Fred Hund, MD, has been cleaning out horse stalls since he was a kid. “I was 11 and the groom at a stable where I grew up in Kansas City…so that was my first job. Cleaning out horse stalls,” recalled Dr. Hund.

Just ten minutes away from Rice Memorial Hospital, on the farm that he and his wife, Kathy, purchased in 1990 when it was just a junkyard, Fred Hund still does daily chores with horses. “There’s a solace in that rhythm,” he says, “Whatever else, twice a day I’m up here feeding horses.”

Fred and Kathy Hund are both physicians who met in med school. They share a love of horses. When they settled in Willmar, the hospital didn’t have emergency room doctors. “So, we staffed the ER and had to be within 10 minutes,” Fred explains. And yet, “Those moments when you’re out just riding a horse or sometimes in the barn at night, it’s a thousand miles away from the ICU,” he says.

The Junkyard Farm

“This is the only place we’ve ever owned,” said Hund. “We were med students in residence, living in dumps.” But Fred and Kathy had a vision of what the place could be, even though there was gravel on the hilltops and trees were scarce. But stewardship is a theme with Dr. Hund, and he nurtured the land back to health.

“I guess I’m aging myself, but most of these trees I’ve planted. Which is kind of scary,” Hund says, “It’s been satisfying and really fun sharing it with others. Especially when we had kids here and seeing them learn important lessons on a horse.”

I’ve never seen anyone so visibly beat their demons into submission

During a three-day camp, her coach told her to jump the Tiger Trap. Fred describes the moment when it seemed as though her life flashed before her eyes, “I was the only one who saw this. I was out there working on another jump when three strides out, her horse just stopped. I mean, talk about a flashback,” Dr. Hund recalls. “Then, while sobbing, she circled the horse and jumped the jump. Still sobbing, she circled and jumped again. Then she did it a third time. I’ve never seen anyone so visibly beat their demons into submission.”

The Farrier Is Late

Every five to six weeks, the horses get new shoes. Justin, the farrier with a long beard and cattle dogs in tow, comes to do the job. “The shoes are drilled and tapped so we can screw in various kinds of studs, depending on footing,” Fred explains, hinting at the sport that he calls his ‘madness,’ “For some people it’s hockey or fishing. This is our kind of thing.”

The thing is the horse sport of Eventing, best described as an equestrian triathlon. The sport originated as a calvary test and includes three stages: dressage, cross country and show jumping. Dressage demonstrates the partnership of horse and rider in a sequence of movements. Cross country challenges bravery and fitness while navigating a series of obstacles and varied terrain. In the final phase, show Jumping, the pair must clear a course of fences.

“When the horse jumps cross country obstacles, grass and stuff tend to be slippery. So depending on what the terrain is, you screw in different shoes to help the horse,” Fred explains. “It’s kind of like track shoes with studs.”

But for Dr. Hund, it’s not just a sport. It’s more of a way of life. A husbandry. “Good day, bad day. Ninety degrees or 20 Below. They depend on me,” he says.

There is a clear parallel to the practice of medicine, healing, and caring for others.

“In the big city, doctors often live far from their patients. I see my patients every day — in the grocery store, the gas station, on a walk. They are not strangers. Not anonymous. A smaller town means a web of a thousand connections. This person might be your child’s teacher or the guy who fixes your flat tire,” he says.

A Cowboy Quote

When asked about the last couple of years, Dr. Hund had this to say, “I’m trying to sort it out. In some ways, Covid is behind us, but we’re all different. You know, it changed us,” he said. “I’m in the middle of a lot of reflection right now. I’m now half time. I got my Medicare card last October. So, I’m sort of plotting my glide path to retirement,” Dr. Hund says with a laugh.

“But Covid afforded me something wonderful. It was a great privilege to see everyone showing up. Living up to our oath. Working double shifts,” he remembers. There were hard days, to be sure, recalls Dr. Hund. “Especially if I had a bad day, I’d get home and say, ‘No, I shouldn’t ride today. I’m just too frustrated with what happened. I’m just going to walk up and down the hills.’ There’s an old cowboy quote that most of the time you’re not working on them, you’re working on yourself.”

What Really Matters

It’s then that Dr. Hund reflects on what really matters. He faced his own death eight years ago. “I was training for a Nordic ski race when a driver drifted across the road, and I got hit by a car. I should have been killed. I was thrown 40 feet and landed on my chin. I had two broken legs, some bleeding in my brain, a broken tooth and blown knee,” he remembers. “I was very lucky.”

“There’s something that Covid should remind all of us who care for the really sick: Life is short and fragile,” he says. Then he shared a bit of learned wisdom from 36 years ago. “One of the wisest things I ever learned came from a very good cardiologist as he talked with us about my wife’s heart problem. We were 39. Our daughters were six and nine. Her diagnosis included a 50% five-year mortality rate. He said, ‘All any of us really have is today.’”

“We should pay attention,” Fred says, “We should not be bothered by unimportant stuff.”

And then he said, “I’ve got a fence to fix.” And he was off.