Challenging driving conditions

When I woke up this morning and looked out of the window everything was covered in snow. Beautiful, calm, silent snow with promises of joyful play for the kids.

I grew up a bit further north from where I live now, and every winter we knew there would be snow; a lot of it. I learned to drive a car with icy and winter-like driving conditions 4 months of the year.

Here… we are lucky if we get a few centimeters a couple of days each year. We had snow about a week ago, but the freezing wind turned it into hard crust and it was very icy… apart from the roads, which were dry and comfortable to drive on.

I like the snow, and I enjoy driving. But here they tend to salt the roads as soon as they expect we will get some sort of winter-like weather.

The result is a strange, dry slush which sticks to the car, especially under the mud flaps, causing the car to react a tiny bit slower. Or they plow the roads before salting them, and we get a wet salty road splashing up on both the car body and passers-by.

This morning I knew it would be a lot of obstructions on the road on my way to work (previous experiences told me that much), so I started early. I left my house thinking I was so early I would get ahead of the rush hours. Normally it takes me 13 minutes to drive to work. This morning it took me 2 hours!

The road was not slippery; there was snow, but no ice: It was perfect winter driving conditions and yet the traffic stood still.

I am a rather laid back person, it takes a bit to get me angry, but this morning my temperament really was boiling. If you don’t know how to master the driving condition you really should not drive. Get on a bus!

If you chose not to change tyres or you drive on worn out tyres: winter driving conditions is really not for you and/or your car, the rest of us will be late for work you see, and even more to consider: you really, really upset us who are comfortable driving and cause dangerous situations like hazardous overtakings and that does not help one bit when you are stuck in a queue of cars snowing down.

Do I seem a bit annoyed, perhaps even angry? I am! And now that I am writing this I feel bad about it.

I know we are different and have different skills. I know people have their routines of how to get to work or school. I know it is hard to wake up and change plans. Still, when you are good at something it is hard to settle with the fact that others are not, and I should learn how to be more indulgent.
That is my challenge this morning.

I got a horse when I was a kid.

When I was a child my father got sick. His condition resulted in numerous emergency hospitalisations and my mother took an education and worked nightshift as a licensed practical nurse. By the time I was 11 my siblings had moved out, and the work on the small farm we had was, to a large extent, my job.

I didn’t really mind getting up feeding the sheep before I went to school… even if I have to admit I did not always have the time to shower before school. (To my classmates during those years: I apologize!)

I didn’t mind feeding the sheep at night before supper. There is something soothing about listening to animals settle down and eat, and in many ways working with them was to great comfort.

I didn’t even mind the nights of watching the sheep during lambing. To help new life into the world was perhaps scary at times, but when they fed for the first time and their little tails propelled like frantic all was good.

My Border Collie was my loyal friend and companion, never too far away and always willing to join me no matter the weather condition or temperature outside.

I had a good childhood, maybe different, but I never thought I was worse off than others: I learned to cook quite young, I learned to figure things out and make small repairs. I plowed my first potato field at an early age and all in all I think I got to do stuff many kids only dream of doing.

But there is one thing I still have a bit problems coming to terms with. I still wonder what my father was thinking!?

In our village there were several small farms. A few had horses, and the girls (mainly) who did not have a horse themselves were allowed to currycomb and rub down the horses, they would muck out the stables and enjoy it, they fed the horses and talked about it all week. They all wanted a horse of their own.

When I was 13 my dad told me he had decided to give me a nice surprise. I was all exited, maybe he wanted to give me a new bike (the story about my bike is a long and quite funny one, at least to me it is funny… now) or maybe it had something to do with my room?

It was nothing of the sort. My dad was quite pleased with himself when he told me he had bought me an Iceland pony. My heart fell to my stomach, and all I could think about was how much work a horse would add to my already full schedule. I had heard the girls talk about the currycombing and the mucking, the special diet a horse needed, the cleansing of hoofs and everything else they got to do to and for a horse. I knew nothing about horses apart from the fact they require quite a bit of work and dedication.

I never told him this. My worries were less important than the fact he was so pleased with himself and his plan. But I did think a lot about it.

We built a stable in the barn, and the day came when we went to pick up my horse.

Since we didn’t have any kind of animal transportation fit for a horse (transporting sheep only requires a trailer with sides built taller using pallets), we borrowed one from a man who owned many Iceland ponys and we drove off. We took the ferry across the fjord and finally came to the pick up place.

To my surprise it turned out that the herd of horses had just been collected from the mountain where they had been grazing that year. He pointed out a beautiful pony, dark brown with black mane and tail: “That one is yours! She is two years old and no man has ever laid his hand on her!”

She was captured using a lasso, not without a fight though, and we managed to put the halter on her. And at that point she figured she had cooperated enough.

Long story short… 8 men carried the pony into the trailer, secured her and we drove back home. I believe I was pretty pale, I know I was sick to my stomach dreading what may come.

On the ferry I opened the trailer in front and talked to the animal; She looked calm and accepted both my treat and my voice… and I fell in love.

By the time we parked in the courtyard, I was nervous again: Thinking that if she was let loose I would never see the pony again, ever. Since she was a bit nervous and I was not really comfortable with the situation the chemistry between us was probably not the best. I had no hope of us cooperating when getting her into the stable. My best solution was to mount a drawwork in the stable and vinch her in. It worked. Slowly but surely she accepted moving forward and into the stable. It was victory!

Two days later I entered the stable and we were friends after that.

I knew nothing about horses. And no one really told me how to treat a horse, so we found our own way of how to deal with eachother. I treated her more like a dog, and she fully believed (at least she acted as it) she was above the dog and slightly below me in the hierarchy. The dog, of course, did not agree. Nell, my dog, and Frigga, my pony, would play in the field for hours. Nell trying to be as annoying as possible while Frigga ignored her with stoic arrogance. Then suddenly they would run off in an impressive speed, tails high and peculiar jumps and bounces now and again.

I used to put a blanket on Frigga’s back, to let her get used to the feeling of something being there.

By the time she was 3.5 years old I got on her back and went for short rides. (I know it was probably a bit early, but I was light back then and she was a rather big pony.) I had no saddle (I got one from a neighbor, but the woodwork crumbled on the first ride, full trottle and all ) so I rode bare back. We spent 9 lovely years like that. When I checked on the sheep which grazed in the mountain during summer, both my dog and my pony would follow me, jaunt a bit about but never too far. And when the mountainside was not too steep or the scrub too thick I would ride a bit.

I know I never treated her like a horse should be treated and trained, but it worked for us. The film crew which lent her to use her on the set was not very pleased. She was, apparently, a tyrant to the other horses and not easy to ride. How could she be? I whistled to make her come and I told her left and right, like I did with my dog. An experienced horse rider would not know what to do with my horse or how to handle her... I never knew myself.

(From the film Kvite Viking (White Viking), 1991)