Before Samson could take the saddle, he had to accept the saddle pads. With my nervous pupil tied to the gate, I first rubbed him with my waffled neoprene nonslip pad liner. Dark black and apparently quite ominous, the pad liner sent Samson’s perimeter defenses to high alert. Refusing any hint of contact with the liner, Samson kicked his hindquarters out and he danced in place—he did whatever it took to avoid physical contact with this new threat. Though quite the line dancer, standing tied Samson had nowhere to go.
Next came the saddle pad. Samson’s short back and boney and still-undernourished frame made him a perfect candidate for my extrathick, durable, contoured canvas pad. It was my best pad, and up until this point I had taken great care to ensure that it stayed that way. And while this prized pad had valiantly survived many an unbroken horse, Samson had identified it as a threat and he now had it in his sights.
It never stood a chance.
The canvas pad survived two of its first encounters with Samson, but by the following week when the rule of three kicked in, my prized possession took one hell of a beating. With both liner and pad resting atop his back, Samson made it clear that like his biblical namesake, he would not go quietly. He collapsed his front end, raised his hindquarters, and released a single powerful buck. The pad and liner were ejected high into the air and then tumbled to the ground beneath Samson the conqueror. A dust cloud encircled the crime scene as my four-legged warrior took a long pause to stare into my eyes.
Did you see that? his gaze said. Now watch this!
Like the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock, Samson rocked back and forth. Using alternating fore- and hind-leg strikes, he mercilessly unloaded on the pad and liner as if he were a fighter pummeling a cornered opponent. When the bell sounded and the round ended, Samson stepped to his right, gazed back across his left shoulder, looked down, and eyed the defeated pad, liner, and saddle—now that is how it’s done.
At that very moment, I was anything but pleased with my pupil. My $30 pad liner was shredded; my $120 canvas pad, though not destroyed, was no longer prized and no longer pristine. I was now concerned for my saddle—it had survived many a crazed steed, none of which was the likes of this horse. If our experience with the pad and liner was any indicator, Samson’s eventual saddling was doomed and destined to fail.
Looking upon Samson, I realized that the old-time saying of the range that described the Mustang horse “once a wild one always a wild one”30 fit Samson to a T. His eyes alert and alive, his body pulsating with adrenaline, his posture upright and proud, Samson lived for battle and warfare. Once he was victorious, victory for this horse was like a drug. It empowered him, energized him, and sent him into the stratosphere. The range, the herd, nature, nurture, and the wild had hardwired this animal and nothing was going to change that. Under lead, under control of the bit, and soon to be broke, Samson was anything but a domesticated horse.
At that moment, I made a change in course. When speaking of my work with Samson, I no longer stated that I was in the process of breaking him. It was a concession that Samson did not know of, but it was a concession that he had earned. Though he had at times tried my patience, he had now earned and he now deserved my admiration and my respect. No one was going to break this horse; that much was clear.
As Samson struggled to stay true to his character and identity, his formerly free-roaming and now-captive cousins struggled to survive in the BLM’s Nevada holding facilities. While the month had started with a long-awaited court ruling that BLM cattle-grazing allotments had been improperly issued in an area of Arizona known as the Byner Complex, by mid-March the Calico Mustang death toll had passed into triple digits with sixty-nine deceased at holding facilities and thirty-nine aborted foals. Both animal welfare advocates and BLM spokespersons cited hyperlipemia, a disease associated with pregnancy, stress, or transportation, as the cause of many of the deaths. Mustang advocates focused their attention on roundup-induced stress, combined with the feeding of rich hay to desert horses that had evolved to survive on sparse rations. The BLM countered that the Calico Mustangs had arrived at the holding facilities already suffering from starvation and on death’s doorstep.
Photographs and videos taken by humane observers told a contrary story.
Despite the tragic and increasing loss of life, and while ostensibly disregarding the growing public furor, the BLM declared the Nevada roundup a success: “The Calico gather wasn’t ill fated. It was conducted in a professional and humane manner and achieved the goal of bringing an overpopulation of wild horses in the Calico Complex within established appropriate management levels.”31 With nineteen hundred fewer horses on the range and with nearly seven hundred thousand dollars in its coffers, both the BLM and the contractor that had handled the Calico operation stuck to their guns and heralded the roundup as a huge success. They were the only ones to do so.
“Listen here, buddy, you need to take it easy the next week.” I told Samson as I said my prevacation good-byes. “No epic battles with your three cousins, the dogs, the geese, chickens, and goats. Stay away from that damn fence. You’ve earned a vacation; catch up on your sleep; take in the warm spring breezes; just please take it easy for the next ten days.”
It was mid-March, and I was ready for my much-needed vacation. Amy and I had not spoken since the birthday incident and my batteries needed a recharge. Her inability to connect with Samson was no longer my problem or my concern—she wanted her horse fixed and she didn’t care how I went about it. Now my only focus was on him and his saddling, but I was finding it hard to leave. Feeling torn and doubting my decision to take a break, I abruptly turned and walked away.
As I was seated in my truck backing down the driveway, the sight of Samson standing uncharacteristically static and unmoving halted my hurried departure. Normally when I released Samson at the end of each training session, in an act of measured defiance he would instantly bolt from my presence. On this occasion, he hadn’t moved an inch. As one who has oft cautioned clients to refrain from attributing human feelings and thoughts to their horses, I understood that Samson could not have comprehended my parting words. Nonetheless, I was concerned that he had detected my heavy words and heavy heart.
I jumped out of my truck, vaulted the perimeter fence, and ran back across the pasture to Samson. Before I could reach him, he took the initiative and came trotting up to me. It was the first and for that matter the only time that this has ever occurred. What for most horses would be a normal, everyday occurrence was for this horse a truly telling act, a statement, and a cry for reassurance. As I stood next to him, Samson buried his face in my chest.
As I had spent the vast majority of my time split between dealing with Samson the aged and set-in-his-ways warrior and Samson the terminally haunted and abused victim, this was one of the few instances where I interacted with Samson the horse. Never needing anyone and never having anyone to need, Samson now stood seemingly alarmed and gravely concerned that he was losing the one and the only thing he had going for him—a friend. Needy, worried, and altogether vulnerable, Samson had exposed himself. These moments were few and far between, but these moments more than made up for Samson’s endless hours of doubt and fear-fueled standoffishness, his stubborn and willful noncompliance, his violent PTSD fits, and his oft-combative ways. And while these moments were fleeting, each provided the little that I needed to continue.
Leaning into Samson’s left ear, I whispered, “I’m going, but I’m not leaving—that I promise.”
Sadly, my words would not matter.
* * *
The following morning, I had one last stop to make—a bandage check—before heading off to Wyoming. Just a block shy of my client’s house, I found myself behind a row of cars stopped at a railroad crossing. The gates up and the red lights not flashing, I was perplexed as to why traffic was at a complete standstill. After I observed several motorists standing out in the pouring rain snapping photos and taking videos, I knew that something was amiss. Stretching my h
ead out the window, I was shocked by the chaotic scene that unfolded before my eyes.
“If you’re calling about the four horses that have been galloping through the streets for the last fifteen minutes, we’re trying to get our people there as soon as possible,” the 911 dispatcher advised.
“I’m going to try and catch them, so please have the officers silence their sirens,” I responded.
Four horses were pacing back and forth at the railroad crossing, lathered in sweat, pumped with adrenaline, and searching for a way across. After running wildly for fifteen minutes, they were, at that very moment, unapproachable. I had spent countless hours at this very spot—teaching clients’ horses to gather their courage and walk across peacefully. My experiences instructed that this group would not attempt such a crossing. As I gazed out the window, I observed a Good Samaritan approaching the horses with cupped hand, as if carrying a handful of grain.
“You don’t want to do that!” I shouted from five cars back.
A bullying gelding swung his rump around and sent her tumbling onto the pavement. Winded but unscathed, she jumped to her feet and ran back to her car. A situation like this could get even a trained professional killed—she was lucky to have escaped with her life. As the group collectively squealed and madly raced from one side of the road to the other, I surveyed the scene.
The area’s busiest four-way intersection was three hundred yards back in the direction that the horses had started. Cars would be whizzing through at 50 miles per hour; tragedy, both human and equine, would be a certainty. If the horses started back that way, I would have to stop and then catch them before they made it anywhere near there. But these horses weren’t wearing halters—stopping them would be hard enough, catching each next to impossible. Two of the horses seemed to be following the lead of the lone mare. She would be my primary target. Catch her and they will follow, I told myself. The brash gelding—riled and clearly looking for his next victim—would be left to last.
“So you’re just going to stand there and not do a thing!” a voice yelled out from the direction of the tracks.
Momentarily turning away from the crazed band of equines, I quickly recognized my client’s neighbor, who was standing some twenty feet from the horses with her hands parked on her hips. It was easy to recall why I had declined her many previous attempts to hire me. With a disapproving look, she turned and headed on a direct intercept course for the one horse I knew not to approach. Thank you very much, I thought to myself. Now we’ll have a chase.
Wasting no time, the riled gelding shot forward, racing down the open southbound lane at an all-out gallop. The three others followed closely behind. I jumped into my truck, did a U-turn, floored the accelerator, and took off in pursuit. Over the course of the last fifteen years, I have been called out to numerous equine-involved incidents. These have included capturing horses who had dumped their riders and wouldn’t be caught, horses who had escaped their pasture, and, sadly, trailer accidents. But on this day, as the horses galloped down the highway, darted in and out of oncoming traffic, and neared the busy intersection, I had simply and fortuitously happened upon the scene.
The horse gods were shining on this band of marauding equines.
Flashing my headlights and with hazards blinking, I sped south in the northbound lanes. Oncoming traffic could see the horses and was pulling onto the shoulder out of my way. The horses were closing in on the intersection and I was running out of roadway. For a moment, I thought all hope was lost. But then I remembered that there was an emergency access driveway that fed into the adjacent forest preserve. I had used it in the past when called out to assist in the capture of runaway horses. We would pass by it just before reaching the intersection—it was our last and only hope.
I gunned my truck and sped ahead of the group. I shot just past the driveway, slammed on the brakes, and left my truck parked diagonally across the roadway. I now had a choke point to funnel the horses up the driveway. All that was left to do was to get out on the roadway and force the horses to take the hard right turn onto the emergency driveway. With the horses galloping at close to 30 miles per hour, if they failed to make the turn and ran into me I would be finished. Giving this fact little thought, I hastily grabbed a lead line from inside my truck, took a deep breath, stepped out onto the roadway, and started swinging my arms and twirling the lead line in the air.
“Whoa there, honey. W-h-o-o-a-a!” I yelled out as I focused my stare on the mare.
She collapsed her hind end and dug her hind hooves into the pavement. The two horses following closely behind followed suit. The three were trying to stop, but due to the rain-slickened pavement, it didn’t look like they were going to make it. Way to go, Mitch, you didn’t take into account the rain, were the words bouncing around in my head.
The three horses came to a sliding stop less than two feet from sending me to my maker.
The crazed gelding, the troublemaker of the bunch, flew past at full speed—just grazing my arm in the process. I wasn’t worried about him; I knew he would double back and come looking for his herd. Without wasting any time, I reached into my truck and pulled out several lead lines and halters. I quickly looped a lead line around the mare’s neck and then did the same with her two fellow escapees. Just as I had the third horse secured with a line around his neck, the obstructive gelding returned and forced his way right into the middle of the herd.
“Oh no,” I told him. “I know better than to try this with you. You just hang out here with your buddies, catch your breath, calm down, and then we’ll give you and the lead line a try.”
“That’s ridiculous,” a man in five-hundred-dollar riding boots and breeches cried out as he exited his car. “Hand me that lead line and I’ll catch her.”
With several horse-boarding establishments located nearby, I knew that it was only a matter of time before reinforcements would arrive. Before I could even correct his mischaracterization of the horse’s sex, the man in the ironed, spotless riding outfit brusquely stepped up toward the horses and sent the gelding galloping back down the roadway. This in turn sent the three remaining horses into a frenzy. They reared up on their hind legs and wildly punched their forelimbs into the air. They spun, they kicked, and they bit. Their target was of course the one person holding them.
Me.
A crowd of local horse enthusiasts quickly gathered and offered up suggestions on how to catch the runaway gelding. “You should throw grain all over the road,” one suggested. “Walk up to him with a bag of peppermints,” another interjected. A third recommended that we all speak in hushed, welcoming tones and the horse would come seek us out. An older gentleman, decked out with cowboy hat and boots, disagreed with all three pundits: “I’ll rope him and tie him to the front of my truck. Trust me; he won’t be getting away from that.”
I had had enough. Officers from several law enforcement agencies were now on scene, and I turned to the one who knew me and laid out the plan, “If we can find three people to briefly hold each of these horses, then I can catch the lone dissenter. And I don’t need or want any of these here horse experts helping me out.”
To my amazement, not a one of the four alleged horse experts volunteered to hold the unruly escapees. Instead, three strangers—all animal lovers but none of whom had any experience handling horses—stepped up and did the duty. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I approached on and then retreated from the combative gelding as he ran wildly through the forest preserve. I knew that he wanted to be with his herd, and he knew that I would not permit this until he assented to being caught. When he finally turned, faced me, and dropped his head, our battle of wills and wits had come to an end.
Just as I was putting a halter on the now-compliant gelding, the urban myth of the unwanted, abandoned Mustang entered the equation. “Do you know what these are?” a well-known local horsewoman asked the crowd. “These are BLM Mustangs; they are being bought at auction and dumped by owners who don’t want them. This has been
happening all across the country; this is what happens when you shut down all of the slaughterhouses.”
Most in the horse world have heard these stories, all derived from the myth of the unwanted horse. Mustangs were being abandoned at highway rest stops, dumped at unoccupied farms, and in this instance left right in the middle of the road. Fabricated by critics of the wild Mustang and by horse slaughter advocates, the stories were fiction, but misinformation in the wrong hands can be a dangerous thing. Ironically, in this case the four runaway horses were anything but unwanted abandoned Mustangs. They were in fact four prized, pampered, and very valuable polo ponies.
Later that day, after receiving a phone call from the owner, I visited the farm where all four horses lived. Grazing in their pasture, these were not the horses I had chased and captured hours earlier. Three of the four were calm, content, and excessively friendly. The obstinate gelding, he was still rambunctious and borderline obnoxious—it was just his way.
“The gate was off one of its hinges; they just pushed it down and took off,” the owner explained. She then continued, “I don’t know how you knew it, but the mare is definitely the leader of the pack. And as for my trouble child, he has never been caught without a full bucket of grain, so you’ll have to teach me your secret.”
Fortunately for all involved, he was just my type.
Hours later, in the skies above the continental United States, I pondered the day’s events and I thought about my wayward Mustang all alone in his pasture. Unlike the polo ponies, he was a horse who could have been—maybe even may have been—abandoned. For the better part of his life, Samson had lacked purpose, control, and someone to care for him. He was anything but wanted. Nevertheless, he and the polo ponies shared something in common. All had crossed my path by way of a chance encounter. And all, I wanted to believe, were now the better for it.
Last Chance Mustang Page 21