We get our hay from high in the mountains in Northern Tennessee. That's the southernmost limit of where cool season timothy grass can grow. Here in the South, hay is typically bermudagrass. In comparison to timothy, it's woody, lacks nutrition and is prone to cause colic. If you're not familiar with colic in horses, it's not as simple as burping a horse and they're all better. An average colic case can cost $5000, you're fortunate if your horse pulls through. Two months after starting to work here, one of the Super Senior horses, Teejay, colicked and spent some quality (expensive) time at the vet school.
It would take another year before I was given the manager's reins and one of my first moves was to focus on equine nutrition. At the time, 3 of the senior horses lacked enough teeth to power through woody bermudagrass, two others had Cushing's disease and a fat pony was prone to laminitis. The choice was clear: timothy.
When I had my rescue, I drove my flatbed trailer up into the Kentucky mountains a few times a year for hay. It was always super stressful trying to dodge rain with 250 precious bales of hay on an open trailer. That hay farm has since been sold, so I called the Tennessee Farm bureau and asked which farmer's hay tested out at the highest quality the most consistently. Mr. Jones' hay was #1. So that's where we go. Per bale, he's cheaper than the locally baled shredded bermudagrass cardboard, he's cheaper than his competitors, the catch is that he lives so far up narrow winding roads that a semi can't make it up to him to transport hay. So, we rent Uhauls and get it ourselves.
Pre-flight check.
Healthy snacks for the road.
Thursday, September 2, with only a two hour nap in me, the ship sailed before midnight.
One very dazed and confused Suki. Luke was going to take care of the 5 others, but Special was getting to go on her first road trip.
As if I go anywhere without a dog.
The only way to go through Atlanta: wee hours of the morning.
"Are we there yet?"
Usually we go as a team with a backup driver, or a night's rest to break up the 24 hour journey. I was going solo. No time to wait for backup: Mr. Jones was down to his last 200 bales and I claimed them before another buyer from Chattanooga could get them on Saturday. Even my UPS driver tried to persuade me to wait until Saturday so he could go with me. Nope, hay won't be there.
You can keep the beach, nothing more beautiful than the mountains.
Arrived at my destination exactly on time: 8 AM.
Thorn Hill, Tennessee, wedged in a valley bookended between mountains.
Mr. Jones is a gem. The knowledge he has of the land can't be condensed in a manual, it comes from working the land for 50 years. Whenever we connect, either by phone or in person, we dive into farming lore and only resurface a couple hours later. I consider myself to be a decent tractor operator, but I wouldn't have the nerve to crawl around some these hills of his with a baler. He spoke this time of how every side of the hills have different times of the day when grass is at its peak. He explained that this one hillside peaks later than the rest and a few weeks back, he parked his tractor under a tree and waited an hour for the sun to hit it just right before cutting. He is the zen master of hay.
Taking my precious load down the one lane county road, hoping no one else coming up the mountain, cuz Izza gonna run them over.
Homemade pasta salad after hand stuffing 200 bales into the Uhaul.
My GPS rerouted me through Asheville, North Carolina because the southbound lane of the highway I should've been on was closed due to a big accident. A few hours longer, but better than sitting in traffic.
I wasn't keen on the steep roads and the runaway truck ramps, but I pursed my butt cheeks, used the truck's gears to try to keep myself below 70 mph.
The UPS driver called to tell me to avoid Atlanta. Rush hour traffic had spawned numerous accidents. Check. Took a two lane drive through previously uncharted territory in North Central Georgia. Gorgeous historic towns made the slow journey a delight.
Suki and I docked at 10 PM. 22 hours straight. I join the ranks of Kyle and Jordan Dearman, the only other two to have completed solo, one day missions to get hay. I'm now an honorary Dearman brother. Kyle is an army Ranger. so when tired and wistfully looking at motels thinking if I could just rest for a few hours, I had channeled my inner 30 year old Army Ranger and powered through.
The next day, Cristian, Luke and his mom, Karin lent a hand to unload.
Team work.
Bless this beast for its labors.
Until we meet again next year...
