailer, heater cranked up to the max, and enjoyed a glass of wine before calling it an evening.

I woke early the following morning to a bone-chilling cold. The blue sky had disappeared behind an impenetrable sheet of heavy gray clouds so low and close you could have reached up and poked them with a stick. By 7:15AM horses in rump rugs and riders in waterproof coats could be seen making their way down the sandy road towards the start. Miriam and I arrived a few minutes later to join the milling crowd. I spotted two other Virginia friends, but we had only a second or two to chat before the announcement that the trail was opened... and the ride was on.

It was a wild start, more like the Oklahoma land rush than anything else. Horses surged down the driveway and across the main road, following the loop as it dove into the forest. Already a cold drizzle was beginning to fall, but it did little to dampen the enthusiasm all around as the horses raced along the sandy trails.

My pony moved from a trot into a canter, skirting along the edge of the trail to pass the packs of riders taking up the center. In a matter of moments he had left the main group of riders far behind. As the trail opened up I caught sight of fellow Virginian John Proudman on his little Arab, CR Silver Dancer. Our two were evenly matched in size, pace and stride, and we ended up pacing the rest of the 20 mile loop together, talking and cantering in the cold drizzle and rain, dodging the uncountable deep puddles spanning the width of the trail, and riding the bumpy roller-coaster sections with whooping laughter.

The fast pace had been much to my pony's liking, bringing us back at base camp in less than 2 hours. Itch was doing great, still full of energy, but I was not faring as well. A sharp pain was radiating up from my shins, and I found myself hobbling in the vet check, struggling to keep up with my pony during the trot-out. As soon as we got back to our trailer, I stripped off my half-chaps to assess my legs. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble. Although the half-chaps had offered some protection, both shins were severely bruised from the stirrup leathers pressing into them during that 20 mile run. The right shin was damaged more than the left, but both were agonizingly painful to touch.

My heart sank. This was not good. There was still another day and 80 miles left to go, and I couldn't afford to damage my legs any further. I gathered some thick cotton from my first aid kit, and stuffed them under the half chaps as additional padding, deciding if I kept to a trot for the next two loops, my legs should be OK. I could re-assess myself after that, and determine if I was able to go on.

However, my pony had other plans. He was still ready to roll as we set out on the second loop, and insisted that it was a better idea to keep cantering. After arguing with him for a bit, and noticing his heart rate drop when I did let him canter, I finally let him have his way. Besides, I didn't want to dawdle on the trail any more than he did. The drizzle had advanced into a light rain, and I had no doubt in my mind that it would be getting worse by the hour.

The 15 miles seemed to go on forever, sharp spikes of pain shooting up my legs as the leathers pressed against the cotton and chaps with each canter stride. I gritted my teeth, toughing it out, finding relief only when we found trotting more expedient to negotiate the trail. We passed other riders as we cruised along, rarely exchanging more than a few pleasantries before we left them behind.

When the trail finally emptied us onto the road opposite the camp driveway, I dropped to a walk with unmitigated relief. My pony's pulse was low and relaxed, and confident that we'd be able to walk right into the P&R, I completely forgot about the neighbor's pet goat stationed in a pen at the end of the driveway, only a couple hundred yards from the In-gate.

But Itchy hadn't. When Miriam and I rode past the pen on our pre-ride I thought Itchy would have a heart attack. Despite the fact that he lives with a whole flock of sheep at home, he has a horror of goats. Leaving and returning on the first loop we had been surrounded by company. This time we were alone. His head shot up as we approached the pen, and I watched in dismay as his pulse rocketed up from 69 to 191. Sidling nervously down the driveway, he stared bug-eyed at the black goat perched like a hood ornament on it's little house. I was beside myself. "For the love of mike," I growled, "it's just a stupid goat."

It didn't matter. The rest of the way to the In-timer he was a nervous wreck, convinced there were more goats hidden in the shrubbery. By the time we reached the In-gate, his pulse was still in the 100's. I stripped off his saddle hoping it would help him reach the 60 pulse parameter more quickly. As my tack plopped to the ground, I stared aghast at the shocking pink streaks running down his hind legs, his back and his side. The elegant red wool quarter sheet I was using to keep his haunches warm had been designed merely to grace the quarters of my dressage mare when she went into the ring to collect her ribbons. It was never meant for the rigors of endurance. Sadly unaccustomed to being sodden with rain, it was now weeping great streams of pink dye on everything it touched, turning my pony's beautiful gray clipped coat into a pyschodelic mess.

I could hear the giggles and laughter coming from the P&R staff as they nudged and pointed to one another my pony's unusual coloring. I sighed ruefully. I wasn't about to dispense with the offending sheet because of the raw weather, but there was no way I could think of to stop the dye from continuing to run in the rain. With my shins in agony, my clothing drenched, my pony being dyed a bright pink, and the weather rapidly deteriorating into a full-blown major east coast storm -- it was shaping up to be a long day.

To top it all off, my water-resistant heart monitor ... wasn't anymore. I squinted at the watch, barely able to read the digital numbers through the moisture fogging the inside of the crystal. All this, and we had only finished 35 miles, with 65 left to go.

Miriam was not having the best of days either. Clipper preferred traveling in company; however, being in the back of a galloping pack is no fun, and he arrived back from the second loop with his face completely plastered in wet sand. I felt sorry for the both of them, and offered to ride with her on the final loop. She leaped at the opportunity, absolutely delighted. It turned out to be the perfect scenario -- Itch was happy to cruise along at a trot this time, relieving the pain in my shins, and Clipper was happy to have a familiar buddy to motor alongside.

We were having fun, laughing and talking until midway through the loop when the cold drizzle began to change to even colder rain. We stepped up our pace, slowing down only to wade through the massive hock-deep puddles we had been warned would be on this trail, and stopping once to let our horses graze for a bit. Our speed was quick enough that we passed a few other riders who had previously passed us en-route, coming into the final mile at a strong canter, Itch in the lead as always. We caught up and passed another Virginia rider who joined us for a hand-gallop to the finish line - the three of us coming across in 11th, 12th, and 13th position, respectively, with a ride time of 5 hours and 6 minutes.

Since I was not competing in the 50 mile division, Miriam was given the 11th place, thrilling her to death. Much to my chagrin I found I was not "done for the day", but was expected to treat this loop as if it were part of a true one-day 100. Had I known, I perhaps would have gone a bit slower at the finish, but our horses had enjoyed the fun of flying the last mile as much as we had.

As Miriam headed back to her trailer, I headed into check, trotting my pony out in the now freezing rain for the vets. Once again he passed with flying colors, looking just as chipper, and far more pink, than ever.

I, on the other hand, was not -- either chipper or pink. I was black and blue, my shins on fire. When Miriam arrived at my trailer with the rest of the lovely French Burgundy wine to toast our success, she gasped in horror when I showed her the bruising on my legs. The wine, however, soon had any and all pain swiftly in retreat. We broke out the cheese and crackers onto china plates, and as the cold rain pounded down outside I snuggled under my warm mink lap robe, my slippers rubbing the soft, thick plush of the Chinese oriental under my feet, my trailer heater going full blast, and a crystal wineglass in my hand as Miriam and I congratulated each other on a great ride. Not even the weather could dampen our spirits as we re-lived all the memorable moments of that memorable day.

I was so warm and cozy that I was reluctant to venture out in the freezing cold rain for the Sunday ride dinner and briefing. I knew I had to attend, however, in case anything changed. As it was, the holds had been reduced to 30 minutes because of the weather, and we were warned to be prepared for the worst of the storm to hit by morning.

The rain was picking up in intensity when I crawled into my bed at nine. At midnight I awoke to howling winds and lashing rain. I slipped out of bed and cracked open the door to check on Itch. Fortunately, his tent was on the leeward side of my trailer, protected from the worst of the winds and rain. He blinked sleepily at me, standing warm and dry in the center of his shelter while the rain poured off the roof like a waterfall. Clipper stood close-by in his enclosure, head low, content in that patient, equine way to let his waterproof blanket take the brunt of the raging storm.

They were both quiet, so I went back to bed with no inkling that only a short time earlier several horses had broken out of their enclosures in the upper camp, rampaged through the trucks and trailers, then taken off, disappearing into the night.

At 5AM I woke to a vast silence. The winds and rain had departed at some point during the night, leaving behind a sullen gray sky and a raw, lingering cold. I got up, noticing right away that my shins were no longer hurting. Even the bruises had faded away, leaving only a slight trace of black and blue. Happy to be able to walk without pain, I went out to give my pony his breakfast and check his legs.

As I bent down to run my hands down his legs my breath caught in my throat. In the dim light I could see that his right front ankle seemed puffed up -- far more then the left. Anxiously, I felt the swollen ankle, wracking my brain to think how and when he might have injured himself. I suddenly remembered he had used his right lead consistently during the 20 mile gallop. My heart sank. It was just such an injury, popping up overnight, that would cause us to pull from the ride.

I led him out of his paddock, watching him carefully, praying he was not lame. His stride seemed even and regular as he instantly proceeded to drag me all over the place, looking for a good spot to graze. As he walked the puffiness in both ankles visibly receded. I began to breath again. Obviously, he was merely stocked up from his enforced confinement during the night. Nothing more.

By the time we arrived at the vets at 6:45am along with the rest of the 100 mile horses for a pre-ride check, both ankles were almost back to normal. He trotted out sound as a bell, and the vets gave us the nod that we were good to go.

I bid Miriam goodbye as I saddled up, knowing she'd be gone, heading back to Virginia by the time I returned from the first loop. Once again, the lovely red wool quarter sheet was draped over my pony's hindquarters in anticipation of the rain and cold. It had been completely dried the previous evening courtesy of my trailer heater, the long elegant sides now conveniently hiding the hefty streaks of pink on his backside and halfway down to his hocks. As for the rest of his hind legs... well, they were just gonna have to be in full view, stained bright pink. That was all.

Although the word around camp was that severe rains were due to hit in less than 2 hours, it was a much saner crowd that moved off at the start. My pony was content to take up position in the middle of the pack, a nice big stallion conveniently blocking our view of the goat as we exited down the driveway.

I had decided to keep our pace slower than yesterday for this first loop, and Itch was happy to comply. He opened up to a ground-covering trot that ate up the miles, taking us past a number of riders until I met up with one riding a beautiful Saddlebred mare. I slowed down to admire her horse and she introduced herself as Dana. As we chatted, I noticed her mare seemed less anxious and more comfortable with Itch by her side. Since I was in no hurry, I asked if she would like me to ride with her, and she gratefully agreed.

We fell to talking and sharing stories of our previous rides, and I pointed out to her the various landmarks I had spotted the day before, including a tiny cemetery that dated back (or so the sign declared) to 1836. Moving at a more relaxed pace, I could now pick out the ancient traces of human habitation, especially when the trail left the forest to cross strange, open clearings of heavy sand dunes and tiny scrub pines. Looking carefully at several gashes in the sand near the trail I could spot traces of old stone foundations. These were the last, lingering memory of once thriving bog iron and glassmaking towns, most dating back from 1766 to 1867.

Past these ancient sites, the forest closed back in and reclaimed the trail, sending it on a meandering journey through open stands of cedar and pine. In the 1600's these forests had been so thick and inpassable that the early settlers had to make their way inland by canoe. The value of these forests fueled a key logging industry in lower New Jersey for well over two centuries, even supplying the masts for the great 17th century British sailing ships.

Numerous creeks, used long ago to float logs towards the mills of Gloucester, Camden, and Philadelphia, still coursed through the forest. One crossed under Hawkins Bridge about 5 miles from base camp, and I stopped to give Itch a drink, letting him wade chest-deep into the cold water stained black by the surrounding cedar trees. Dana followed suit on her horse, and as the stream flowed around us I thought of my own ancestors who had timbered these very same barrens, floating their logs down creeks much like this one over 300 years ago. Perhaps they even stood in this same spot, I mused, watering a thirsty horse as they contemplated their future, little knowing that I would stand here centuries later, dreaming of their past.

But the trail called to us and since neither of our horses were interested in drinking -- their thirst already adequately serviced by the numerous puddles enroute -- we finally splashed our way out of the stream, crossing the bridge towards home.

Once again, the goat was waiting for us at the end of the driveway, standing in his pen in full view bold as brass on the roof of his little house. Even with Daisy and Dana riding shotgun on our opposite side, Itch's pulse, almost at parameter, instantly skyrocketed into the 200 range. I groaned. This was getting to be too much.

Dana vetted through with Daisy and disappeared while I was still stuck outside the P&R checkpoint, saddle on the ground, with a still fogged-up heart monitor recording my pony's dropping heart rate. With little else to do except wait, I glanced around and happened to notice a police vehicle parked right behind me. I hadn’t seen him drive up, and not knowing of the disappearance of the escaped horses, I was intrigued when a rider hurried over and began talking to the policeman in a worried voice. I overheard the rider give a description of two horses, then saw the officer shake his head. I caught the words "52,000 acres out there", and "your best bet will be to hope that they come to someone's farm and that we get a call. That's how most are found around here."

I didn't hear any more of the conversation because Itch's pulse was finally down and I was ready to take him into P&R. The crew had come to recognize both me and my pony by now, laughingly christening Itchy as "Freckles The Pink Pony." While one of the crew was taking our P&R I asked the others what was going on with the police. They filled me in, all talking at one, each with a slightly different account of the whole incident. I managed to gather that a number of horses had escaped the night before, and a few were still missing, although the exact count was a bit sketchy.

The impending storm was still on my mind as Itch and I finished the hold and set out on the second loop. I rode by myself this time, enjoying the solitary peace and quiet. My pony enjoyed it, too. He prefers to travel alone anyway, so he was as happy as a clam, his trot strong and rhythmic. I noticed with pride that his heart rate continued to stay low and steady -- a tribute to months of training and conditioning. My goal had been to finish our first 100 miles with plenty of gas left in the tank, and with only 30 miles left to go, it looked like it was becoming a reality.

The trail descended deeper into the forest, and with little else to do except sit and enjoy the ride, I began to study my surroundings. I had been told that hawks, eagles, turkey, fox, otter, and deer populated the barrens, but not a living creature flitted or wandered into view, or came forward to wonder at our presence. Mile after mile all we ever saw were trees, trees and more trees. And sand. Always sand. Lots and lots of it. The trail was sand. The dunes were sand. The turns were banked in sand. The puddles were carved in sand. Every now and then we would stumble upon a sudden flash of civilization -- a truck parked alongside the trail, patiently awaiting the return of it's vanished owner. The headlights would regard our approach with a glassy stare, then look away as if preoccupied. I would glance at the darkened windows as I trotted by, fully expecting to see my reflection, but all I saw were the trees. Trees growing in sand.

The bits and pieces of the trail I recalled from the previous day were clear in my mind, but the never changing scenery continually mislead me. I caught myself several times ignoring the trail and simply sitting, watching to the side with a mesmorized stare at the hypnotic passing of the trees. Unnerved, I became anxious for any sight of a familiar twist and turn to tell me where I was on the trail. For more miles than I care to remember I would announce to my pony that the next bend was surely the one I remembered, only to apologize profusely to him when I found I was mistaken, and that the next bend was surely the one I wanted. The pine and hardwood trees all mirrored one another, one view practically indistinguishable from another as the sandy trail rolled onward. I felt as if I were on a merry-go-round, passing the same scenery again, and again, and again.

I was coming dangerously close to the edge of insanity was when the path abruptly twisted around a corner and threw itself down in an endless, utterly straight line right to the horizon. I could feel the ground take an almost imperceptible slope upward -- a sure sign we were reaching the end of the trail. I urged my pony into a canter and he sprang forward eagerly, both of us anxious to escape the endless monotony. Still, it was a bit of a shock when the trail abruptly launched us out of the forest with no warning, directly onto the road opposite the ride camp entrance.

I wanted to get down the kiss the ground I was so happy to be back, but all my attention now had to be turned to the final obstacle -- the dreaded goat. I dismounted, and began walking down the long driveway towards the In-gate, hoping that by placing my body between my pony and the abhorred creature I could keep Itchy calm enough not to let his pulse skyrocket again.

My plan worked to perfection. We strolled past the beastly creature with calculated aplomb, my pony relieved to be safe on my opposite side. He relaxed so much in fact that, to my great astonishment, his heart monitor started beeping a below parameter heart rate as we reached the In-timer. I was ecstatic. We strolled directly into P&R, then straight into the vet tent -- the first time in either day we'd accomplished that feat. Mentally I kept kicking myself for not trying this trick earlier; however, it was already a moot point. The final loop finished in a different area, bypassing the goat entirely.

Back at our campsite Itch dove into his hay. Happy to see him eating so well I decided to let him stay as long as he wanted. I didn't care about our placing, anyway. In truth, the fact that I wanted him to trot out with a full stomach on the each loop was more important to me than anything else. Even though I had carried carrots and horse cookies, constantly feeding him treats along the trail, he only had time to eat hay at the holds.

I turned my attention to changing his wet saddle pads for dry ones, and discarding the quarter sheet once and for all. The temperature had held steady all day, but as far as I was concerned the rain was never going to fully materialize. Plus I didn't look forward to holding up the long, draping ends of the quarter sheet through the wide, deep water crossings we would encounter on this last loop. The lovely, leaky red quarter sheet would be more of a liability than an asset in the 15 miles left to go. It was time to leave it behind.

I was also tired of sweating to death in my heavy John Partridge English wet-weather riding coat. The thought of sticking my arms into that cold damp interior one more time was simply out of the question. It was time for a change. I tossed the coat into my trailer and grabbed a lightweight windbreaker. The fact that it was not waterproof didn't bother me. It was warm, dry, and comfortable. That was enough.

About 15 minutes past our out-time my pony announced he'd had enough to eat. With full stomachs and carefree hearts we embarked on the third and final loop, exiting out the driveway at a swinging trot and down the road to the first trail marker. We were less than a mile from camp when I felt something wet brush my cheek. Then another. I slowed, looking up at the clouds in disbelief This could not be! A few more drips hit my face in distinct warning, then changed into a drizzle, then into cold, light rain, pattering down on my nose and shoulders of my windbreaker. Suddenly a chilling mist began creeping among the trees lining the road, slowly dissolving the woods into a vast white nothingness. I could see my own breath hovering in front of my face as the temperatures took an abrupt, dramatic plunge downward, chilling me right to the bone.

In the blink of an eye, the weather had turned from indecisive to downright nasty.

I pulled my pony to a halt, my good mood vanishing. I was still close enough to camp to turn back and change back into my foul weather gear, but I hesitated, staring up at the clouds, wondering it they were serious or not. If I guessed right, I should be OK. If I guessed wrong, I faced 15 miles of utter misery. My pony made up my mind for me. He had spotted two riders in the distance turning off the road onto the forest trail, and now he pulled restlessly on the reins on his bitless bridle as if to say "Who cares about a bit of rain? Let's go!"

I decided to make a go of it, and let him move out into his ground covering trot, his eyes and ears searching for the vanished riders. The rain started coming down with the sharp sound of ice. I huddled in my light jacket as we sloshed through the deep puddles that drenched the trail for the first two miles. We finally caught up and passed the two 50 milers we'd seen in the beginning, then in swift succession passed several more. In each case I was quick to alert them that I was a 100 miler so that they would relax and not worry about trying to keep up with me, or giving chase.

Midway I met up with two other riders who had completed the Saturday 50 mile division the previous day, and were now doing the Sunday 50. As we were chatting another 50 miler, a local rider from New Jersey on a lovely bay Arab mare, caught up with us, joining our conversation. Only a few moments later one of the other 100 mile riders passed us, pausing only long enough to tell us about the escaped horses, and how her horse had been among them but had returned on his own at midnight. This was the first time I'd heard any details of the story, and as she disappeared down the trail, her husband caught up to us and told us the rest of the rest of the saga -- from the escape to the stampede around the upper camp to the initial capture of four, the return of his wife's horse on it's own, and the recent return only an hour ago of his own missing horse -- whose disappearance had caused him to pull from the 100 mile division -- being found wandering around near the start-gate. Only three horses were still missing. I was to find out later in a conversation with the ride manager that all three were found a day or to later.

At the moment, however, I was only listening with one ear to the tale, my attention focused on the increasing cold, and the steadier rain. When we hit the first of the monstrous puddles that crossed the trail, I knew we had to be close to camp. Itch splashed through, exiting on the other side at a trot, picking up speed as he flew along the hard-packed sandy path. He sensed he was not far from home. The nice rider on the pretty Arab mare was keeping pace with me, and as we were talking I spied a trail marker that I was positive was only a mile from the finish. I announced my find with glee, and sprang my pony into a hand-gallop, thrilled to be back to camp before the rain could get any worse. Itch was happy to move out, and we flew down the trail leaving everyone behind as we expected any moment to see the long straight path that led to the finish line and a crowd of cheering people.

But the trail had mislead me once again, and two miles later we pulled up short, staring in dismay as the trail, and the rest of the forest, disappeared into a puddle the size and depth of a primeval ocean. As far as the eye could see the woods had been cast adrift, standing trunk deep in a sea of eerie, black water. One could almost imagine the shades of ancient dinosaurs lurking the trees, the damp fog hiding their lumbering progress as they made their way silently through the rain and the swamp.

The cold rain pricked the vast surface of the water with tiny goosebumps, and I shivered in my wet jacket. I knew right away that this section of trail indicated we were still at least four miles from home. The side trails skirting the puddles were now gone, submerged in several feet of water. There was no way around this vast ocean. We would have to go straight through it.

My pony plunged in without hesitation. Where the water had been knee high the day before, now it was up to his chest and neck. I lifted my feet up high over his withers, watching as our passage sent waves washing against the submurged trunks of surrounding trees. A few minutes later we emerged, dripping wet on the far side, only to see the trail plunge again directly into another endless body of water. And it wasn't the last. A whole line of these impromptu oceans awaited us, one after another. It was going to be a long, cold, wet passage.

The rain had already picked up pace when the trail finally heaved itself out of the last of the puddles onto a flat, dry path. The lovely footing just begged for a canter and my pony was happy oblige, anxious to cover the last few miles as quickly as possible. I was beginning shiver in my wet jacket. My hands were already numb from the cold, as were my toes.

I remembered the last stretch of the trail being straight and flat, a familiar tree suddenly popping into view. With absolute joy I recalled having ducked under it the previous day as Miriam and I had raced into the finish. At that moment, a glimmer of white flashed from among the trees in front of me. It was the timer's truck parked at the finish line.

I cheered with a loud whoop and nudged Itch into a hand gallop. The finish line was only yards away when we hand-galloped out of the woods, right next to the white truck. Surprised at the sudden appearance of a truck full of people, Itch promptly spooked. As delighted as I was that he still showed such energy and enthusiasm after 100 miles, I was just as determined to see this ride come to an end. I straightened him up and we flew the final feet across the finish line, the other three riders coming in a few moments after me, having followed close behind the entire way.

The three of us congratulated one another for a job well done, but I was especially elated for myself and my own pony. We had come through with flying colors, proving we had the will, conditioning, and stamina to complete 100 miles -- with plenty of gas still left in the tank.

The pouring rain was coming down in buckets when I presented Itch for the final vetting. Since I had not bothered previously to see how we were placed in our division, I was openly surprised to learn from the vet that only three of the seven 100 mile riders had managed to compete. I was bowled over, however, when I found my cumulative time for both days had placed me second overall.

Because of the late hour and the four hour drive ahead of me, coupled with the fact that the first place horse had gotten in almost an hour before me, I hadn’t planned to stand for Best Condition. However, the vet actually pleaded with me, urging me to stand for the award. She told me she had passed Itch with almost all A's and that he looked really, really good.

So, I agreed to stand, and wiled away the required hour's wait by packing up and letting Itch enjoy a final meal before slogging back in the rain and gathering darkness for the final vetting. It turned that just two of us stood for BC -- the first place horse and my pony. The third rider declined since she had come in over three cumulative hours behind me.

Itch and I didn't get the award, but it was fun to stand for it anyway. At least the vet and his scribe got a good laugh when one of our trot circles took Itch right over a discarded lap of alfalfa, prompting him to stop dead in his tracks to eat it.

It was pitch black and raining heavily when we finally left the camp, the wind and pounding rain hounding us the entire way home to Virginia. It was the longest, most exhausting 6 hour drive I'd ever endured in my life. Just a mile from our farm the rain finally ended, and I could see the dark outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains against the black sky. I was never so happy to see home, and my husband standing in the driveway, the light of the open garage illuminating the darkness behind him, waiting for me.

December snows

Itch is now on vacation until the following spring, and I've taken up my pen to return to working on my novel, which has been sadly neglected for far too long. In the interim, I'll be riding the driving ponies, sleighing when the weather allows, and working the youngsters to get them ready for next spring as well.

2003 is shaping up to be a full year already.

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