“I GUESS you writers like solitude.”

That was the text from a friend who passed my unploughed driveway Tuesday afternoon, five days after winter Storm Jonas had come to Middleburg, Virginia.

I pulled off my glove, wiped my nose and texted back, “I wish I was writing.”

In fact, I hadn’t written a word for days. With eight horses, 30 acres and three feet of blowing snow, writing wasn’t an option, well, other than a few disdainful texts to friends thinking I was holed up in the corner writing my next – first – great novel.

Storm Jonas began to dump snow on us Friday afternoon. I ploughed the driveway for hours on Friday night. Springsteen played in my ears (Enda Bolger would be proud). It was cold. But, I could see what I had done, success, none of the long, slow, drawn-out drip of writing stories or managing horses when progress gets churned up in the process and gratification comes eventually, if at all. No, this was instant, a foot of snow cleared, thrown out of the way like rodeo clowns. You could land a plane on our driveway. It felt good.

And then it didn’t.

Saturday morning, early, I looked out of the window and saw nothing but white. I couldn’t see the fence of the front field, much less the two horses in the front field. The aptly named White Man – Appleton Stakes winner Dictina’s Boy – and my foxhunter, Border Agent. They were out there somewhere, weren’t they?

I opened the only door that would open and it nearly blew off the hinges. The wind ripped from the north, across the backfield, ricocheting off the barn, piling snow into drifts up to your chest. I began to shovel, repeating the newscaster’s absurd mantra, ‘use your legs, not your back,’ then threw the shovel over my shoulder and started trudging to the barn.

Three Steps Ahead, Just Blue, Royal Bonsai, Apse, Eagle Poise and Kissin Conquest – thoroughbreds in various stages of rehab and retirement – looked over the yokes of their doors. The bank barn, built in the 1800s felt cozy, an igloo, as the wind whipped off the metal roof. I dumped five buckets of feed in the tubs, half rations because of the impending confinement. I opened the top door to check on Eli, our black and brown Pygmy goat, he looked up from his nook in the straw, ‘baaaahhhhh.’ He was fine.

Now, to go see White Man and Border, I knew they were out there somewhere, I pulled a pair of Oakley ski goggles over my eyes and tried to find my previous boot marks. The horses looked at me from under their turn-out shed roof, making me come see them, rather than the other way around like most mornings. Mini icicles dangled from White Man’s long hair under his chin and along the bottom of his neck, he rubbed his head on my shoulder, pushing me for an answer. I hung two buckets of steaming breakfast on the fence and they devoured it.

STRANDED

The tractor, useful the night before, was useless. We couldn’t get to the paddocks, the snow had drifted halfway up the gates to each field. I shovelled paths to the tack room, to the muck pit and cleaned six stalls, painstakingly slow, pushing the wheelbarrow through snow, like rolling a refrigerator up a hill.

Miles and Annie hiked to the barn, Miles crawled through the snow, around the barn and out of sight. I chased him, worried I’d lose him in the drifts. He asked me to build a snow fort. I told him I would. They said the blizzard would be over by 3pm Saturday afternoon, it kept snowing and blowing well into the night. Morning had turned to afternoon and afternoon turned to night. I threw another bale of hay to White Man and Border, you could trace their few moves by their few intrepid paths into the deep snow.

Sunday morning felt a lot like Saturday morning. No sign of a plough on Snake Hill Road. I shovelled a circle in front of the barn and dumped manure from the stalls, at least we had a ring and traction. I walked Eagle Poise a few paces, the Grade 3 stakes winner stopped, stared across the white frozen tundra, like he understood why he didn’t leave the barn the day before.

I listened to podcasts of Fresh Air, Terry Gross interviewing writers, artists, activists – all doing work I wish I was doing. By nightfall, I limped to the house, pulled off sopping clothes that smelled like sweat and stall, took a shower, then melted into the couch. I devoured food, like I had been reducing, the body needing fuel, functioning like a machine.

Snowplough

Monday afternoon, the first snowplough rumbled into view. Dari and his brother Pita followed the plough to the foot of the driveway and then walked along the second board of the fence to the barn. They waved, smiled, happy to be there, after being pent up at their house. Snow will do that to you; if you’re in, you want out and if you’re out, you want in. I handed them a shovel and a shank and crawled to the house. Cue Taps and shoot the rifles.

Tuesday night, close to midnight, Annie looked up from her computer and asked if there were anywhere else I’d rather live. I think she meant, for business, like Saratoga, Lexington, Newmarket, the Curragh…

I had shovelled snow for four days, had fallen off the tack room roof, got run over by a horse and had to look behind me to see if my left arm was coming along. Jonas had kicked my ass.

And now my wife asked me if there were anywhere else I’d rather live. I looked at her and laughed, luckily I didn’t scream, there is a fine line in marriage.

“Honey, after the last four days. I’d rather live in a dumpster at the end of an alley in Queens.”

Then I kissed her on the cheek and said good night. To her and Jonas.