by Kelly Wilson
Vicki and Zali demonstrating how to teach a wild horse to load during the VBA Volunteer Day, just four days into her handling.
Amanda sitting on Ballarat in front of a crowd.
There is no denying that the majority of wild horses over the age of 10 years are harder to tame; while we’ve had success with many older horses, others have become a burden. I could have saved and trained five wild horses with the time and money that I’ve invested in Elder — and even now, thousands of hours and dollars later, I have a horse that only I can catch and only a very specific way. He goes lame without shoes, yet it is unsafe to do his hooves without him being sedated and laid down on the ground. He still has the capacity to hurt someone if they move suddenly around him or do something he doesn’t like. While I don’t regret saving Elder and genuinely love the old boy, I also understand that he’s a long-term commitment as he’ll never be suitable to re-home safely. Although Elder gets genuine enjoyment roaming with our retired showjumping mares and their foals, and copes with the minimal handling asked of him, there are many times when I wish he could be released back into the wild — living out his days in the Kaimanawa Ranges would have been the best ending to Elder’s story.
Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to gauge a horse’s ability to transition to domestication from observing it in a yard or paddock; often the worst-looking ones go on to become the quietest, and vice versa. After watching Arana during the 18 months after she arrived at the Brumby sanctuary, Colleen had thought her to be an open-minded horse. The mare used to round up the herd and bring them in close if people visited, before wheeling around and leading them all away, and then repeating the process. She was highly alert and would never stand still; in hindsight, Colleen could see that this was stressed behaviour. Retiring Arana had been in her best interests, and most likely the same fate would befall Ranger — while he had potential, few people have the time or the patience to invest in a troubled horse, already mistrustful from bad experiences with people, in the hope that he would make a breakthrough. In the end, the VBA decided to let Ranger roam with a herd over the coming year and then try handling him again. If he was still wary and unpredictable, he would be retired to live out his days with one of the herds.
LATER THAT EVENING, WE HEADED OUTSIDE to practise catching and loading the horses in the dark, as they would be flying out at night. Zali was the first to load and she did it like a professional, confidently stepping inside the dark trailer with just the shed lights to guide her. Shyla surprised us; although the easiest and the most advanced of the three Brumbies, she was the only one that balked. Within a few minutes, however, she clambered on board and stood like an angel. Little Ballarat also walked straight on, although, because there were no dividers in the stock trailer, Shyla swung sideways and pushed her out; we had to reload her twice before they both stood quietly.
Early the next morning, the vet drove out to draw blood from our three Brumbies; all of them had to have a clean bill of health before they could be imported into New Zealand. Even Shyla, who was the best around strangers, was a little nervous, and the young vet — who wasn’t confident around the Brumbies — started stressing and made her worse; we ended up leading her into the crush to have her blood drawn. This was easily and simply done in the confined space, and within minutes it was over; we decided to also do Ballarat and Zali in the crush to keep the procedure stress-free.
Minutes after the vet had gone, we had the horses turned loose in the paddocks and had piled into the ute, which was already laden with suitcases, to head to the airport. By mid-afternoon we’d dropped Vicki and Amanda off at the international terminal, their time in Australia had come to an end. Alexa and I were also antsy to get home, and were hoping that we could get Zali ready in time to follow the others over the ditch within the week.
After Vicki and Amanda checked in, Alexa and I went to have dinner and a short sleep at my aunty and uncle’s place in Melbourne. We slept restlessly, then got up at 2 a.m. to begin the five-hour drive to the Snowy Mountains, aiming to get there by sunrise to try to spot some wild Brumbies. Alexa held her own behind the wheel for the first four hours, waking me at 6 a.m. to swap over. Just half an hour later, I noticed the fuel light come on; assuming that we’d pass an off-ramp somewhere soon, I kept driving. Some 70 kilometres later, the fuel gauge began flashing a ‘no fuel’ warning; I pulled over and rang up every gas station I could find within the region. Finally, I found one that was open, just 14 kilometres away, but the attendant wasn’t able to deliver fuel to us. Fortunately, we convinced the attendant to ring a local farmer, who kindly came to collect us, took us to the gas station to fill up a diesel container and then returned us to our vehicle. Soon we were on the road again, carefully following Colleen’s directions in search of wild horses in the Long Plain and Kiandra regions of Kosciuszko National Park. We had the morning to look for them before meeting up with Colleen to help save a truckload of Brumbies from the very first catch of the new trapping season.
Vicki’s last handling session with Zali before returning to New Zealand.
The white lacing on Zali’s back.
CHAPTER 9
Snowy Mountain Brumbies
A grey stallion and his herd near Kiandra in Kosciuszko National Park.
As we drove deeper into the Snowy Mountains, I was excited to see a few light dustings of snow. The previous week, a snowstorm had swept through and I was keen to get photos of Brumbies in the snow. Everything about the scenery reminded me of The Silver Brumby, one of my favourite childhood books about the wild horses that roamed this region. Just days earlier I’d begun rereading the book, and was now excitedly recognising iconic landmarks that were mentioned in the story: the Ramshead Range, Dead Horse Gap and Thredbo River were all real places; I’d never realised that!
We kept eager eyes out for wild Brumbies. Road signs warning of wild horses indicated that they could be spotted anywhere within the next 34 kilometres. The first herd we came across was easy to find; they were only metres off the road, and we pulled over and hurriedly got out to photograph them. There were six horses in total, including a few beautiful roans. A number of cars were already parked there and several people had cameras out; to our surprise, however, no one had them pointing at the Brumbies — the people were taking tourist shots of themselves in front of the landscape! Finding it hard to believe that people wouldn’t be completely enthralled by the wild horses, we left them behind, crossing the road to get closer to the horses. Our approach unsettled the horses, and they turned and cantered through the tussock before disappearing over a small hill. Quietly following, we edged closer; they remained standing long enough for us to photograph them in front of a rocky tor, before turning away.
Of all the wild horses in every part of the world, the Australian Brumby, introduced to me in Elyne Mitchell’s Silver Brumby books, had been what first inspired my love for and appreciation of wild horses. Ever since reading those books, almost two decades ago, I had dreamed of seeing horses in the wild and of taming my very own wild horse. While both of those things had come to pass many times over the years, there was something special about seeing Brumbies in the wild — like having a childhood dream come true. I wish I could have gone back in time to tell my younger self that not only would I grow up to photograph and tame wild horses, but I also would be writing my own books about our adventures. I don’t think I would have believed it.
A road sign alerting drivers to the possibility of wild horse sightings on or near the Snowy Mountains Highway.
Our first sighting of wild Brumbies in the Snowy Mountains.
The herd we were watching was quite shy, and not wanting to disturb them we went back to the ute and continued on. As we rose in altitude, more snow covered the ground and our excitement grew. Continuing along the mountain road, we kept a good eye out for horses; when we came across a large valley in the Kiandra area, we saw about 30 in the distance, many of them greys. Parking quickly, we grabbed the cameras and layered up in
preparation for hiking through the scattered snow to get close enough to the horses to photograph them. A few hundred metres away from the road we struck a swampy marsh, our boots sinking through the snow into an icy stream below. Fortunately, it was only shallow and we didn’t lose our balance and drop the cameras into the water.
Since our boots had already got wet through, we continued to soldier on through the swamp, at times wading through water well over knee-deep. It took about 10 minutes to cross onto solid ground, and we were relieved that the commotion we’d made hadn’t startled the horses into leaving. Ahead of us, warily watching our approach, was a striking dapple grey stallion with a large herd, and on the hill in the distance roamed three older greys with snow-white coats and dreadlocks matting their manes and tails. Above them a darker grey stallion watched us, but he quickly rounded up his mares and galloped along the horizon, disappearing from sight in a flurry of snow.
Not wanting to scare off the closest Brumbies, we settled low in the tussock to photograph them. They were a curious bunch, and gradually crept closer to us until they were only about 100 metres away. We kept still, and as they relaxed they separated into three distinct herds. The dapple grey stallion had the majority of the mares, two chestnut bachelor colts stood off to one side, and a small herd of three plain bays drifted further back, ignoring us. The grey in particular caught our attention, and for the next hour we ignored the chill settling into our bones as we photographed him and his herd.
By the time we got back to the ute, the adrenaline had worn off and we were feeling the cold. Our legs and feet were numb from having hiked through snow and swamp; desperate to warm up, we quickly got changed out of our icy clothes and cranked up the heater as we headed back the way we had come; it wasn’t long before we started to feel human again.
A short way down the road we met up with Colleen and her daughter Bridie and followed them to the Long Plain gate, which was closed for winter. The trapping season had begun just a week earlier, and every morning park rangers would be coming through these gates to remove the Brumbies caught in the traps overnight. That wasn’t the reason we were there, though; Thor, a Brumby stallion they’d saved the winter before had died from severe colic a month earlier. Bridie wanted his final resting place to be in the Snowy Mountains where he’d once roamed free, and Colleen had taken a snip of his tail so that he could be returned to his homeland. Together, the four of us hiked along Long Plain Road, and then Bridie hung the tail hairs in a branch to let the wind lift them and blow them across the plains, as if Thor was galloping wild for one last time.
Touched by how deeply they cared for the stallion, although he’d never been handled or even touched, Alexa and I watched from one side. There was no mistaking why Colleen had first become involved in the taming of Australian’s wild horses — like us, she was emotionally invested in every horse that crossed her path. In just the few weeks we’d known her, we had gained a huge amount of respect for her empathy for the wild horses she was able to save.
On our return to the cars, Colleen pointed out an unused trap site. We were astounded. The area where the bait was laid out and the yards were constructed wasn’t camouflaged in the trees or hidden from view, like we’d imagined, but in plain sight. The first trap site was only 50 metres away from the Snowy Mountains Highway, on a wide bit of gravel road that we’d mistaken for a car park. The wild horses certainly weren’t tricked into entering the yards, for the imposing fences would have been impossible to miss. Although Colleen had earlier explained how the Brumbies were lulled into a false sense of security over a period of weeks, enticed by the sweet smell of molasses and salts, while the yards were gradually built up, one panel at a time, it wasn’t until we saw a trap site that we truly gained an appreciation for how passive the process is. There was simply no comparison to the helicopter mustering used with both the Kaimanawas and the Mustangs.
A snip of Thor’s tail, one of the wild Brumbies who died at the VBA, returned to the Snowy Mountains.
A grey stallion chases off a young colt who ventured too close to his mares.
We wondered whether the rangers had stopped using this trap site because it was so easily accessible from the road; a few weeks earlier, we’d heard that Brumby activists had shared the GPS coordinates of certain trap sites, telling people to protest against the trapping of Brumbies by dismantling the yards or releasing trapped horses. While we understood that people could be passionate about the plight of the wild horses, there was a clear lack of understanding in such actions, which bordered on vandalism. The only thing they would achieve in the long run would be a poor working relationship between those involved in the management and the saving of wild Brumbies.
We headed next for the sorting yards near the Blowering Dam, where the Brumbies caught in the traps are initially taken. About 40 Brumbies were waiting in the yards; Colleen had room for about 10 on her truck, the first of many she would be saving this winter.
The horses we saw here were all sorts of colours and sizes. The first pen held about 15 stallions, many of which were stunning types. A few were openly aggressive, causing all sorts of mischief, and we were reminded of the stallion pens we had seen during the Kaimanawa musters. Colleen pointed out two roan stallions, although it took us a while to spot them. While her trained eye was used to the vast colour difference between their winter and summer coats, to us the roans could easily have been mistaken for plain bays at this time of year. In the next pen stood about 20 adult mares, many of which were heavily pregnant or had new-born foals. Most of the horses were fairly settled, happily munching on hay and completely unaware that there were only two options available for them: being re-homed, or being slaughtered.
To make the choices easier, Colleen had already decided on the age of horse she wanted. The VBA had started a new training initiative: a Brumby Gentling Clinic where people would attend a five-day training course, tame a wild weanling or yearling and then take it home with them. At that time, they had 12 people signed up, so many of the Brumbies saved today already had homes waiting for them. With this in mind, Colleen looked over the younger Brumbies, selecting five with good conformation and natures suited to the clinic; two were still with their mothers, who were pregnant. A young colt caught her eye, even though he wasn’t yet old enough to be weaned; she saved him anyway, along with his mother, who was sure to be pregnant again — it was definitely better than them going to slaughter. Nine had now been chosen, and there was space for another one or two on the truck; by saving young animals, Colleen could fit more in than if she’d saved an entire load of older mares and stallions.
The four of us had all chosen the same favourite: a stunning flaxen chestnut colt who stood out from the others due to his curious nature and his white blaze and muzzle — which was covered in molasses, a dead giveaway as to what had enticed him into the trap. He was quickly sorted into a different yard along with the younger of the two roan stallions; it would be good for them to have each other’s company both on the drive back to the sanctuary and after they got there.
Bridie had been carefully watching each horse that was saved and pairing them up with names. She called the roan stallion Gundara, the flaxen one Molasses, and the smallest of the foals became Kosi (short for Kosciuszko). Alexa and I offered a few suggestions for the rest, but they were mostly rejected; although Bridie agreed that we could name the oldest chestnut mare Mirri, after the wise friend of Bel Bel, the mother of Thowra from The Silver Brumby. She seemed to have a gentle way about her so the name was fitting.
A yard of young, recently trapped Brumbies.
The stallion yard, including Gundara (left) and Molasses (right) who were saved by the VBA.
CHAPTER 10
Saved from Slaughter
The three mares, trapped just days earlier from the Snowy Mountains and saved from slaughter by the VBA, enjoying their second chance at life running with a herd at the Brumby sanctuary.
Gundara watching me curiously as I photograph the new
arrivals.
Molasses, one of the young stallions, settling in at the Brumby sanctuary.
With the newly saved horses sorted, Alexa and I began the eight-hour drive back to the Brumby sanctuary. Colleen wouldn’t be loading the Brumbies until the following morning, but we didn’t want to leave Shyla, Ballarat and Zali without contact for too long. Again Alexa drove most of the way; about two hours away from home, I swapped into the driver’s seat. After running out of fuel that morning, I checked the gauge and noticed that we only had a quarter of a tank, but since it was a main road I was sure we’d soon find somewhere to fill up. Bizarrely, however, the gas stations in the next two towns we drove through were closed, and it was a case of déjà vu when the red fuel light came on again. I pulled over to google where the next major town was; it was now 1 a.m. and I didn’t want to be stuck on the side of the road overnight! Finally, about 150 kilometres after I’d started driving and after about 70 kilometres of stressing, we pulled into a town with a 24-hour gas station and were relieved to find it open. We’d never had so much trouble finding fuel on any of our road trips around New Zealand or America. The next time I drove anywhere in Australia, I was determined to refill as soon as the tank was half empty or carry an extra container of diesel with me. We’d driven for 16 of the past 24 hours, and I couldn’t believe we’d had such bad luck twice.