by Kelly Wilson
A snowstorm had swept through the mountains again, and since my dream of photographing the Snowy Brumbies in deep powder hadn’t really been realised, we flew over a few days early and drove to Kosciuszko National Park. This time we flew into Sydney rather than Melbourne, and the drive west was uneventful. Five hours later we arrived in Tumut, and with sunset fast approaching headed to a local pub for dinner and a few games of pool before retiring for the night.
The next morning we were awake before dawn, eager to head into the park to find the wild horses. As we drove deeper into the mountains, there was still no snow to be seen, and we wondered, with disappointment, whether it would be exactly like last time with just a little dusting of snow. But as we rounded the corner to Long Plain, we were delighted to see a white valley spread out before us, the tussock and hill slopes blanketed under a thick coating of snow. Having been obsessed with snow from a young age, I could barely contain my excitement. We drove slowly, keeping a careful eye out for wild Brumbies as we climbed higher, but within minutes a thick mist rolled in, making it impossible to see further than a few metres. Slowing the car again, we continued on to Kiandra, where we’d found the greys near the swamp, but by the time we got there we could barely see the rabbits that nibbled on the tussock alongside the road, let alone have any hope of spotting wild horses.
Stopping to photograph a falcon, we noticed hoofprints where horses had crossed over the road. Parking the car, we bundled ourselves into our snow jackets and hiked out on foot, following the trail the horses had left. The snow was far deeper than it looked; at times we would sink to our knees in the fresh powder. Remaining determined, we continued on, but soon the hoofprints faded, as if the Brumbies had disappeared like ghosts into the mist. Reaching a cascading waterfall, we paused, looked at one another and turned back; no one wanted to get lost in the never-ending white.
On our return trip to the car we found an old road, and although it was covered in a layer of snow it was easier than trudging through deep powder. Mum and Hilary spent the whole time making, then throwing, snowballs at each other, and on more than one occasion we had to duck to avoid being hit. It was fun seeing them behave like children; Alexa and I felt quite old and serious in comparison, unable to join in because we had to hold our cameras.
Having driven through the entire region that is accessible to the public during winter, we were a little disheartened to have not found a single Brumby. The lack of visibility made it both dangerous and pointless to hike out from the road to search on foot — there was a good chance we could get lost in a whiteout. Cold and wet through, we headed to the Yarrangobilly Caves to fill in time, hoping that after some food and a tour through the caves the weather would improve. The caves were located down a steep gravel road, opposite Long Plain Road where Shyla and Zali had been trapped from, and we carefully navigated this into the valley below, leaving behind the snow and mist.
At the bottom of the valley it was hard to imagine that the weather had been so terrible higher up, and we booked in for the next possible caving tour. We had 40 minutes to wait, and to fill in time headed off in search of some nearby hot springs. The park ranger had warned us that it was a 15-minute walk each way, and with little time to spare Alexa and I sprinted down the steep track, running as if our lives depended on it. At the bottom we quickly stripped out of our thermals and snow clothes before jumping into the steaming water. As we surfaced we looked at each other in shock; the water was only tepid! Not warmed up in the slightest, we swam laps while we waited for Mum and Hilary to catch up, and then lied about the temperature to entice them to join us. As soon as they were in we leapt out, quickly towelling off before hurriedly dressing to avoid a chill.
The hike back up the hill quickly warmed us, though we only just made it back to the caves on time. Still laughing about the ‘hot’ pools, we fell in behind the rest of the tour group and looked carefully at the plants, rock formations and birds that the park ranger pointed out as we made our way to the cave entrance. I had only gone to the caves because Mum and Hilary wanted to, and was champing at the bit, desperate to be back up in the snow searching for horses. We only had the one day in the Snowy Mountains, and with so much snow around I knew my photos would be brilliant if only we could find horses. As soon as we entered the caves, though, all thoughts of horses left me. The caves were breathtaking: the stalactites hanging from the ceiling and the stalagmites below them looked like they were encrusted with jewels. The next hour was spent marvelling over the beauty of this underground world; it was like nothing we’d ever seen.
By the time we had driven back up to the snow level, the whiteout had cleared. Parking at the entrance of Long Plain Road, we began hiking in earnest. Because it was lower in altitude there, only scattered pockets of snow clung to the ground and we made good progress, covering several kilometres along the gravel road. Although a few kangaroos and wallabies paused for photos, no Brumbies came in sight. We’d been told that there were 12 trap sites along the first 18 kilometres of this road, though, and determined to find one we soldiered on.
Finally, we came across a muddy area containing hay, manure and an old, hollowed-out log that had clearly been filled with salt and molasses — although there were no fences, the trap site had obviously been used recently. It was just a few metres off the gravel road, surrounded by rolling plains with plenty of grass — not hidden in any way. As we walked closer to investigate, we again wondered how the wild horses could be so naïve to enter a high fenced yard and allow themselves to be caught. It had been hard to accept that they hadn’t been tricked inside by the fencing being camouflaged in the bush, or that they had been so hungry that desperation made them risk everything, but seeing the trap site close up made things easier to understand. As we looked around, I wondered just how many horses had lost their freedom and their families here, and how many of them had gone to slaughter. So much tragedy had happened here; the atmosphere felt heavy, much like I imagined an abandoned city or a bloody battlefield would feel.
A crystal-encrusted stalagmite and stalactite in the Yarrangobilly Caves.
Water dripping between stalagmites.
Having walked for almost an hour, we turned and headed back; if the trap site had been dismantled, it was probably because all the horses from this valley had either been caught or moved away to safer ground. During the long walk back, we were all quiet and reflective. Back at the car, we quickly pulled off some of our layers and were about to hop in when we saw a vehicle screech to a stop on the highway behind us. Two women, carrying cameras, jumped out and dashed up the snowy incline behind them, and our eyes searched the tree-line to see what had caught their eye. Just a few hundred metres from us, hidden among the gum trees, was a herd of Brumbies.
Grabbing our cameras in turn, Alexa and I quickly made our way towards them, slowing when we drew nearer so that the horses wouldn’t take flight. A bay mare watched us with interest; behind her, a chestnut and a few roans played. Over to the side, an older, battle-scarred, roan stallion stood watch. The other two photographers quickly lost interest, but we were totally absorbed in watching the interactions between the wild horses. Hilary and Mum soon caught us up, and were equally enthralled. We found ourselves balancing on mounds of dirt, in the middle of a swamp, to get the best photos. Over the next hour we played a game of advance and retreat while the horses watched us curiously. Gradually, their courage grew and some stepped forward to investigate. The stallion and his lead mare, a striking roan who was very similar in colour, kept grazing close to the swamp’s edge, keeping a careful eye on us. Taking care to keep both our boots and our cameras dry, Alexa and I headed further into the swamp, until we were crouching just 10 metres away from the herd; the horses were so close that only their heads filled the camera frame.
A recently used trap site on Long Plain Road.
A herd of Brumbies trotting through the gum trees.
The experience was surreal. We have often said that, by nature, wild horses shouldn’t be
scared of humans. They don’t fear rocks, or kangaroos, and nor do they warily avoid birds or wombats. They become cautious of things that cause them pain or fear. This herd, so similar to many of the Kaimanawas or Mustangs we’d seen in the wild, was naturally curious and interested in people; it’s not until they have a negative experience that they generally engage their fight-or-flight response. Unfortunately, the process of catching a wild horse, no matter how passive, would rarely be seen as positive; the very act itself robs them of their freedom, their family and their entire way of life. However, passive trapping would have to be the least traumatising of the different mustering methods, as their first exposure to humans is when they are transported to the holding yards as opposed to being caught or chased. Many of the injuries that are sustained during helicopter musters, where horses often have to be herded for great distances, or in Brumby running, are also avoided with passive trapping, which prevents the horses from associating people with the cause of their pain. Psychologically, the horses’ inability to protect themselves or avoid capture in a chase must take its toll. This would be especially so for the stallions and lead mares whose sole responsibility is to keep the herd safe.
Not wanting to interrupt the herd’s grazing for too long, we slowly backed away, carefully keeping to the high ground as we made our way back over the swamp. Back at the car, we decided to head higher into the mountains for one final scout before calling it quits for the day. With the improved visibility we hoped to find horses that would have been hidden in the mist that morning.
Just a few minutes later, my eye was drawn to a man taking photographs on the side of the road and we slowed to see what he was capturing; but it was just his kids in the middle of a snow fight. As we were about to pick up speed again, I noticed movement in the trees beyond. Pulling over, we spotted a small herd of Brumbies about 200 metres away from the road, and again we hiked out to see them. This time, however, deep snow slowed our movements and we struggled through the icy drifts. Worse, the fresh powder hid a river snaking along underneath the snow, and time and time again we would fall through into the icy water, at times hip-deep in snow. A snowboard would have come in handy! As we were already wet, we powered on, ignoring the chill. Soon the horses were close enough to appreciate; the stallion was a striking silver roan and his lead mare a sooty palomino. Beyond them a few more silvers stood, as well as a beautiful grey mare who was heavily in foal. The entire herd looked like they had stepped out of the pages of The Silver Brumby, and we watched them in awe, not quite believing that it was real. If they’d been born in the same era as Bel Bel and Thowra, when locals could chase and lasso Brumbies as much as they wished, I’m sure that this herd would have been hunted and captured for their rare colours.
Hiking through deep snow to photograph a herd of silver roan Brumbies.
A silver roan stallion in the Snowy Mountains.
CHAPTER 16
Protests at Parliament
Brumby activists marching on parliament to oppose the New South Wales government’s plans to cull 90 per cent of the wild horses in the Snowy Mountains.
Signs outside the gate of the holding yards, where recently trapped Brumbies are sorted and held.
On our way back, we stopped at the Brumby Gate Watch camp, which was set up opposite the holding yards by Blowering Dam. Brumby Gate Watch was a group of protesters who had set up camp over the long winter to monitor the trapping of the Brumbies. A number of people were warming up around a campfire and we quickly joined them, eager to learn more about their involvement, what they hoped to achieve, and what they’d seen since positioning themselves at the gates to the holding yards at the start of the trapping season.
On introducing ourselves, we soon learnt that our reputation had preceded us, and it wasn’t necessarily a good one! One of the women had recognised us from our television show and had no time for us, stating quite frankly that we were an accident waiting to happen. Another couple, however, were excited to meet us and loved the work we’d done to showcase the plight of wild horses and inspire the younger generation to love them. It wasn’t the first time that Keeping Up With The Kaimanawas had given people a biased view of our training methods. While it was rare for the show to be seen in a negative light, the assumptions some people came to based on 130 minutes of footage could be hurtful. It’s almost inevitable that this will happen — while we worked with the horses for thousands of hours over a five-month period, the demands of a reality TV show for a mainstream audience meant that the producers had to choose the most dramatic parts of the footage, and there was often no context for viewers to draw on.
After explaining our methods and having a good talk, even the woman who had initially written us off warmed up, and we began chatting about the history of Brumbies, how she saw their future playing out and why she believed that many of the Brumby groups weren’t looking out for the best interests of the horses. She proposed re-introducing legal Brumby running so that locals could manage the herds in the traditional way, and refusing to re-home Brumbies trapped by the National Parks and Wildlife Service (as she believed that re-homing was essentially justifying the removal of the wild horses). Instead, she suggested that Brumby groups should intercept slaughter trucks or save Brumbies directly from the abattoirs, so that the blood remained on government hands. For a government that essentially oversees the deaths of countless Brumbies each year, it amazed me that they could honestly say that they had never been responsible for the death of a Brumby. While government employees may not be selling wild horses for meat first-hand, there is no way they could be ignorant of the fact that the dogger dealers who collect the captured Brumbies each week make their profits by delivering the animals to the slaughterhouse.
Brumby activists marching on parliament.
With a lot to think about, we made the long drive back to Sydney. The thing that stood out most from everything we’d seen and heard was how much difference of opinion there was between Brumby groups. While their love for the Brumbies was undeniable, everyone we’d met seemed to have vastly different ideas on what the best outcome was and how to achieve it, and they often ended up working against each other. We could only imagine what could be achieved if the Brumby-lovers could unite and work towards a common goal.
AFTER A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP, we were up early for the anti-government protest at the parliament buildings. Hundreds of people opposed to the government’s radical plans had gathered from all across Australia, and they had a single unified aim: the near-eradication of these horses would not happen without a fight. While we waited for everyone to gather, we talked to some incredible people, including a woman who had opened up her home to foster kids and taught them how to work with horses. The kids were of various ages, but had all developed a love for horses in their new family, each being assigned a wild Brumby to work with when they first arrived. Like we’d seen with many of the kids we help at home, the horses gave them a purpose, taught them empathy and patience, and gave them something to love. Seeing how this had transformed their lives and the passion they had for the Brumbies was inspiring.
All around us people held up signs, a lovely gentleman passed out Brumby shirts, and riders on horses waited patiently for the protest to begin. Reporters photographed and filmed, people were interviewed and introductions were made. The effort that had gone into organising the protest was obvious and we felt privileged to be part of it. Shortly the procession began, and chanting filled the streets as hundreds of people made their way towards parliament; the camaraderie was powerful enough to give me chills. The desperation of these people to help the wild horses they loved was a sight to behold. As we walked, police were careful to keep traffic away from both horses and people.
For two hours, we all stood outside Parliament House while key people spoke about the cultural and historical significance of the Brumbies, the factual inaccuracies in the proposed Wild Horse Management Plan and the welfare issues that would result in ground-shooting 5400 wild horses and leaving t
heir carcasses to rot. Not only did wild-horse advocates share their knowledge, but members of parliament also spoke out in support of the wild horses, reflecting on previous Brumby massacres and how tragically they had gone wrong. While some Brumby advocates felt that the wild horses should be managed, there was unanimous disagreement that only 600 should be left; everyone believed that this would mean the death of the Snowy Brumbies.
The High Country experiences both extreme hot burns and extreme cold snaps, which have often proved fatal to the wild herds; many people believed that reducing the wild horse numbers by 90 per cent would put the entire population at risk. In 2003 a bush fire killed 2500 of the 4000 Brumbies in the Snowy Mountains, and an extreme snow event in the 1960s wiped out most of the Brumbies in Namadgi National Park, which borders Kosciuszko. One of the biggest concerns was that under the Wild Horse Management Plan, no Brumbies would be re-introduced into any region where herds had died through natural disaster; once the Brumbies were gone, they would be supported at that management level — meaning that no Brumbies would be allowed back into the Snowy Mountains, and any seen would be culled.
As I listened to the protesters, perhaps the hardest thing for me to get my head around was their willingness to throw any other animal into the line of fire. Posters and banners, as well as speeches, focused on proposing that the government cull kangaroos, wallabies, pigs and deer instead, turning the blame for the environmental damage onto other species. The message on one banner in particular had been adapted from a popular nursery rhyme, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth: