When I recently posted the picture below on Facebook, it got me thinking about the joy I’ve experienced over many years, hacking my horses around my small corner of the world. When I looked up the verb ‘to hack’, I discovered that it’s “associated with English riding and used more often in eastern Canada and the eastern United States than in western North America, where the term ‘trail riding’ is more prevalent.” So for my friends in other parts of the world, I’m talking about the activity of going for a leisurely ride around the countryside on a horse.

My earliest hacking adventures were on Lancer, my QH/TB gelding. This was back in the day when the country roads weren’t as heavily traveled as today, and I’d spend hours riding “around the block.” In the province of Ontario, country roads are called “concession lines” (or just “lines”), and run parallel to each other. Crossing them at right angles are “side roads”, also parallel to each other.  Thus, “riding around the block” describes a jaunt around a grid formed by lines and concessions.

These rides could provide a rider with experiences both mundane and unusual. Mundane would be the pretty yellow-striped garter snakes I’d see sunning themselves on the hardpack in the middle of the road. Unusual would be the day that four young guys in a car slowed down to keep pace with Lancer, and tried to talk me into racing him down the road beside their car. (No thanks, not that foolhardy.)

Often I’d ride past a property that had half a dozen beehives stacked near the road; the bees’ soothing, lazy hum was nevertheless a warning not to linger. Once I bumbled between a bee and its destination, and it smacked into my cheek like a missile. A moment later, my cheek exploded with fire. Fortunately the bee stung me and not Lancer. My ride would have changed from sedate to hair-raising in the blink of an eye.

Hacks around the farm could be just as interesting. Once I was hacking through the back fields with my friend Kim who was riding the farm’s breeding stallion. When the path narrowed, I stupidly moved Lancer into the lead, only to hear Kim yell, “Watch out!” Glancing over my shoulder I saw the stallion up on his hind legs, triangulating the distance to Lancer’s muscular rump. Lancer seemed unperturbed, shuffling into a leisurely trot as I frantically tried to ride him out of reach.

Gandalf my Warmblood was a wonderful hack horse. The property where I boarded him covered a hundred acres of hilly terrain near the aptly-named village of Hillsburgh. Groomed trails marked the perimeter of hay fields and meandered up and down the hills. The small woods beside the barn had a lovely path threading down to one of the riding rings.

I discovered that Gandalf didn’t like cows. Across the road from one of the hay fields, there was a summer pasture for beef cows and their babies, and Gandalf never failed to gawk and snort at them, rolling his eyes.

He didn’t like people on bicycles, either, probably because cyclists moved along the road so swiftly and silently.

On the other hand, he didn’t mind deer. They were a frequent sight on our hacks, and they would watch us pass with their huge ears scooped forward in curiosity. Deer didn’t seem to recognize me as human when I was mounted on a horse.

Once I ventured on to the property next door. Those hay fields seemed to go on forever, each one surrounded by a dense green barrier of wild bush. The feeling of being alone in the world save for my horse, the skreek of insects and the breeze shussing in the grass – it was the kind of spiritual moment we riders are gifted with now and again.

Fritz my German Shepherd would often accompany me on hacks. He and Gandalf had an understanding. As long as Fritz stayed by my stirrup, Gandalf was happy. If Fritz moved too far forward, Gandalf would pin his ears and give him the evil eye. Fritz would droop his ears in apology and move back to my side. There were two huge outdoor rings on the property, about half a kilometer from the barn. I’d sometimes interrupt a hack to work in the one of the rings for a few minutes. Fritz would lie down in the shade and watch until we continued on our way.

One day I was working in the outdoor ring as a storm was brewing. The sky was growing darker and darker. I didn’t want to cut my ride short, but when the air took on that “calm before the storm” stillness, I decided it was time to head for home. I had just left the ring when thunder crashed across the sky. I flinched. Fritz flinched and cowered. Gandalf just kept walking, as calm as the proverbial cucumber. Fat drops were starting to pock against my riding helmet when I reached the barn. The barn manager chided me for cutting it so close, but Gandalf had made me feel so safe, I didn’t regret it.

Because he was so calm, Gandalf gave me a lot of confidence out on hacks. The only time he spooked (I still don’t know what startled him), he shot forward so fast that I ended up bent backwards in the saddle with my shoulders bumping against his croup. Thank God I was flexible! If he had kept going, I would never have been able to straighten up and stop him. Fortunately he decided that scooting was too much work, and stopped on his own.

For someone who did so much hacking all her life, I’ve hardly done any hacking with my current horse Larry. It’s because the stables where I’ve recently boarded have lacked the acreage for lots of hacking, plus I’m no longer comfortable riding on the roads – too much traffic, too many aggressive drivers who aren’t cautious around horses. During the short hacks I’ve managed on-property, Larry has been very good. He doesn’t mind chickens or ducks or mud puddles or tractors. He still remembers his racing days, though, so it’s just as well I stay close to home.

When Covid eventually loosens its grip on our lives, I’m looking forward to riding him out on the narrow path beyond the paddocks. The path is short so there will only be a few minutes when the barn and the paddocks disappear from view. For those few minutes, though, it will just be me and Larry. A passing deer will see us as a single creature.