With adaptive grace, plenty of hay and a thick mustang coat, she wintered well.
She didn’t fuss.
She did, however, station herself, on a hill, thick oak brush guarding her rear. I’d follow her gaze over a couple of miles, over the neighbor’s hay meadow and up and over a steep hill, where a small band of Clydesdales wintered.
Whenever a storm threatened, she’d head to middle of the pasture and lower her head with a clump of bushes blocking the prevailing wind and snow, despite having a perfectly good run in shed.
Winter limited our rides to riding bareback around the property. The only way to get on in the deep snow with bulk winter clothes: a graceless heave and belly flop.