Each team has a different personality and the pairs stay together, even when they are not working. They eat and socialize side by side, as though they were pulling a sleigh. They even position themselves on the side they normally pull, Hunt said.

The drivers and horses must also be a team. Horsemen build trust as they take care of the horses, especially grooming them. The horses groom each other in their herds, so when people groom them it is a bonding experience, Hunt said.

"Horses are social. They need a leader," he said. "You must treat them judiciously ... "You should talk to them, and call them by name. They know their names."

The drivers have deep friendships with the horses. The question, "Which horse is your favorite?" brings a smile to every driver as he gazes thoughtfully, playing with the beautiful memories in his heart. Proud as parents, they answer.

"Justice is my favorite. He's just kind of big and dumb. He reminds me of a Labrador," said Jenny Johnson, who worked two years as a driver and now volunteers some weekends.

"His upper lip is huge. You could stick a tennis ball in there," she said, laughing as she described how his lip shakes back and forth when he comes toward you.

"Justice is growing up," Hunt said. "He's not such a dork this year."

The only way to get him to do what you want is to coax him patiently: "You can't raise your voice. If you raise your voice, he gets ticked," Hunt said.

A draft horse is not a mammal any sane person wants to see upset. These horses make even the tallest human feel like he's made of rice paper. And if you're short, it seems like his mere breath could send your puny frame flying to the ground. Their hooves are like four large dinner plates and a nostril is about the size of an adult's fist.

For anyone not accustomed to the monstrous mammals, sitting on one of their backs seems about as safe as riding a jumbo jet.

"You wanna ride Justice?" driver Jared Grover asked one of the female visitors, whose cherry-red pea coat and flimsy boots screamed of her urban roots.

As she contemplated a reasonable excuse, Shoat crouched with his gloved hands cupped over his knee cap, and Grover positioned himself behind her.

"Just step right here like it's a bucket, and we'll throw you up there," Shoat told her.

The math was not good. She appeared to weigh more than the two little wrangler-wearing cowboys put together. It was hard to visualize Shoat throwing her anywhere.

She positioned an awkward foot on Shoat's hands and made an ungraceful dive for Justice's back.

"You must be a city girl," Grover crowed after her failed launch.