A post had appeared on an electronic bulletin board at my Dad’s office:

IVY: Six-year-old chestnut, Quarter Horse, mare, standing fifteen-two hands high. Excellent hunter jumper. Five thousand dollars, or best offer. Owner must sell for financial reasons.

I hadn’t ridden a horse in four months at the time, and became ecstatic when Dad brought home the flyer. It was the first time he’d even mentioned buying a horse. I begged and begged to go look at her, and the only reply I could get was a mumbled “We’ll see.” I remember tears streaming down my face as the idea of having my own horse was being dangled before my very eyes.

Within two weeks were heading down a country road, and pulling up in front of Ivy’s current home. She was a beautiful red head with a temper to match. I don’t remember much more of that first day except riding her in the little arena and trying a few small hops with her. She had been a rather stubborn one who needed a lot of leg to get over the jumps, but she’d take them.

A week later we had a vet come out to look at her. It had been raining all night and she was soaked in her paddock. She made me chase her around for near an hour before I could finally catch her and bring her in. I don’t remember how long it took to dry her off, but she was dry for the vet and the sun had come out. The vet did a few things, and then we had to trot her down the driveway. Something was wrong, I couldn’t understand everything that was being said but their faces were not happy ones. Ivy had navicular disease. Its comparable to humans as roughage on the heel bone and the achilles tendon has to rub up against it every time you take a step. At six years old, she had to be retired to easy trail work and given corrective shoes. It wasn’t until it was final that we were not going to buy her that I realized how cold it was outside.

Now it was my turn to look for a horse. I wanted a mare so I could breed her later down the road. I wanted a younger mare; five to eight-years-old would be ideal. I wanted one that was at least sixteen hands tall, sixteen three was the goal. And I wanted an Appaloosa if I could find one tall enough and in the right price range. I did not want a bay, because everyone has a bay, and I hate Thoroughbred trots, so I didn’t want one of them either.

I started running searches on every horse site I could find. There was a very limited selection in the Virginia and Maryland area. They were too old, too short, or too expensive. I found myself becoming more open minded to different colors and breeds, and just for fun would exclude the age option. This little half Appaloosa yearling kept popping up. She was prospected to be seventeen two hands high, and she was a gorgeous blue roan with white blanket and leopard spots. Her name was Snow Prints, or Snowy for short.

I can’t say I liked the name, I actually thought it was horrid, but she was cute. However, she was too young. I was fifteen and a half now and I had enough sense to know that a yearling was going to be way too much for me. So I would see the ad, and scroll past it to the next horse. I eventually came across another chestnut, Quarter Horse, mare, in early January. She too failed the vet exam. I gave up on chestnut, Quarter Horse mares at that point.

With the passing of the New Year, the little yearling filly was officially a two year old, and appearing more and more in my searches. She was on at least three different sites that I was searching. She was still too young.

I was in a panic to find a horse now. I just wanted to ride, whenever I wanted to. I came across two horses on the same farm. Dad wanted me to like the bay, Thoroughbred mare. It was mostly because she was from Michigan. I however liked Samson, the Belgium Draft Horse gelding. Dad was a bit hesitant and when Samson ran off with me, that finalized it. We didn’t even need to have a vet check those two; I wouldn’t have either.

It was the end of January, and I finally gave in to go and see the filly, but only because she was on a farm with seventy-five other horses for sale. She was in a paddock with other mares, fillies, and pregnant mares, and one gelding that had sneaked in right after being gelded.

Snowy had come from an auction in Pennsylvania seven months prior. She had been living with this herd with only a small lean-in shed through the winter. Her only human contact had been when a worker would come down once a day and throw a bag of grain in a community bin, and then it was every horse for her/himself. I could see every rib on her body, even through her very shaggy winter coat. Yet her eyes were bright, and her ears attentive.

I was told the gelding’s grand escape and how he hadn’t let anyone near him since the day he was gelded six months prior. Taking the challenge, I walked up to him without treats and began grooming him with my gloved fingers on his withers. The woman then said I’d never be able to put a halter on him. I shocked her once again when I got the halter on without any problems. His name was JD, and he was a Belgium Draft, Thoroughbred cross. At three years old, he stood sixteen three hands.

We had the option to pick out a couple of horses and they’d be at the barn for when we scheduled a vet to come out. I picked Snowy and JD, and another three-year-old chestnut, Quarter Horse mare that dad happened to like.

A week later we were back, the horses were ready and we were just waiting on the vet. We’d have them lined up, and the first to pass the vet exam was the one we’d take home. Snowy was up first, the other filly second, and JD was last, because he was a gelding and therefore unable to breed.

Snowy passed the physical with flying colors. Her temperament left something to be desired. She was pushy, fussy, and tried to kick the vet more than one time during the exam. When I had to hand trot her, she tried to bite my arm off.  I shrugged it all off as things that could be fixed. The vet recommended that she was too much for me, thankfully Dad trusted my horse sense and agreed to buy her.

I still hated that name. Snowy. Snow Prints. Prints. Snowy. Yuck. We received her papers and I took a few days to look them over. Her registered name was not Snow Prints. It was Cherokee Snow. Cherokee. That fits her. The woman hadn’t liked Indian type names like that, so had tried to change it. My faith in her sunk to an all time low. I just wanted to arrange to have my horse brought to her new home and get the hell away from that place.

We had a stall waiting for her at a local boarding barn, and she arrived home at ten o’clock at night, on Valentine’s Day, 2003.