“What a glorious day for a hack!” I exclaimed as we set off southwards on a ride near my home in Caledon, Ont., last May. As ever, my truculent hacking partner, Chris Frewen-Lord, bore my enthusiasm in silence.

We had recently “discovered” a wonderful 100-acre farm, belonging to an acquaintance who raises Hereford beef cattle. I knew he was in Massachusetts (ostensibly for acorporate summit, but I suspected that he, as an addicted runner, was attending the Boston Marathon). I had dutifully promised to check on the herd of 18 with imminent calves, so was keen to fulfill my promise and get some hill work into my event horse’s training routine.

As we entered the property and began our warm-up, we noticed the herd of 17 cows were gathered around the pond, watching us suspiciously from a distance. On the other side of the hill as we descended toward the tennis courts, I noticed one cow standing isolated amongst the trees. Always on the alert for an adventure, I suggested that perhaps she was ready to calve, which I had never had the opportunity to witness.

As we drew near, it became apparent that this cow was immobile and not of her own volition! Her head was captured between two parallel trees, each of which measured more than 20 inches in circumference. Our first reaction was to pretend that we never saw subject cow; however, all we could think of was the coyotes that we hear howling at dusk. We knew that by the time my acquaintance returned from the marathon, this cow would be less than prime rib!

We returned to the stable at more than normal hack speed, wherein I retrieved my cell and rang the owner of the farm, who was sitting in a bar at the Boston airport. I was relieved to reach him, as he would certainly know whom to call. We could continue in our hacking mode, comfortable that we had done our best in monitoring the herd. Even though I reached him on his mobile, this acquaintance expressed incredulity that such a situation could have occurred, but when I reinforced our concern over the situation, he gave us the name and telephone number of an individual who, it seemed, didn’t exist, according to directory assistance.

I pressed redial on my cell, asked exactly where this farmer friend lived, and hopped into my car–still dressed in breeches and boots–and drove down the road to knock on Farmer Jim’s door. Despite also expressing incredulity to our story, Farmer Jim casually offered to assist in the rescue.

Futile Efforts

Upon visiting the site, his immediate response was to cut down one of the restricting trees. Even though I am not an avid woodsman, I could tell that if we severed the rather substantial tree from underneath her head, the cow would suffer a fractured neck, if not a coronary from fright at the noise of the chain saw. Farmer Jim’s second suggestion was to attach a chain to the top of one tree and pull it apart with his rather dilapidated pickup truck. This one at least seemed worthy of trying.

Chris dutifully climbed up the tree and attached the chain, but the rusted out vehicle merely spun its wheels in the long grass. Farmer Jim’s next suggestion proved equally fruitless, as the bizarre truck jack that he handed me to pry the two trees apart wouldn’t even fit between the two tree trunks.

At this point, we were losing faith in Farmer Jim. We were expecting someone who knew something about extricating cows from trees, and we ended up with someone as citified as we!

However, our citified status did not leave Chris and I without alternatives. What would any urban dweller worth his or her salt do when finding a cow entrapped between two trees? Call 911! Of course, I have been fortunate never having to dial this number before, never mind on a cell phone. My fears were far from relieved when I received a recorded message, advising how important my emergency call was!

Eventually, we were connected with a live person who we apprised of our sad condition. She sounded rather incredulous, but I told her we were desperate.

Dutifully, she said she would call the Caledon East Volunteer Fire Department and ascertain whether they would respond to this sort of emergency. I imagine my voice sounded suitably stricken, because the 911 dispatcher advised that the fire crew would attend the farm within a reasonable period of time.

Neither Chris, nor I, nor Farmer Jim, could recall the emergency number on the driveway, so I was delegated to stand on the roadway, still attired in breeches and boots (my hard hat had been doffed) to await the Volunteer Department. Passing vehicles must have wondered what had happened to my horse, or that I was delusioned into thinking one would trot by to transport me home?

After what seemed like an aeon, the fire truck arrived, without sirens, but at least the lights were flashing.

None of the volunteer firemen could believe their luck! Their first instincts were to cut down one of the entrapping trees, which both Chris and I vetoed again.

In true emergency style, they extracted 4×4 blocks from the truck to place underneath the cow (now named “Victoria”) to lift her further up on the aperture between the trees. Have you ever convinced a pregnant heifer to stand up on a block? We hadn’t, and neither had the firemen. Eventually, crude, grunting efforts were rewarded with Victoria standing 4 inches higher than before. Unfortunately, she still couldn’t pull her blockish jaw from between the tree trunks.

Desperate Measures

At this point, Chris and I were running out of patience and humor. We entreated the firemen to produce the “jaws of life,” designed to extricate a trapped human, or in this case, a cow, from their vehicle.

Their response was to bring out a pathetic, skinny pillow that they placed between the branches. However, they augmented its width with more of these plentiful blocks, attached a gas cylinder to said pillow and proceeded to inflate it. Miraculously, upon inflating, this “inflating pillow” actually spread the two trees apart.

With a cheer of exuberance, we en-couraged Victoria to back up and extricate herself, but to no avail. I looked at my watch and realized that the day was waning, and neither Chris, nor I, cherished the idea of a nighttime vigil to fend off the coyotes.

We grabbed a sturdy shovel, handed one end each to two burly firemen, and placed it under her jaw. We enlisted two other firemen to hold an end of a lead line behind and across her butt and instructed them to pull forward on it to keep her shoulders against the trees. Just as we were about to effectuate this most recent inspiration, my cell vibrated in my pocket, and for once it was more an annoying than a pleasurable experience.

It was my acquaintance’s brother, stranded in some golf club bar, inquiring as to the status of the family cow. “Not now, call me later,” was the terse reply.

Back to the task at hand: we counted to three, hauled upward on the shovel and yelled at Victoria. The extra “beef” under the shovel worked. We lifted her from the crevice of the two trees, and Victoria fell backwards. Without a glance, or a “moo” of thanks, she galloped away to rejoin her feckless herd.

Pictures? We have few. My wife has suggested that we could have made a small fortune had we videotaped this rescue exercise. However, I have trouble remembering to don my hard hat before a hack–a video camera would put me over the edge. Farmer Jim took the attached photograph for posterity. One of the firemen took a picture on his disposable camera, but since it was the first shot on his roll, he wasn’t prepared to waste the other 23 unclicked frames.

Three weeks later, we revisited the subject farm and attempted to pick out Victoria from the other 17 heifers. The owner, my acquaintance, assured us that the one with the freckled face was the entrapped/rescued one. Chris and I were unconvinced that he was accurate but acquiesced to his bovine knowledge and expertise.

In true “all’s-well-that-ends-well” fashion, all the cows have now calved. The one identified as the rescued bovine birthed twins. Guess what their names are: Chris and Arthur!