In the winter, one of the "joys" of living on a New Hampshire property with long driveways is that snowplowing is a necessity.   While we could pay one of several local guys to take care of this chore, we usually do it ourselves.   Actually, *I* do it.   I am in charge of plowing.

Today, we got another dose of the white stuff.   I measured 9 new inches in some places, 10 in others.

The first plowing run was done at 7am this morning, allowing the trash collector to roll in without trouble as well as our morning barn staff.   The second plowing run was late this afternoon after the storm finally died down.

The morning session was uneventful.   I covered my usual areas --- driveway, parking lot, road around the indoor arena, area in front of the little barn out back, and paths to the pastures.

However, the afternoon session came to a quick stopping point when my truck slide sideways, in painfully slow motion, down into a ditch next to a typical New England stone wall that runs parallel to our driveway.

Not wanting to mess about on my own and possibly get into a worse predicament, I quickly collected Georg.   Meanwhile, a neighbor happened by, saw the truck in the ditch, tried to stop, slid on the slick packed snow road for a ways, then came in to offer assistance.

Of course the truck was pulled out without too much trouble.   But meanwhile, I took a good hard spill on the snow, giving my shoulders and neck a good jolt.   But more than anything, the only injury suffered was to my pride.

Maybe he wants to make me feel better, maybe not, but I won't argue.   Georg likes to say that there are only two kinds of really serious snowplowers out there.   Those who will tell you that they've have gotten stuck while plowing and those who won't admit it.