Thanks goodness for snow tires . . .
Come February, I was halfway through my apprenticeship. Up to that point, we'd had about three months of breaking the ice in the stall buckets every morning, three months of doing nighttime barn checks where the air was so cold it literally stung the skin, three months of sleeping fully clothed under a pile of blankets. Little did we know: Vermont had yet to unleash the full wrath of its winter on this poor desert girl and her Floridian roommate.
The broodmares were the toughest critters on the place.
Then we got to claw our way through the vast ocean of untouched, knee-deep snow that extended from the road to his front door. At the end of that short trek that was somehow so long, I flopped onto my back in the snow, wearing so many layers that I probably looked like that kid from "A Christmas Story," and panted helplessly up at the blue sky. We were all so exhausted, we camped out in the boss's living room and fell asleep to an episode of "The Gilmore Girls."
And that's why Vermont-in-winter will always be "Satan's Icebox" to me.