There's the seemingly endless winter (blankets), the long-awaited summer (fly spray), and the fleeting autumn (just ride), but spring stands unrivaled for the mud. At the farm, the paddocks transform into a deep, perfect weave of manure, hay, and boot-sucking ooze. The horses squish their way through it, content to breathe the fresh, clean air of the thaw and doze in warmth of the sun. When the mud softens, they take a spa day, rolling just so, grunting with pleasure in the wallow of their choosing. I cringe at the filth, but love what they do.