Plowing Competition

We've got about a month and a half before the draft horse plowing match occurs. The ground has softened and the top dressing laid last fall has produced a perfect grassy carpet for the days event. An event that is nearly silent.

Fifteen teams, two tons each give or take, turning a flat green field into row after row of tilled earth. Taking it in as a whole, I felt as if I was witness to a sacred ritual that begged a reverential demeanor as I approached. Moving closer, sounds were muffled to a whisper as the newly exposed soil softened every step of horse and sliding plow, leaving only the faint rattle of tack and the quiet clicks and whistles that are the language of encouragement coming from the plowman.

Man (or woman) and horse are bound to each other by more than leather reins. And as with most things, getting started is the hardest. But once the line is struck and all parts are moving, there are three minds working as one in a powerfully focused endeavor to carve the straightest furrow possible. A crescent wrench in the hip or back pocket is mandatory bling at this dance in the dirt. But the horses are the show, no mistake, and they know it. Ribbons are entwined with well combed mains and tails, and the shine on the harness setups is perfect.

A plow blade is designed to slice through the top grass and lay the soil to the side. I was mesmerized by the fluidity of the dirt as it curled up like a shore break at a good surf beach, and broke upon the previous row like a chocolate layer cake with green frosting. And as the remaining strip of grass gets thinner and thinner, those horses place each hoof, which are as big as pie tins, exactly where they should to not disturb the perfect rows of tilled earth.

Nostalgia aside for the moment, imagine how many hundreds of miles a farmer of the day would have plowed in his lifetime. And not this pristine river bottom stuff, but ground full of rocks and boulders clanging against the blade and throwing it easily off course.

There is no going back; we know this. As much as nostalgia pulls at our hearts, technology and the hunger of a growing nation pushed the horse drawn plow into the realm of all handcrafted things. And plowing a field with a team of draft horses most assuredly is created by hand and hooves, the intimacy and knowledge gained in the doing of the task now known only because of plowing competitions like this one. Although I passed through Pennsylvania Amish country a couple of years back, and they were driving teams of six horses.