I need security cameras, I thought, peering into the depths of the partially frozen, 100-gallon trough in my front pasture. My phone glowed eerily from the bottom, a sad little submarine. It’s a real shame no one else gets to see this.

Just before dusk, I’d set out to check the troughs in each of the three pastures on my little 10-acre farm just north of Pittsburgh. The temps, cold enough already to make my teeth hurt, were predicted to plummet that night to -12 and I wanted to check water levels before the sun set. 

Both troughs near the barn were nearly full and unfrozen. Excellent, I thought, thrilled I wouldn’t have to drag out the stiff, 100-foot hose currently thawing in a garbage can in the feed room. I cinched my hood over my knit hat and trudged through a foot of snow to get from the yard to the front field. One more to go. 

But a thick layer of ice shimmered on the surface of that last pasture’s trough. The heater—not even a week old—was submerged in the tank, frozen in place. I followed the cord out of the tank and under the fence, to the plastic case that coverer the connection where the plug met the extension cord. All good there. Maybe the porch-end of the extension cord had come unplugged? Nope. Plugged in tight, and the electric cat house that was sharing the same socket was warm to the touch. Unnecessary, I thought, since the barn cat who used that one has weaseled her way into the house. 

I needed to get to the heater to see if it was putting out any heat. The brick I usually use for breaking ice, one of my many neanderthal farm tools scattered around this place, was frozen to the ground. It didn’t budge when I stabbed at it with the toe of my boot, but my frozen toes screamed.

So, steadying myself with both hands on the lip of the trough, stomped my foot onto the ice, annoyed when it didn’t offer up even the slightest crack. A jab with my heel chipped the surface, and a few more finally resulted in a spiderweb of cracks. 

Eventually, I chiseled a small hole in the ice. Nearly dark, I struggled to see into the trough, so I pulled out my phone and clicked on the flashlight. 

Here’s what a security camera would have caught: A phone in my right hand. In my left, the cord of the water heater, encased in a frisbee-sized slab of ice, metal heating element hanging limp from the end. A glove tucked under my armpit. My right hand—still holding my phone—reaching for the heater to see if the metal loop was even the slightest bit warm. The cord of the heater brushing the bottom string of electric fence. 

I saw the bolt of electricity jump from the cord to my arm. I yelped. And then I dropped my phone. And though I failed miserably at every childhood sport involving aiming a ball into a particular point in space, that phone slipped right through the hole in the ice. Slam dunk. 

After a few choice words, I plunged my arm through that same small hole. Armpit-deep in a partially frozen trough, in the dark, in single-digit temperatures, I felt around blindly for my phone, snagging it as the water began to seep into my heavy, waterproof gloves from the wrists, soaking them from the inside. I ran for the house, throwing my dripping coat over a chair in the entryway, then searching the pantry shelves for rice. Then—because farm jobs never really end, do they?—I pulled on a new coat and dry gloves, and headed back out into the snow. 

I was born into a family who loved winter. Every winter weekend of my childhood, my mom’s side of the family cozied up in “the cottage,” a little cabin in the western Pennsylvania woods. We’d set out in the early mornings for first tracks on the nearby ski hill, then sled ride on the hill in front of the cottage until long after dark. 

My husband and I fell in love in winter. His parents and mine, by that point, owned neighboring condos near the ski resort. Our first date was on the slopes, and Brad proposed a year later while we were cross-country skiing, dropping to a knee next to the frozen Kiski River just before sunset. 

“Winter has always been my favorite season. But since my husband and I bought our little farm, it’s really been testing my loyalty.”

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My dream winter wedding was vetoed by both my husband and my father.

“We’re not risking a snowstorm canceling our wedding,” Brad argued. 

“And marrying you off is the only way to get you off my cell phone bill,” Dad said.

I caved and we compromised, marrying on the ski slopes in the summer of 2014. Brad and I rode the chairlift down the mountain to our reception, and I dreamed of snow.

Winter has always been my favorite season. But since my husband and I bought our little farm, it’s really been testing my loyalty. 

Winter challenges the mettle of any equestrians—especially us farm owners, a whole other level of crazy—who choose to live where, several months of the year, the air hurts our face. 

You may remember Moose, my almost-27-year-old, 17.3-hand Quarter Horse (you read that right, and I have his papers to prove it) who always makes me worry. After a few recent incidents getting cast, and because my husband may leave me if I ask him again at 3 a.m. to help un-jam a horse from the wall, Moose has lost nighttime stall privileges.  

When the weather was decent, Moose overnighted in the front pasture with the biggest and easiest-to-access run-in, which actually did wonders for his arthritis. But now that it’s cold and the ground is frozen and I feel guilty when, through my kitchen window, I can see his steamy exhales, he spends the nights in my indoor with his emotional support mini, Penelope. 

You think he’d be grateful for the two hay nets bursting with second cut hay; clean, fresh water; lots of space to itch and roll without getting stuck and needing mid-night rescues. But apparently not, unless he shows his appreciation by backing himself up to poop on the seat of the directors’ chair tucked into the corner of the ring. Or on the cat bed on top of our storage container. Or on the little shelf under the windowsill where we put our coffees when we teach. Or on the top step of the mounting block. Or straight into his water bucket. 

Every day, because I’m still at my real job as a high school teacher when lessons start, my poor head instructor Meagan has to clean up after Moose: righting barrels and mounting blocks, replacing crops and whips in their holder on the wall, and clearing piles of manure, from wherever he chose to deposit them, before she uses the ring. 

And while Moose is the most regular inhabitant of the arena, he’s not the only one to destroy it during winter. After a most recent cold spell, two days in the mid-30s softened the top layer of snow around the farm. But then nights in the teens froze the slush solid, and much of the farm became an ice rink, the pastures unusable. 

Because I don’t want my horses to break legs attempting triple axels, and because we can’t have fresh ponies dumping kids left and right in lessons, the arena becomes a temporary, less-than-ideal turnout space. We rotate horses in and out to stretch their legs while we clean stalls. After they’re done galloping around, ninja-kicking at their pasture frenemies, they pee and crap everywhere, dissolving the thousand-dollar mag-flakes we mixed into the sand in the fall to cut down on dust. 

And in terms of around-the-barn ice removal, if you’ve ever thought about using a seed spreader to scatter sand across your frozen driveway, don’t bother. It’s too heavy, and it’ll jam your machine. Ask me how I know. 

While we were unjamming the spreader and breaking up frozen bags of sand in the wheelbarrow with a mallet, our 3-year-old son disappeared into the house. He returned with his toy Zamboni, promising to “smoove out the ice.” 

But the driveway is certainly not the only thing freezing around a barn in the winter. 

Last week, a teenage student filled the side pasture trough and left the hose screwed on the spigot. I didn’t notice until the next morning when both the hose and the frost-free hydrant were frozen solid. So on what was supposed to be date-night, my husband and I spent the evening defrosting the hydrant with a propane heater and a tiny little blowtorch that I—in 10 years of marriage—didn’t know we owned. (Who keeps that kind of secret from their spouse?!)

The icy condensation on the propane canister froze my fingers, but my legs were toasty next to the heater, and I happily (crazily?) singed the fallen leaves buried at the pipe’s base. As the sun sank orange behind the trees while I ran the tiny flame back and forth over the hydrant, the only thing to do was giggle at the absurdity of it all. I screeched with joy when liquid water, half an hour later, poured from the pump. The beer my husband and I shared later, on the couch in our long underwear, was delicious. 

I’ve performed CPR half a dozen times in the past week, not on people (thank God) but on the frozen double-end snaps trapping my horses in their fields. 

When the back trough froze (this time because I forgot to plug it in) and I had to bust the ice with a rubber mallet at 6 a.m., dressed in work clothes, I ended up with a face full of artic water—a true farm girl wake-up call. 

And when my husband stole the side-by-side after I finished mucking stalls, but plowed the driveway before dumping the manure, the turd mound solidified and froze to the dump bed. It took a hoe and a rake and a shovel and 20 minutes of elbow grease to scrape the bulk of it out.  

When I sat down to tell this story, I envisioned penning a bitter rant against winter. (That near-electrocution really got my blood boiling.) 

But sitting here, looking out at my horses munching hay (which they’ve probably pooped on), wearing their adorable blankets in the frozen, snow-covered fields that I’d take over mud any day, I can’t. 

Despite the frozen turds and frozen pipes and frozen gates. Despite the half-dozen hoof picks I’ve bent picking ice balls from hooves. Despite the bales and bales of hay that it takes to keep the horses alive. Despite unrolling my pantlegs at work (rolled at turnout to keep them out of the snow), only to find handfuls of hay under my desk and thinking I shouldn’t be allowed out in public. Despite the fact that I haven’t sat on a horse in at least a month because there’s always something more pressing to do at the barn. Despite the barn cats commandeering my warm feed room. 

Despite it all, I still love winter. I love the way the sun sinks through the trees, turning the sky shades of pinks and oranges. I love a fresh blanket of snow on the ground and iced-glazed trees. I love the sound of horses munching their hay at night check, and I love that all the bugs are dead. I love fleece quarter sheets and furry, winter-pony-ears, and warm bareback rides and Moose’s plaid, 87” cooler that makes him look like an old man in a robe. 

And while I’m a teensy bit jealous of the equestrian snowbirds enjoying their southern migration, I think I’ll stay here, ready with my little torch and bag of rice, for whatever freezes next. 

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Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.