Schukov: A sleigh ride up north can be exhilarating
Me and Mama Bear (less the two cubs who flew the cave years ago) have just pulled off a junket up north, to enjoy an old-fashioned sleigh ride. As a result, I have acquired an enviable mastery of horse steering lingo. For example, the command “GO” is: “AAAAAHHGEEEE (Put name of horse here) GEEEEYYAAAA!!” Apparently, it’s all in the way you say it because this expression is also used to mean “STOP.”
As we arrive at the stable, I sniff the air and declare, “Yuck!”
I enter the equine (horse) establishment. (My wife lingers outside to scrape something off her shoes.) I am immediately greeted by Dennis, the owner, who reviews my options: “Forty dollars for two. Insurance is included. (Why do I need insurance?) Fifteen dollars to just stand and look as other screaming families gallop into the horizon. We also do this in the summer but it’s $60 because we have to pay for the snow machine that runs ahead of the sleigh.”
Surrendering 40 loonies (I have a piggy bank), I step outside to join my better half. In comes our ride, a Congo red coach on super long cookie cutters, pulled by a brown Brobdingnag so big it looks like it clears its own trail as it mushes along. The horse is 12 feet high laying down, with a caboose that should display orange and black chevrons, signifying “Beware of wide load.” It’s the kind of animal that pulls a beer company.
“Her name’s Nellie,” says the driver, a lethargic, lantern-jawed libertine with a four-inch long cigarette ash clinging for its dear life from his flapping lower lip. Dressed in a pair of ripe long johns, he looks like he’s just been keel hauled from a one horse open sleigh. His other redeeming feature is a scarlet nose which, judging by his hooch breath, is a direct result of last night’s liquefaction. I nickname him Rudolph.
We get in. My wife asks, “Where are the seat belts?”
I ask, “Where are we going?”
A large black dog leaps up onto Rudolph’s lap. “Her name’s Chanel . . . cause she was number five in the litter,” drawls our driver.
He then yells, “AAAAAHHGEEEEE-NELLIEGEEEEYYAAAA!!!” (Which scares me out of my Wellington boots.)
Lickety-split, we are off, leaving a trail of horse dip. Rudolph, Chief of the Cossacks, faces us for what will be the remainder of the journey, lights up a cigarette and gabbles, through a cloud of smoke: “Nothing like the outdoors for fresh air, eh? Cough! Cough! Hack! Hack! … You notice we don’t have no jingle bells . . . ripped off by low-lying birch . . . tough tree, the birch . . . So, for now I got these castanets hanging here.” (A branch knocks my hat off.)
Suddenly, a cross-country skier, dressed in a blue ski suit, zips past us. Minutes later, a woman skiing in the same direction, stops us and asks, “Excuse me. Have you seen my husband, dressed in a blue ski suit, go by?”
“Why, yes,” we reply in unison. Rudolph adds, “He’s a few minutes ahead of you.” Thanking us, she quickly turns and speeds off in another direction.
We soon catch up to the husband, who has stopped for a rest. We pull over. He introduces himself as Tom, from Ottawa. He’s looking for his wife.
“Nice to meet you, Tom. Lose much family in these here parts?” I ask.
“Uh, no, just my wife,” he replies.
Wishing him luck, we continue our joyride. For the rest of the trauma, I stare back at Tom slaloming around little brown moguls. My wife, admires the entourage of snow laden trees. I keep on the lookout for birch.
As we near the end of the sleigh ride, I ask the Missus if she feels that $5 is an adequate tip.
She says “What about the horse?”
I answer “That is for the horse! AAAAAHHGEEEE Nellie GEEEEYYAAAA!!”
We park outside the stable and step out of the sled, right into horse expletive. I give the tip to Rudolph. Doffing his cap, he yells, “AAAAAHHGEEEEGEEEEYYAAAA!”
Apparently, this is also horse hokum for “Thank you. Come again.”