I was shocked and dismayed that Amy had brought a mare to the farm just as we were nearing our ultimate goal. Though her intentions were good, everything, all that Samson had learned and all that we had accomplished, was now at risk.
The newest addition to Amy and Lisa’s game preserve had arrived as a board horse just two days prior. Because Samson had previously shown some distanced tolerance for a mare temporarily housed at the farm the year prior, the sisters had permitted the two to become pasture mates. Samson, to my amazement, was instantly taken and smitten. As I looked out upon the courting duo, the mare caught sight of my gaze and instantly ran over. She was a large horse, substantially taller, wider, and thicker than Samson. Her appearance indicated that she was young; her behavior suggested she lacked schooling and training. Once at the fence, she was overtly sociable, engaging, and animated.
She was the antithesis of Samson.
Borrowing a title from a movie of my youth and by virtue of her bubbly personality and dirty-blond coloring, I named the mare Valley Girl. As I talked to and petted her, Samson slammed his right foreleg into the ground, squealed high-pitched wails, and shot me daggers. The totality of his mannerisms and appearance spoke of contempt, disdain, and threat. His message was clear: stay away from Valley Girl.
As I passed through the gate that led from the crib to the south pasture, Samson—amped up and agitated—nervously circled his newfound love interest. Feeding off of his negative energy, Valley Girl immediately erupted into an explosive rage. Running, bucking, and squealing, she bolted to the pasture’s far corner with Samson close behind. Now I had a very serious problem—two horses who refused to be separated.
As if things weren’t bad enough, seconds later the skies opened up unleashing a drenching downpour. With the sun still shining, it was a strange sight, an omen, and a sign that nothing on this day would go as planned.
I spent the next hour trying to segregate the two lovers. The south pasture was the length and width of a football field, so it was a losing proposition. Samson, for his part, abstained from direct threat and violence—merely seeking flight with each of my many approaches. He knew better. Untrained and immature, Valley Girl, on the other hand, did not. She kicked out at me, charged on my position, and tried to run me down. Knowing better than to turn my back on Samson, between the two explosive equines I was outmanned, outgunned, and overpowered. I felt like a carved wooden horse bolted to a merry-go-round—left rotating in a continuous 360-degree arc but going nowhere.
Eventually, I was able to chase Samson into the crib pasture. Just as I closed the gate, Valley Girl rammed it at a full gallop. She was left dazed, confused, and on the ground but no worse for the wear. As I waited for her to get back to her feet, a strange sensation warned that danger was near. I rotated around to find Samson rapidly approaching on my position. At three feet away, he halted, raised his head, and looked down on me.
It was his one last and final warning: Move away from the gate, or I will move you.
Nose to muzzle, we squared off on each other. The look in Samson’s eyes said that he would not succumb willingly. My gaze, my body language, said that he had no say in the matter. The encounter was just getting started and it was to be the greatest battle of our relationship.
Free of anger and impatience, I turned the training clock back and sought to move and keep Samson moving until he evinced some form of compliance. Stocked full of pure rage and contempt, the Mustang wanted no part of the pressure/release-of-pressure game. He knew my strategy, and experience had taught him how to avoid it. He ran.
Like a still-free Mustang galloping across the open desert, he was wild, untamed, and uncatchable. Undaunted by the close confines of the crib pasture, Samson’s stampeding hooves shredded the moist soil—blanketing his underside with layer upon layer of wet, adhering mud. Seeking shelter behind the corncrib and out of sight, he would await my approach and then promptly scurry around the building to the opposite side. Round and round we went: clockwise, counterclockwise, and then back again. Repeatedly and endlessly we played this game of cat and mouse. Each time that I moved him away from the structure, he would eventually find his way back.
Like hamsters on a wheel, we circled, and circled, and circled.
A second hour passed and I was no closer to catching my determined and disobedient student. When he needed to catch his breath, he would run to the pasture’s far corner, slow his respirations, and rest while I slowly drudged through the muddy, quicksand-like pasture. There was no doubt in my mind—Samson had played this game before. As I was dressed for what had been forecasted as a sunny day, the elements and the horse were taking a toll on me. With the downpour showing no sign of subsiding and Samson no closer to surrender, the law of diminishing returns counseled that it was time to step back and regroup. In fifteen years of working with difficult horses, I had never failed to catch a horse. In fifteen years, I had never been so humbled.
On this day, Samson was the victor, I was the vanquished.
When I opened the gate separating the crib and south pastures, Valley Girl flew past at a full gallop and promptly rejoined her new mate with a chorus of celebratory nickers and neighs. Drenched to the bone, spent and defeated, I retreated back over the perimeter fence. Samson no longer needed me. Worse yet, he no longer wanted me. My prized pupil had disregarded my teachings and rejected my friendship. It was the lowest point of my career. I only wanted what was best for Samson, and it seemed that was Valley Girl. I was not going to force anything on him; I was not going to repeat the mistakes of those who had come before me. Leaning against the pasture fence, I said what I believed was my final good-bye.
Standing there in the pouring rain, I hit rock bottom.
As he neared the fence, Samson’s nostrils shot steam into the air. His customary victory swagger was missing; the twinkle in his eye, absent. He looked upon me in a way that I had never seen. You left just when you were becoming interesting, were the words that I imputed to his piercing gaze. I interrupted my good-byes to gaze upon the animal who had become so much more than just a student and a troubled horse. He was now a friend, my friend, and I stopped to consider his perspective.
Samson’s herd, his ways, his entire existence had all long since been lost. The moment that he was mounted, he would lose the little remaining autonomy he had left. To make matters worse, I was trying to separate him from his mare—a piece of his past he had only recently recaptured. Samson needed me to understand who he was, what he was, and where he had come from. This wasn’t about me; this was about Samson.
“I promise,” I yelled out, “that you will be mounted with the respect which you are due. I promise to respect your relationship with Valley Girl!”
Samson had reminded me of what mattered and what was important. “I will be back, and we will finish this,” were the words I spoke as Samson stared into my eyes from just inches away.
Driving home, I replayed each and every of my visits with Samson. My rationale for training this Mustang had been and remained simple: to give Samson purpose, to instill him with a sense of worth and value, and to ultimately improve and make his life better. Training Samson had never been about me, it had always been about him, and it had to remain that way. My desires, my ego, could not and would not factor into my decision to mount and ride this horse. If Valley Girl provided Samson with true happiness, if he no longer needed or desired my schooling, my direction, and my friendship, then I would step aside and remove myself from the equation.
I decided that I would clear my schedule for the following day, return to the farm, and objectively assess Samson’s mannerisms, expressions, and actions. If I observed contempt, disdain, and anger, then I would call an end to Samson’s training. Ironically, we were so close and yet further than we had ever been from achieving our final goal of rewriting Samson’s story. But happiness was what I wanted for this Mustang, happiness is what he deserved, and happiness is what he would get.
Twenty-four hours later, with
battle lines drawn, Samson, Valley Girl, and I reengaged. After forty minutes, I was able to cull Samson into the crib pasture. Thirty minutes later, I had him caught and under lead. Though Samson put up a fierce fight, there was no sign of the prior day’s contempt, disdain, or anger. It was all I needed to move forward.
Walking Samson to the gate where I would tie him, I realized that the lead line connected to his halter was not the one that I had been using since our first encounter. This lead line had a steel rope clamp affixed to it; my other line was hardware free. The steel clamp could prove to be quite dangerous in the event of a blowup, but I had left my other lead line with a client who was learning to tie his horse. No big deal, I told myself, what could happen? Once again, it was a grave miscalculation.
Just as I finished tying Samson to the gate, a loud crash sent me reeling around. Turning toward the gate that separated the crib and south pastures, I observed Valley Girl crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Unable to control her separation anxiety, she had, once again, rammed the gate at full speed. Instantly I went into emergency mode as my brain instructed that Samson was at that moment my overriding concern. Whirling back around to him, I instantly recognized that I was too late.
Though present and accounted for in physical form, the Mustang was no longer in control of his actions and reactions. Valley Girl was down; the collision had flipped his switch. Twisting, turning, wrenching, and pulling, Samson was a tied, rampaging beast. Out of the corner of my right eye, I noticed something hurdling toward my face and instinctively, reflexively, threw my right hand in its path. In a true exhibition of the power of Equuus caballus, Samson’s rage had literally pried apart the closed end of the rope clamp—releasing the lead line and catapulting the steel clamp like a bullet from a gun.
As I looked down at my right index finger, the sight of exposed bone and profuse bleeding, combined with nearly immediate nausea, told me that my finger was broken. With Valley Girl still down, Samson ramped up by her side, and my finger mangled, I had to gather my thoughts and triage the injuries. Wrapping my finger in a bandana, I grabbed my backup lead line and caught and then retied Samson. Next I ran to the gate and helped Valley Girl to her feet. I then returned to Samson and confirmed that he was injury free.
It could have been worse, I thought to myself. At least a helicopter didn’t fly overhead.
Despite Valley Girl’s momentary lapse of judgment and my broken finger, I chose to push forward and end the day on a positive note. I placed my saddle on Samson’s back and attached, then tightened and tied the cinch. While Samson’s animated response communicated that he was less than pleased with this development, there was no sign of contempt, disdain, or anger. All I saw was Samson merely being Samson.
As I watched Samson and his mare affectionately reunite, I realized that what was already destined to be the most challenging mounting of my career had just become that much more difficult and perilous. An unanticipated arrival, an unexpected love interest, had literally and figuratively rocked my and Samson’s world. How, I questioned myself, am I going to mount this Mustang with that lawless, insecure, immature hussy rampaging about? While Valley Girl had turned my world upside down, I nonetheless recognized that she had righted Samson’s. And so, I welcomed her arrival and, like everything else in this crazy relationship, decided that we would simply deal with it.
Ironically, in time Valley Girl would be the best thing that ever happened to Samson.
The following week, I implemented a plan designed to remedy the latest challenge to my abilities—Samson’s separation anxiety–riddled girlfriend. Repeatedly, I removed Samson from the pasture, kept him apart from Valley Girl for increasing increments of time, and then returned him before the young mare would explode. The strategy was simple: to teach the insecure Valley Girl that no matter what, Samson would always return to her. Once she made it through an entire hour without a meltdown, Valley Girl received the ultimate reward, the icing on the cake—she received an apple. A quick study, Valley Girl promptly figured out my reward system, and her youthful and immature separation-related antics quickly subsided.
As the young mare dealt with her insecurities, Samson was learning to accept my body weight. Placing my foot in the left stirrup, I pulled myself up, straightened my body, and leaned hard against the saddle. The stirrup, the saddle, and Samson were now holding my 175 pounds. The first few times I did this, the frightened Mustang kicked out at me with his left hind leg. The next dozen, he tried to run out from under me.
I could have parked Samson face-first in front of a wall in order to obstruct his attempts at flight, but inasmuch as his actions were inevitable, I decided to cut to the chase: openly invite and then address the problem. Working from within the vast and open south pasture, with me standing up in both the left and right stirrup, Samson was provided every opportunity to bolt. And this horse repeatedly seized the moment. Time after time, he would charge off; I would jump off and double him back into a tight circle. Over the next several weeks, I saddled Samson, walked him through the pastures, and stood up on his left and then his right side.
We had nothing but time.
By the second week of May, Samson’s fear had started to recede and the willful, calculating aged Mustang warrior soon replaced the doubting, insecure horse. When I arrived at the farm late in the day on May 14, one quick glance out at Samson told me that the warm spring day had him primed for battle. Once he was saddled, we walked through the crib and south pastures as Samson raced to get away, bucked, and reared up. He simply couldn’t stand still. This horse was truly feeling his oats. Over the next hour, Samson uncharacteristically expended huge stores of energy both celebrating spring’s arrival and doing battle with the saddle.
“Well, you are certainly all horse today,” I told Samson. “I know this probably isn’t the day to do this, but hey, if you’re pumped then I’m pumped. So, let’s do this.”
Without hesitating, I grabbed the reins and Samson’s mane in my left hand and the cantle in my right, placed my left foot in the stirrup, threw my right leg over his back, and sat atop the Mustang. He stood silent, unmoving, and tense. To be honest, I think he was shocked by the immediacy of it all. I leaned forward to rub the right side of his neck, but a quick head toss advised that this was no time for comfort, praise, or affection. Samson was thinking, digesting, and inputting and he wanted to be left alone. Using a trick of the trade, I released a loud sigh in the hopes that Samson would follow suit and release his tension. He didn’t. Yes, Samson was frightened, but he was also clearly annoyed and agitated.
“Oh, come on, old man, get over it.” I told him in a comforting yet mocking tone. “You damn well knew this was coming. This is a good thing. I am truly proud of you, ole boy, and you in turn should be proud of yourself.”
Refusing to flinch, twitch, or move, Samson remained stoic, impassive, and focused. His head was cocked slightly to the right, just enough so that he could see me with his right eye. He had the look of a boxer who had lost the bout but didn’t want to leave the ring. This fighter wasn’t quite sure if he should concede the victory or stand and fight. Samson was one proud horse and I tried my best to understand his wash of emotions.
“Okay, buddy, I get where you are coming from.” I told him. “But where others have been broken, you, my friend, have your spirit intact. So walk up for me and we’ll call it a day.”
Samson lurched forward. He understood the command but was simply too scared to fully execute it. So we waited: waited for Samson to muster his courage, waited for him to get his legs underneath him, and waited for this Mustang to take the biggest steps of his life. And then, with a human being planted on his back, Samson the wild Mustang warhorse took two steps forward, back into history. Instantly my nervous energy converted into beaming pride.
My dismount, as expected, sent Samson into a tiff, but we had plenty of time to work out the kinks. On this truly special and momentous day, Samson had earned his apple and maple syrup. But when presented wit
h his favorite treat, he narrowed his gaze, curled his upper lip, and contemptuously turned away. You had to love this horse and how he stayed true to his ways, true to his self. This was Samson, the unbroken, true wild American Mustang.
I placed the treat in the grass and released Samson. He walked over to it, lowered his head, glanced at me for several moments, and then devoured his most prized reward.
“You did good today, old man; you did good.” I told him as I exited the pasture.
Amy received the good news via e-mail.
Days later, Samson’s second mounting went off without incident. He walked when prompted, circled when directed, and held his stand when told to do so. All was right with the world. That is, all was right up until Samson’s third mounting. On this day, even an uneducated observer could have deduced that Samson was prepared for battle. His gaze was fixed, cold, and unyielding. His respirations were long and deep; his muscles, taut and constricted.
Samson the warrior was back in the house.
For the first several minutes of the ride, all went as planned. And then, after we walked to the south pasture’s far fence line, we turned back to nothing but vast open space. Gazing out at the pasture that unfolded before him, Samson promptly realized that he had a runway, room to take me for a ride, and an opportunity to put me in my place. For a split second, my mount turned and looked back at me over his right shoulder.
Buckle up; the ride is about to start.
Once his head returned to the vertical position, he exploded. Like a dolphin arcing out of and then back into the water, Samson leapt forward, crowhopping across the pasture. I applied leg pressure to his abdomen and tried to push him forward into a normal gait. Samson slammed on the brakes, lowered his head, and unleashed a flurry of spine-jarring bucks. He was a professional bucking horse, a champion PBR bull, and a wild Mustang all packaged into one. My back—its two herniated and one bulged disk—took the full impact of each powerful jolt.
Last Chance Mustang Page 23