In the machine shop, we tied ironwood skis to wooden supports and laid pine planks over them to make a solid platform, eight feet long and six feet wide. No one in our neighborhood had made a bobsled for years, so when word got around, the neighbors came to see it. Some brought carpentry tools, others just stood around and watched. The skis were already formed, low to the ground, rough looking but elegant, with lines as natural as the trees from which they were made. Mr. Owens directs, pointing out where more support is needed and how to hold the sled in place. When we were ready to put up the shafts, we disagreed on the details. Mr. Owens stuck to his guns, while others, including his sons, Mark, and a group of young people visiting the machine shop, found Mr. Owens's methods illogical.

Mr. Owens, annoyed, walked off quietly and remained in the truck for the rest of the day, so he sadly missed the opening of the sled. I drove Sam over the new ash poles, Mark slung four tow ropes to the balancer, and I sat on the natural-looking board, holding the REINS in my hands as the horse stretched his neck around the collar. The first few yards down the driveway [inset] were hard, the bark peeling off the bottom of the sled, then we reached the snow and started running free. By that time, I had spent a lot of time with horses, some of which were not easy, and the harness was still too much for me. Day after day I struggled to lift seventy pounds of leather and a tangle of neck yoke onto the horse, and day after day I lost the battle. I can put my hands around the strap and saddle, grabbing a yoke in each hand and pulling it down, as I once saw Jim Cooper do. I can also bring the yoke to the side of the horse, raise it above my head, and push it along the Withers inch by inch. But the rest of the harness pressed awkwardly against my neck, cutting off the blood flow to my head, and I would become dizzy and have to start all over again, each time with exhausted arms. I didn't like the idea of Mark helping me. With his height and strength, he could easily lift the harness and place it on the horse's back as if it were made of string. I'd spend half an hour damaging my brain cells and exhausting myself before going to Mark, who insisted it was just a technical problem. The trouble didn't end when the harness was put on. Once again, I was struck by my own arrogance. I've ridden horses all my life and spent most of my adolescence talking about horses, or reading about horses, or thinking about horses. I decided that all the skills and knowledge of riding could be transferred seamlessly to the horse. I simply went from rider to rider, from rider to rider. The way I look at it is, Mark has experience in farming and I have experience with horses, so we are a small team working together and there is no reason why we can't just go for it and make a big leap from nothing in the first quarter. When we planned the vegetable fields the first winter, we planned the rows to be forty inches apart. This detail isn't important, but once put into practice, force yourself to rely solely on horsepower for the entire season, as tractor wheels can't handle such spacing.

In the machine shop, we tied ironwood skis to wooden supports and laid pine planks over them to make a solid platform, eight feet long and six feet wide. No one in our neighborhood had made a bobsled for years, so when word got around, the neighbors came to see it. Some brought carpentry tools, others just stood around and watched. The skis were already formed, low to the ground, rough looking but elegant, with lines as natural as the trees from which they were made. Mr. Owens directs, pointing out where more support is needed and how to hold the sled in place. When we were ready to put up the shafts, we disagreed on the details. Mr. Owens stuck to his guns, while others, including his sons, Mark, and a group of young people visiting the machine shop, found Mr. Owens's methods illogical.

Mr. Owens, annoyed, walked off quietly and remained in the truck for the rest of the day, so he sadly missed the opening of the sled. I drove Sam over the new ash poles, Mark slung four tow ropes to the balancer, and I sat on the natural-looking board, holding the REINS in my hands as the horse stretched his neck around the collar. The first few yards down the driveway [inset] were hard, the bark peeling off the bottom of the sled, then we reached the snow and started running free. By that time, I had spent a lot of time with horses, some of which were not easy, and the harness was still too much for me. Day after day I struggled to lift seventy pounds of leather and a tangle of neck yoke onto the horse, and day after day I lost the battle. I can put my hands around the strap and saddle, grabbing a yoke in each hand and pulling it down, as I once saw Jim Cooper do. I can also bring the yoke to the side of the horse, raise it above my head, and push it along the Withers inch by inch. But the rest of the harness pressed awkwardly against my neck, cutting off the blood flow to my head, and I would become dizzy and have to start all over again, each time with exhausted arms. I didn't like the idea of Mark helping me. With his height and strength, he could easily lift the harness and place it on the horse's back as if it were made of string. I'd spend half an hour damaging my brain cells and exhausting myself before going to Mark, who insisted it was just a technical problem. The trouble didn't end when the harness was put on. Once again, I was struck by my own arrogance. I've ridden horses all my life and spent most of my adolescence talking about horses, or reading about horses, or thinking about horses. I decided that all the skills and knowledge of riding could be transferred seamlessly to the horse. I simply went from rider to rider, from rider to rider. The way I look at it is, Mark has experience in farming and I have experience with horses, so we are a small team working together and there is no reason why we can't just go for it and make a big leap from nothing in the first quarter. When we planned the vegetable fields the first winter, we planned the rows to be forty inches apart. This detail isn't important, but once put into practice, force yourself to rely solely on horsepower for the entire season, as tractor wheels can't handle such spacing.