The Only Question

Ok girls and boys. I can’t be the only one with horse stories. In honor of Halloween, I will tell one that involves buckets of blood and other terrors of the night. Not to fear, it is really about having one of those days and having a complete stranger ask the only question that really matters.

Pat Brescia


The Only Question

Normally it is hard to feel lonely in the company of my horse. But, at midnight, on the shoulder of I-81, five miles northeast of nowhere, equipped with only a dying flashlight, the company of a frightened Connemara Pony did little to relieve the isolation.

We had arrived at the Rockbridge Hunt that afternoon while the 50 milers were out on trail. So many rigs were crammed into the small parking area that we just set up camp at the outskirts. It seemed nice and quiet and the horses liked having a little access to the hundreds if not thousands of acres of lush spring grass around the ride camp. Since the vetting for the 25 mile ride wasn't going to be until morning, we had little to do other than socialize and watch the 50 milers come in.

That night Tiger and Ali were dutifully trying to turn their paddocks into dry lots by morning. Except the soft sound of munching, all was quiet. Then we heard the beginnings of the stampede. At first it was not clear if horses were actually loose. We hoped it was a false alarm but the approaching sound of many hooves meant trouble was coming. Suddenly the sounds of confusion thundered past our rig. By the time I got the door open there was nothing but the sight of our flattened paddock and the sound of even more hooves flying away down the driveway. We threw on clothes, grabbed flashlights and lead lines and started on the chase.

Initially, we were not that worried. There were going to be many searchers. We figured the horses would stick with their herd instinct. And we assumed that being in the middle of nowhere would be a safer environment for horses who were expected to stop in one of the wide open fields and just eat.

The problem was that it was quite evident that the herd was headed right down the driveway. When we followed the tracks onto U.S. 11 we got a bit more concerned. It was remarkably easy to follow the hoof prints in the asphalt as they headed southeast. But how far would they run on the pavement?

Concern turned to panic when we reached the ramps to the Interstate. It looked as if some had taken the southbound ramp while others had gone to the northbound ramp. The trackers split up and Judy and I headed south on I-81.

At the top of the ramp, Martha Ann pulled up in her Blazer. She had taken the time to unhitch from her trailer figuring that searchers might need more speed. We piled in and sped down the completely deserted highway. After about a mile, we saw lights up ahead. Eighteen wheelers were pulled off on both sides with their flashers on. Panic was now replaced by pure dread as we rolled up. And then in the flickering lights we saw a car. Along side the car stood Joanne holding the still blowing but unhurt Tiger. As we leaped from the car, she called out in an only slightly hysterical voice, “I found your horse!. Now you have to find mine!”

About then, one of the truckers said that another driver had caught a horse several miles northbound on I-81. He also that they had been unable to raise the state police who generally monitored channel nine but for some reason that night, were not paying attention. Nonetheless, all the truckers knew the horses were out there. Horse people never had better friends than the truckers that night.

Judy felt she could walk Tiger back to camp so I went with Martha Ann to go north. I don’t remember how we got to the northbound side but I doubt it was legal. We gone on past U.S. 11 for another few miles when we came upon a Bekins moving van pulled off to the right. Up in shadows there was a stocky man standing next to a black horse in a dark green blanket. Ali was safe! He told me that when he had come up, she was by herself and limping slightly. He also said that he had heard on his radio that another three horses were even further north running pretty hard. Another driver had tried to stop them but that they had taken the Buena Vista exit and he had lost track of them . By now, we were hearing over the radio that a total of eight horses were out. I told Martha Ann to just go and I would figure out something with Ali. The driver asked if it was okay for him to go because he was on a tight schedule. I thanked him for all he had done and assured him that we would be fine. It has been one of my great regrets that I completely forgot to ask his name. I later tried to track him down through Bekins and the American Trucking Association but I was never able to find the identity of Ali’s saviour.

Ali’s lameness was not bad and appeared to be mostly from having thrown a front shoe. I felt that we were about five miles from camp and that we could walk back. When we got back to the shoulder, I could see the clusters of hoof prints in the right lane that were consistent with cantering horses. And on the shoulder, I could see only what looked like three trotting marks where I would have expected four. It looked as if she had tried to keep up but her hurting foot held her back.

We had made about a mile back when a car crested the hill in front of me. I waved my nearly dead flashlight to warn the driver that I and my nearly invisible horse were on the side of the road. And the blessed roof lights came on. The trooper pulled over and told me to wait because there was a trailer coming in a few minutes. He also said that it looked like all the horses were at least off the Interstate. Soon enough, Marianne pulled up with her big white van and trailer. She was preceded by a car I did not recognize but at that time I did not care.

She said that she could take Ali but that we could not go back to camp for awhile. Anything sounded better than being on I-81 so I took Ali to the back of the trailer. When Marianne lowered the ramp, I began to understand that the night was nowhere near over. Even in the glow of the trailer lights I could see the blood running down the ramp. Thunder was standing quietly with a makeshift dressing that could not staunch the flow of blood from the awful wound in his leg. I was not sure Ali would even load under the circumstances. But despite her flaring nostrils, she must have decided it was still better than being on the road.

As we headed north away from ride camp, Marianne explained that Thunder had apparently fallen over a guard rail and torn his leg open on the vertical support behind the rail. The driver in front of us was Dr. Waldron, the head ride judge, who had realized she was going to need a lot of light and a lot of water if she was going to save Thunder. Marianne had no idea where we were going. But Dr. Waldron’s first practice had been in the area and that she knew a place to go.

At the Buena Vista exit, we turned away from the town toward the pitch dark country side. After what seemed an interminable drive, Dr. Waldron led us up a long driveway to an enormous dark barn. She pulled open a door and went inside. Moments later, the outside floodlights came on. Thunder was still pretty calm but Ali seemed freaked from the blood she was standing in. So I took her off the trailer after we got Thunder into the Taj Mahal of heated wash stalls.

While Dr. Waldron and Marianne were working on Thunder, I was walking Ali up and down the center aisle trying to keep her away from the curious but not upset resident horses. Then the outside door opened. I don’t remember whether it was the barn manager or a night watchman. What I will never forget is that he looked at a complete stranger walking a visibly upset Connemara Pony through puddles of blood and asked the one question a horse person would want to here. All he said was, “What can I do to help?”

When it was all over, Thunder had been patched up. He eventually recovered to the point of resuming endurance rides. The three horses that stormed into Buena Vista were stopped by a makeshift roadblock and were caught unharmed. Two other horses somehow doubled back and were found grazing contentedly in a field not far from the ride camp. Ali and I got back to camp at about dawn where Judy and Tiger had been keeping vigil.

On the trip home, we had to negotiate the construction at Lexington where the I-64 junction was being modified. Due to an unexpectedly disappearing lane, we were forced onto the shoulder by a big rig. But I could not be even momentarily angry at the trucker. His brethren had saved our horses. Those knights of the night had virtually shut down the Interstate when disaster was just moments away. I can never know exactly what all those unknown drivers were thinking as events unfolded. But I choose to believe that it was along the lines of the guy at the barn.

“What can I do to help?”