Product Test: Hoof Pick

Every owner of an equid has at least one: a hoof pick. It is used to clean soil, stones and dirt out of the animal's hooves before and after riding.

Trail riders and those who hike with pack animals must do this even more often on the road. Especially on rocky trails, all kinds of foreign objects can become wedged into the hooves, and this can be unpleasant and even dangerous for the animal. A hoof pick must be carried on the journey, same as a curry comb and a brush.

During our training hike yesterday, melting snow, gravel and slush soon agglutinated into large pieces of ice under Heidi's hooves. They were so big that the horse ended up balancing on something like four balls of ice and the hooves did not even touch the ground any more.
I stopped and began to remove the ice with my hoof pick. Easier said than done! Everything was as hard as concrete! Heidi waited patiently while I scratched, knocked, picked and levered.

It was simply impossible. I used the water bottle like a hammer and was able to remove the coarsest bits of ice. Then I continued with the hoof pick.
Finally I managed to get the hooves clean.

But the hoof pick has had it. The tip was totally bent!

The thing might be okay for a pony farm where little girls pick the turf from the riding ring out of the hooves of their Shetland ponies. It was not made for tough women and tough use on the trail.

It is good that I discovered this now. And not on the road.
Grade: unsatisfactory!

Drawn "Selfies" and Fellow Travellers

As a child, I always documented my holiday adventures in drawings, and since my figures and other "invisible companions" were always with me, the stories also told how they fared. As a matter of fact, I told only their stories. Simply because I never wanted to draw myself.

I still find it difficult today. Not because I have such a complex face, but because it makes me feel funny. But there are many artists who cut a fine figure when they draw themselves, for example Roberta Gregory, but also GEIER, as himself or in his role as DOKTOR WER

These examples encourage me a little. Since I won't have a tangible human companion on the road, someone who makes coffee for me, keeps murderers and bandits away, and, last but not least, takes photos of me, I have no other choice but to document my participation in the pilgrimage with drawings.

But of course John and Aldo will always be there. After all, we will visit Aldo's grave, and John accompanies us.

("What's the matter with you?"
"Close the door! It's freezing!"

Add to pack list: Socks. Hot water bottles.)

Aldo and I are prone to getting frostbite. Training in the cold is hard for us. Well, we'll only depart at the end of April, when it will hopefully be spring ... hopefully. I remember sub-zero temperatures in May! And when I look at my pack list, I always feel the fear of being cold.

January Cold

Although the thermometer only shows one degree below zero, it felt much colder today. Light snow. I comforted myself with the thought that it will be spring when we start. And yet: There may be temperatures like this, especially in the Alps.

The cold makes Heidi cheerful and lively. I, for my part, would prefer to snuggle under a blanket, with a hot water bottle ...

But my spirit lifts as soon as a ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds. The call from afar gets londer. I feel Aldo's hand in the wind. Slowly, the inner fire awakens again.

I also draw images from the journey ...

Transforming the Shock

The dark days continue to rule the land. Everywhere, the deep trauma, which burdens the whole nation, can be felt.
It lurks like a heavy shadow in every corner, it is chiseled into every face like a grey veil.

I, too, have fallen down and can not get up any more. Every attempt is crushed, it feels as if a slab of concrete lies on me, a volley of bullets hits my heart. It is a mixture of guild "How can I continue when this has happened, when THEY can not continue any more?" and an all-encompassing feeling of futility.

Italy and Aldo Moro seem to be as far away as never before.
For the first time since I decided to make this pilgrimage a year ago, I lack motivation. All the blossoming dreams of majestic mountains, crystal-clear bays, cicadas and stars fade into an unreal, departing hallucination of the past.

Training has become nothing but a duty. After all, the horse needs to be moved.
I set out, but listlessly. I get angry about every mistake the animal makes. Once again Heidi balks, runs away, for no apparent reason. I can hold her back, but I swear at her. I mutter "stupid beast" into the cold air of meaninglessness.

Down in the forest, the path leads along the brook "Ruisseau des Cailloux". I've wanted to walk it for ages. But the melting snow has transformed the brook into a torrential river, which has flooded its surroundings in many places. And a tree lies across the trail. At first sight, it seems impassable.
To quote Theo Kojak: "Delightful!"
I know there will be many of this kind of situations on the road.

And now I am even more fed up with everything.

I turn the horse around. I want to go home, park the horse in the paddock and crash down on the sofa.

Then I realise: if I turn around now, it will be for good. I won't come back tomorrow to see whether the path might be passable then.
And that would be the end of Aldo, the stars and the cicada.



Thus, I climb down the steep, muddy, slippery hillside. Heidi, who has become nervous due to all this to and fro, begins to move as well. Far too fast, I hold her back. She must learn to follow me slowly on such dangerous paths, keeping her distance.
Learn?
This means that I am in the middle of the training again.
We fight our way across the slippery stones at the waterside, circumvent the tree by climbing up again into the forest, and down again.
We master the difficult spot. For a moment, the light falls into the forest and makes the wild water sparkle. It seems to carry a greeting from far-away Apulia.

Je suis Charlie