Last Chance Mustang

by Mitchell Bornstein

  Jerking up on the reins, I raised Samson’s head, pulling him out of bucking position. Again I applied leg pressure to get him moving forward; Samson responded by bursting into an all-out gallop. Bounding toward the pasture’s north perimeter and Valley Girl—our one vociferous and visibly upset spectator—horse and rider were headed for a serious collision with the unyielding, razor-sharp barbed-wire fence. Using my right hand, I yanked hard on the right rein and doubled Samson back. The hard tug on his mouth in turn sent Samson into a wild and crazed buck fest. Before I even knew it, he had put twenty-two continuous bucks into me.

  Once again, I applied leg pressure to push Samson out of his static, bucking position. He in turn erupted into a wild brakeless gallop. With no end in sight to Samson’s madness and once we had exceeded the safety parameters of my “twenty-buck rule,” my inner voice instructed that it was time to say arrivederci and emergency dismount this horse. I kicked my feet out of the stirrups, pressed both hands against the saddle pommel, pushed hard, and ejected myself backward off of Samson.

  Still holding the reins in my left hand, I landed off to the side of Samson’s left hind leg. He made no effort to fight, flee, or kick. Concerned that an equipment issue may have caused his meltdown, I checked the saddle, pads, and cinch. It was a hollow, pointless gesture—deep down I knew exactly what had caused this eruption. Samson’s rule of three lived. Invigorated by his actions, Samson’s heart was pumping double time, his eyes were crystal clear, and his body was pulsating with kinetic energy. He was alive and basking in the thrill of victory.

  I too was alive and ever thankful for being in one piece. Nonetheless, my forty-year-old body had taken a massive and jarring beating. I remounted and rode Samson for forty-five minutes—his animated act of defiance having bought him a serious workout. For his part, Samson didn’t really seem to care how long the ride lasted. He lived for battle; he lived for this. Seeking to accentuate the positive, I told myself that I had experienced and survived the best of Samson’s worst. I convinced myself that Samson had expressed his feelings, excised his demons, and we could now move forward.

  I was, yet again, so wrong.

  Days later when I jumped on Samson’s back, horse and rider never made it out of mounting position. Sitting atop the Mustang, I leaned down to my right, grabbed the stirrup, and pushed my foot in. Then, while still bent over, I realized that Samson’s head was cocked to the right and he was looking at me with that evil right eye of his. He looked down at the stirrup, and then up to me, down at the stirrup, and then back up at me. The gleam in his eye was unmistakable. Are you all set? Comfy? Good!

  “Oh crap!” I exclaimed. From a complete standstill, Samson unloaded.

  As I had survived many a bucking horse, my experiences had instructed that the biggest and strongest horses are not the horses who inflict the most damage. The smart horses, the ones who throw a buck into you when you are swinging your right leg over the saddle and mounting, or pulling it back across the saddle when dismounting, are in fact the most dangerous. They know to strike when you are exposed, defenseless, and vulnerable. Samson, however, was an equal-opportunity combatant. He believed that warfare should take place on a level playing field, and thus he waited until I had brought my leg over his back and placed my foot in the stirrup and was seated.

  It really didn’t matter, for I never stood a chance.

  In less than a second, Samson hammered me with the three most powerful, violent, and painful bucks of my career. He launched me like a drunken rodeo clown high into the stratosphere and terminal velocity brought me crashing back down into the hard soil. Facedown in the mud, I was thoroughly dazed and certain that some part of my body was no longer where it belonged. Tilting my head up, I looked over at Samson, standing just yards away.

  Without blinking, he stared at me long and hard. His expression bore no signs of contempt, anger, remorse, or delight. In that moment, I realized that Samson’s explosive demonstration was intended not as an act of war but, rather, as the communication of a message: Never forget who and what I am. In twenty years of riding horses, I had been involuntarily ejected on only three occasions. I had never been expelled in three bucks. It was a truly humbling experience and a message I have never forgotten.

  The following week, midride, Samson again flew into a buck fest. Only this time, I knew how he moved, how he pitched, angled, and maneuvered. And though it took twenty-five bucks and a total disregard of my “twenty-buck rule,” I rode him out. Both Samson and I had each relished a victory and each wallowed in a defeat. Something happened to us both on those rides: a mutual understanding of sorts. Two aging warriors had squared off and engaged in battle. There was no winner and there was no loser. There was only mutual respect, mutual admiration, and mutual friendship. There was only a horse and a horseman.

  * * *

  In the western part of the United States, the captured Calico Mustangs were still dying. Together, these horses along with those still free and their forty thousand cousins held in BLM holding facilities were known by labels other than “historically significant,” “majestic,” “wild,” and “free-roaming.” Sadly, the Mustang horse long heralded for its speed, endurance, adaptability, and fortitude was still feral, still unwanted, still the curse of the range, and still the cockroach of the West. To many, it remained an inbred mongrel and vermin-like beast.

  Back in McHenry County, Illinois, one Mustang had rewritten his life story and in the process cast aside his hateful labels. This Mustang was no longer worthless, no longer hopeless, no longer without purpose, and no longer unwanted. He was no longer untrainable, unmountable, and unridable. If Samson could rewrite his history, then I held out hope that the once prized and celebrated and now-forgotten American wild Mustang could rewrite its history.

  Amy’s formerly lawless, maladjusted Mustang was now whole again. Only time would tell if his rehabilitation would be her redemption.

  Samson was under saddle. He was not, however, broken. The term was not fitting for this horse. Though he had been trained, mounted, and ridden, a part of Samson would forever roam the western frontier as a true wild American Mustang. A part of Samson would forever be wild and free as nature had intended him to be.

  {13}

  A HORSE AT HOME, A HORSE FOR THE AGES

  A Hibernian sage once wrote that there are three things which a man never forgets: the girl of his early youth, a devoted teacher, and a great horse.

  —C. J. J. MULLEN

  While the BLM’s Calico gather operations concluded in early February 2010, in the weeks and then months that followed interned wild Mustangs continued to perish. By May, with 39 unborn horses aborted and a total of 134 lives lost, the current and future generation of free-roaming Calico Mustangs had been decimated. With a total of 126 horses lost in gather operations for all of 2008, the ill-advised and deadly Calico operation signaled that mismanagement, reckless indifference, and negligence still permeated the BLM Wild Horse and Burro Program. And in the same vein that unspeakable horrors brought newfound protection for the wild horse in 1971, by midsummer of 2010 the Calico winter tragedy—the unnecessary and avoidable loss of life—would compel a reversal in BLM policy.

  As the circular story of the wild Mustang continued to redundantly rotate, under unrelenting public and congressional pressure, scrutiny, and criticism, change was coming. For the American wild horse, death would again pave the road to salvation.

  In the weeks following his first mounting, Samson worked hard to come to terms with his new reality. He was domesticated, but he was no Mr. Ed—having a person seated on his back remained a tough pill for this Mustang to swallow. This was a horse who was used to going it all on his own; he didn’t need or want a passenger along for the ride. Making matters worse, I wasn’t just a passenger; I was the driver.

  Despite Samson’s resentment, violence remained absent during this period. We had been there and done that, and now the only elixir for Samson’s ills was a combination of my time, pati
ence, and understanding. Having long counseled clients, “shaky rider, shaky horse, scared rider, crazy horse,” I knew in this case Samson needed my A game. The goal of course was to build Samson’s confidence, to give him direction, purpose, and an outlet for his tremendous stores of pent-up energy.

  Yet, as his first month under saddle neared its end, the horse I sat atop was anything but confident, comfortable, or content. I questioned whether Samson was too old, too damaged, and too far gone to be ridden.

  And then one afternoon, I trotted Samson along the fence line where the two minis and Studs stood grazing. Normally, they would hurl mocking nickers and insulting neighs from the safety of their adjoining pasture. Now, gazing out at Samson as if he were royalty traversing Westminster Abbey’s central aisle, they were quiet, deferential. In an instant my mount’s sluggish, disjointed gait turned animated and collected. His stride covered feet rather than just inches and his hanging head shot up to the vertical position.

  Samson held his head high and strutted like a Triple Crown winner.

  “Praise the tall, but saddle the small,” was the Mexican proverb I whispered into Samson’s ear. This wild-at-heart Mustang had come full circle and was now all horse.

  It was time for me to say good-bye. Samson had been trained, mounted, and ridden—my services were no longer needed; my duties, now complete. Carrying baggage from my recent past, with the wound of the Quarter Horse sold out from under me still fresh, I feared that Samson would be sent away. His continued presence, I figured, would only elicit bad memories. But then, one afternoon, Amy and I passed on the driveway and my concerns were laid to rest.

  “It’s a beautiful thing,” she started, without making eye contact, “seeing him with a saddle and rider on his back. I can’t imagine that he belongs anywhere else but here.”

  Amy had observed her new and improved, somewhat composed Mustang model and declared that he could stay. And I had observed that she seemed happier, at ease, and at peace with herself, her decisions, and her fate. Samson’s rehabilitation had been Amy’s validation. She was now accepting of her choices, her decisions, and her new life. Both rescuer and horse now had purpose; both were now whole again. And together, both had a new start.

  Amy and Samson were no longer stuck together. They now belonged together. Samson’s training was complete; he would have a home, if he wanted it. But I had yet to leave. For some reason, I couldn’t say good-bye.

  As Samson and I turned the corner in McHenry County, thousands of miles away in Denver the BLM was gearing up for its mid-June 2010 Wild Horse Workshop. Seeking to stem the fervor over the Calico tragedy, just days before the start of the workshop the BLM issued what many called a historic press release. “It’s a new day, and we need a fresh look at the Wild Horse and Burro Program,” announced BLM director Bob Abbey.32 Outlining a “new strategy,” Abbey declared that the BLM would no longer permit the outright sale without limitation of excess Mustangs and the euthanasia of otherwise-healthy excess horses.

  Other options that the BLM would be weighing would include the potential reintroduction of wild horses into areas where they no longer existed, the increased use of fertility controls, the establishment of preserves for unadoptable horses, the designation of selected herds as “treasured,” and the use of science and research to help manage the nation’s wild horses. In Abbey’s own words, “As part of this effort, we want all those with an interest in wild horses and burros and their public lands to consider our initial ideas and offer their own.”33 Built upon the corpses of deceased Calico Mustangs, the BLM pronouncements were grand, and wild horse advocates could only hope that this time the promises would amount to more than mere PR jargon.

  Days later, Samson and I once again joined up for a ride in the corncrib pasture. Only on this day, the absence of suitable and safe training environs; an overly flirtatious mare; the fury of an overtly jealous former stallion; and the return of an old enemy would nearly take my life. I always knew that the corncrib pasture’s dangerous terrain would cost me, and on this day it was time to pay the piper. Samson’s celebration of the BLM pronouncement would put me on the ground and under his hooves.

  It was a summer afternoon like any other. As Samson and I executed figure eights in the corncrib pasture, Studs and Valley Girl quietly and discreetly rendezvoused at the fence separating the south and north pastures. After several moments of mutual petting and grooming, the mare’s hushed nickers quickly yielded to high-pitched wails as Studs planted numerous love bites across her topside. With his back to the escalating commotion and his direction of travel under my control, Samson could do little but slowly simmer. But once we reached the fence line and turned back, he caught a glimpse of the nefarious couple entangled in what he most certainly envisioned as an elicit and scandalous affair. In mere seconds my calm and humble mount transformed into a violent, possessive wild stallion.

  In other words, all hell broke loose.

  Before I had time to react, horse and rider were bounding at an all-out gallop toward the surreptitious lovers. Directly in our path sat the aged but still patently effective barbed-wire fence. Determined and now completely consumed by the primal emotions that had ruled his prior life, Samson gave little thought and paid even less attention to the pending impact. As we closed the distance to the fence line, I, however, remained transfixed on the barrier’s rusted and jagged barbs. Pulling hard on the right rein, I doubled Samson back, applied leg pressure, and pushed my jealous steed to the opposite side of the pasture.

  Turning Samson so that he faced the flirting couple, I was not only my pupil’s trainer but also his marriage counselor, “Look, what they’re doing is natural for your kind. You have nothing to worry about, ole boy.” For a moment, it seemed as though Samson accepted my trite explanation of what was for him a capital offense. And then, after Samson looked back to me, then across to his mare, and back to me again, for the second time all hell broke loose.

  Interchangeably running and bucking, Samson was determined to make it over or through the barbed-wire fence. Just several yards shy of impact, I yanked hard on the reins and pulled Samson into a sliding stop. I then took a pause to gather my thoughts, take a deep breath, and assess the situation. We were standing amid the corncrib pasture’s western perimeter replete with low-hanging branches, roots protruding from the ground like trip wires, and a randomly poured, menacingly threatening concrete pad. This was no place for horse and horseman to duke it out.

  Okay, I told myself, you’ve got this under control: just diffuse the situation. If the incident had ended at that very moment, Samson and I would have walked away none the worse for the wear. But the horse gods had different plans for me.

  Off in the distance, I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a low-flying, fast-approaching helicopter. “Oh, come on! You have got to be kidding me,” I blurted out. Before I could even act, Samson reacted. In one explosive motion, he leapt from the grass directly onto the concrete pad. There, standing static, he repeatedly bounced off of the hard surface like an Olympic gymnast vaulting from the springboard. One, two, three, four, five, I counted in my head the continuous, jarring bucks.

  Samson the professional bucking horse/PBR bull was out of retirement and back in the arena.

  Gravely concerned that Samson was going to tip over backward, throw me down onto the concrete, and land on top of me, I decided to emergency dismount. I glanced over to the right, but twenty feet of concrete advised against such a move. Off to my left, the soft soil was only three feet away, so left it was. This time I wasn’t going off the backside. This time I was going to leap off and just pray that I cleared the concrete.

  I landed in the soil just inches from the concrete pad with a loud thud and a judge’s score of a perfect 10. As I congratulated myself on the nearly flawless dismount and started to rise up to my hands and knees, the helicopter flew directly over our heads. Unable to contain and harness his fear, Samson leapt to his left. Without even knowing it, he smashed me back down i
nto the ground and ran me over like a steamroller moving across blacktop.

  In the moments that followed, I tried to inventory the damage. My greatest concern was for my head, neck, and spine. A shredded T-shirt and blood flowing from four distinct locations on my back told me that Samson had trampled me with all four hooves. The fact that I could move my hands, arms, legs, and feet said that he had miraculously missed my spinal cord. More concerned with Samson’s well-being than my own injuries, I promptly shifted my gaze over to my Mustang pupil standing several feet off to the left. Manic breathing, pulsating nostrils, and an expression that said, My god, what have I done? I just killed my one and only friend, convinced me that he could not account for his actions. It was yet another of his many PTSD fits.

  “Do you see this?” I said to Samson as I peeled back what remained of my T-shirt and flashed the four bloody, freshly minted full-size hoofprints. “This is why they say jealousy is the root of all evils. I hope you learned a lesson today.”

  With another of my nine lives expended, I felt blessed and fortunate to be alive. As for Samson, with the day’s events fueled by a strange confluence of circumstances I didn’t feel that discipline was necessary or appropriate. In the weeks that followed, on the days that Valley Girl and Studs met up at the gate and the other days when the trauma transport chopper cut across the sky Samson behaved under saddle and once again proved that he could distinguish right from wrong and learn from his mistakes.

  Like Achilles with his heel, like the biblical Samson and his golden locks, this Mustang had exposed a weakness. Only his weakness wasn’t a physical deformity or a deity-gifted aberration. Samson’s weakness was his innate, instinctive need for a herd and a mate. Samson’s weakness was his mare, Valley Girl.