Horse Lover

by H. Alan Day

  “Yes, I am. I’m Alan Day.”

  “If you have a moment, Mr. Day, I’d like to talk to you about your sanctuary. I’m working on a project involving a lot of horses and you might be of help.”

  I didn’t know anyone named Kevin Costner but said fine, I’d be happy to listen. He proceeded to explain that he was an actor and was directing a movie set in South Dakota. It had to do with Indians and would be filmed on the prairie. He asked a ream of questions about the location of the ranch and its layout, then peppered me with questions about the horses.

  “Can you control your horses enough to be able to film them?” he asked.

  “You betcha,” I said and babbled about how we had trained the horses and could move them in one herd from pasture to pasture. “They’re most cooperative,” I said, ever the proud parent. We had not experienced any more wrecks or mishaps since moving day in May.

  Costner said, “Several of the scenes involve an Indian camp and a river and a large group of horses that will be used as the remuda.”

  “Well, we have the Little White River that runs through five miles of the ranch and yes, we can control the horses so they could be filmed as the Indians’ ponies,” I said.

  “I would like to send you a copy of my script and have you read it to see if you can envision the movie being shot on your ranch.”

  I agreed and we hung up. I walked back outside. The turkeys were fat-rumped specks waddling up the last hill of the road before it turned out of sight. A funny feeling settled over me. That had been a strange conversation. I never went to movies. What if this guy wasn’t an actor? What if I was being flimflammed by a hustler? I went back inside and called my buddy Mike Berry in Tucson, the biggest movie buff I knew.

  “You ever heard of an actor by the name of Kevin Coogan?” I asked him.

  “Kevin Coogan? No, never heard of him.”

  “Well, some guy named Kevin Coogan just called me and insinuated he’s some big movie star and is looking to shoot a film up here on the ranch. I’m wondering if he’s for real or giving me a line.”

  “Kevin Coogan, huh? You sure that’s his name?”

  “Well, yeah. I’m pretty sure,” I said, not feeling so sure. Names and I have never gotten along well. I heard a creak like a chair leaning back and then a hollow slap, like a hand hitting something.

  “You wouldn’t by chance mean Kevin Costner?”

  “Uh, yeah. I might mean Kevin Costner.” So I misplaced a few letters. Mike assured me he was the real deal and advised me to rent Field of Dreams and Silverado. I told him I’d have to get a VCR first.

  A few days later, FedEx delivered a box to the ranch. I settled in at my desk, took my pocketknife, slit the end of the box, and slid out a slim black binder filled with a little over a hundred pages of paper. I flipped it open to the first page. Dances with Wolves, written by Michael Blake. Every free moment that weekend, I picked up the screenplay. By Sunday night I had finished it. Even with its foreign notations and directions, the story gripped me. I never read a script and didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I could envision it being shot on Mustang Meadows Ranch, especially the scenes of an Indian camp on the banks of a river with a horse herd nearby. Costner called midweek and I shared my thoughts.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come see your ranch and the horses,” he said.

  “Works with me,” I said. We picked a day two weeks out and I filed it in my mental calendar.

  I landed my 182 Cessna at the Front Range Airport in Denver and went into the pilot’s lounge where Costner and I arranged to meet. He was bringing his producer, Jim Wilson, with him. About ten people were scattered at tables. Two guys in jeans and cowboy boots sat at one. They were about the same age, both with sandy brown hair and athletic. I wasn’t sure who was Costner and who was Wilson, so I introduced myself.

  Ten minutes later, we boarded the plane; Kevin sat next to me and Jim took the backseat. Kevin mentioned that he had never flown in such a small plane. We taxied out to the run-up area. I picked up my well-used checklist from the dash. I had it memorized but didn’t want to appear too nonchalant about piloting, so I went down the list with my finger, checked the steering wheel for free action, cycled the prop, checked oil pressure, checked the mags. Kevin leaned around the seat and said to Jim, “This guy has to read the instruction manual before taking off.” Great, I had a comedian and actor on board.

  During the seventy-five-minute flight, Kevin told me more about his vision for the movie. It would be his first effort directing. He felt fully confident that he could do it, but Hollywood questioned his ability and refused to put up the money. Eventually he found funds from an investor in Italy. I well knew the language of naysayers. It has a limited vocabulary of words like “never,” “can’t,” and “crazy,” phrases like “no way, “what’s he thinking,” and the ultimate wet blanket, “it’s impossible.” If I had taken the cynics’ advice to heart, I might own a ranch in South Dakota, but the only horses on it would be a half-dozen saddle horses. Paddling upstream seemed to be my role in life and Kevin seemed to be sharing the same canoe.

  We landed in Valentine and hopped in the Suburban. An hour later, I turned the truck off the state road, driving under the sign, Mustang Meadows Ranch, and past the gnarled post. The sun sat like a ripe peach over the horizon and the hills glowed yellow, as if showing off for Hollywood. “This is how I envisioned it,” Kevin said. “This light is perfect.”

  We turned the corner of the road, drove past the Pitkins’ house, and parked. “Guys, we’ll have to wait to see the horses and the ranch until tomorrow. How about if I grill some steaks and we have a little dinner?”

  “Suits us just fine,” said Kevin. They grabbed their duffel bags and I showed them where they would be staying in the doublewide.

  We ate steaks and made a dent in a fifth of scotch. Kevin shared his background and his struggle getting into the movie business. He had an easygoing, affable manner about him.

  The next morning, before going out to see the ranch and the horses, we stopped by John’s house for a cup of coffee. I gave a heads-up hello knock like I always did and let myself in. John was sitting at the table with Jordan and Debbie was scrambling eggs.

  “Morning,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I brought a few friends for you to meet.” Kevin and Jim followed me into the kitchen and I introduced everyone. To me it was like any other day on the ranch: assess the task in front of you and get it done. Today’s task was to help another man do the best job he could. Debbie sputtered a hello, then froze. John kept looking at her to see if she was going to pass out or stay upright. Later she would tell how she entertained superstar Kevin Costner in her kitchen.

  The day was perfect. A brisk breeze, but not enough to dislodge a hat. The greens of early summer. A warm sun. Kevin wanted to know what part of the ranch I owned. How far was it to hotels and restaurants? Where was the Little White River?

  “It’s just over the next hill,” I said.

  “Good, then let’s park here. I want to see the view as we crest the hill on foot.” He explained this was the scene the cameras would reveal. At the top of the hill, we stopped. He framed his hands into a lens and put it up to his eye. “Perfect,” I thought I heard him whisper. We spent the rest of the morning in the area. Would he have to get permission to film from anyone but me? No, I owned the property. Could he build a camp here? Yes, no problem. How wide was the river? Do you think these trees work in the background? He was gathering information and making serious decisions. I knew the drill.

  The ranch seemed to be calling to him. The location, however, did not. Most of the filming is done in the early morning and late afternoon, when the light is best. Having a crew two hours from the shoot would require everyone to get up at about 3:00 a.m. to start doing makeup, load up, eat breakfast, and then make the trek. That’s even early for a cowboy.

  It was midafternoon when we drove over to Cemetery pasture, named for the Indian burial mounds on
it. I pulled the Suburban up to the crest of a hill. Down below fifteen hundred mustangs grazed. They had become accustomed to the Suburban by now and didn’t pay us much attention. A pheasant cock was far less amused by our presence. The bird started running around one of the mounds, squawking. It, in turn, must have amused Kevin, because he got out of the car and started chasing it and doing the funky chicken dance. Maybe he had concentrated so hard by the Little White that he needed an outlet. Jim and I sat in the truck while he squawked and ran. The wind was blowing in the direction of the horses and carried the bird’s and Costner’s cacophony right into the sensitive ears of the mustangs.

  A few horses started pawing the ground. They began to vibrate like a hive of irritated bees, their heads now alert, their tails swishing. Kevin and the pheasant kept up their ritualistic dance. A few of the horses started to run, a signal to the others to pay attention and get moving. Within a minute, the herd was stampeding. Jim and I got out of the truck to watch.

  “Costner, look what you’ve done,” yelled Jim. Kevin stopped and looked.

  “Oh man,” he said. “What happened to them?”

  They made a circle of the entire pasture and slowed down once they didn’t hear any more grating noise. I wished I had a camera to reveal the scene.

  The next day I flew Kevin and Jim up to Pierre to meet with a fellow who owned a herd of buffalo. By then, Kevin knew he loved the land, the river, the horses, but he was discouraged about the logistics. He said that he would let me know if they would be using the ranch. He was a man with a job to do and was taking that job seriously and throwing himself into it. If my ranch fit into that job, then so be it; if not, that was okay too. He said he would love to come back and do some horseback riding and hunting on the ranch. I told him the door was always open.

  A few weeks later, Kevin called. He had found a site about fifteen miles outside of Rapid City, South Dakota. It would be better for the crew, but he appreciated being able to see Mustang Meadows Ranch. Sure was a gorgeous place. I wished him luck on his project.

  In the end I was glad that the movie wasn’t shot on the ranch. A lot of wheels and feet would have trampled the sandy soil in a concentrated area. Surely the grass would have been damaged and who knows what else. I had been concerned about that but reasoned the land would recover post-filming. As it turned out, the movie’s incredible popularity resulted in curious people visiting the site where it had been shot. They came at all hours of the day and on all days. With this continuous traffic, the fragile vegetation couldn’t recover and blowouts formed, giant potholes caused by high winds. I was glad to enjoy the movie and its scenes of beautiful rolling prairie and not have my ranch damaged. Besides, a few months later, in the fall of 1990, the ranch did end up being filmed for a national audience.

  I knew Dayton had been talking to the producers of 20/20, pitching a segment on the sanctuary. It didn’t much interest me, but Dayton was all for public relations. He paid for a chunk of his ranch operations by charging admission for tours and staging fundraising events. The producers bit. They decided to film footage on Dayton’s ranch but also wanted to film the larger herd on Mustang Meadows Ranch. The BLM gave their approval in a heartbeat. Positive national publicity about the wild horses rarely came their way.

  At first I didn’t share the BLM’s exuberance, mostly because we were in the middle of one of the driest summers the Midwest had experienced in some years. Even small puffs of wind sent dust skimming over the ground. The filming would require us to move the horses from place to place. Six thousand hooves running across and disturbing dry pastures wasn’t exactly part of my land management plan. But as the day for filming approached, an enthusiasm for sharing what we had created and now managed began to grow. Maybe some good would come of it. I probably should have worried that national exposure would encourage competition, but we had such a strong relationship with the BLM, who could possibly compete with us?

  The director and film crew must have placed a special order for the day. The morning air felt cool and fresh and the sky’s palette was a bright summer blue that heightened the greens and grays of the prairie grass. The rolling hills gave little indication that rain had been scarce. The grass rippled. A sense of pride at what we had accomplished with the sanctuary filled me.

  John and I thought it wise to check on the horses before the film crew arrived. We didn’t want to be surprised by a sick or crippled horse that might limp in front of the camera and tarnish the glow of all the good things we were doing for the horses. After coffee, we drove out to the pasture adjacent to the corrals to check on the herd. All seemed fine and fit, except that twenty or more head had gotten out of their assigned pasture and stood grazing on the adjacent meadow. How they got out was a mystery, because they probably wouldn’t all jump the fence. Was it our phantom?

  We had been experiencing a phenomenon that we named “the phantom gate opener.” Up to this point, it had always occurred in the north part of the ranch. About once a week, during the night, someone would drive across those north pastures and leave every gate open in his wake. We checked on the horses each day and would find a group that had meandered through the gates. This required us to gather them and return them to their proper pasture and make sure the gates were securely closed. An annoying occurrence that never stopped. The phantom gate opener would strike once every week or two. We never did catch him. The horses learned his game, too. The ones that had gone through knew they were in the wrong place and as soon as they saw us would head straight back through the gate to the right pasture with guilty looks on their faces.

  John and I returned to the barn, got on our ATVs, and headed back out to the meadow. We opened the gate and zipped out to fetch the wanderers. They saw us coming. Heads raised and tails swished, but there was no nervous pawing of the ground or gathering. They were asking us in their language what we wanted. We drove in a wide circle around them, indicating that we wanted them to return to their assigned pasture. They understood. The leader started off toward the gate and pulled the rest of the group in an easy gallop. The gate was about a mile away, and John rode out in front, leading them. I followed behind.

  For a moment, I forgot about 20/20 and the filming, forgot about everything I needed to do. As often happened, the beauty of the creatures in front of me pushed out all other thoughts. The elegance of their form and the ease they displayed in running mesmerized me. These weren’t groomed-to-the-hilt racehorses with shiny coats. Nobody wanted these horses but me, the cowboys, and this section of the South Dakota Sand Hills. The horses ran with the grasses and the sky, the lines of separation evaporated. The sky, the sun, clouds, horses, grass, hills, horizon. All were one. I cut the motor and listened to the muffled thudding of hooves that made the ground sound hollow and the swish of legs against the grass. Their tails and manes streamed in the air. For a moment, all was right with the world. I restarted the ATV and gunned it to catch up.

  The next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the ground, on my stomach, my head turned to one side. I had the sensation of coming out of an afternoon nap where you sleep so hard you can’t remember what day it is or where you are. I thought it odd that a piece of metal lay near my outstretched arm. I moved to grab it. Sharp pains jolted me into awareness. That’s when I saw the ATV turned on its side. The handlebars were bent down indicating that it had rolled over. The sound of a motor grew louder. I tried to lift my head up, but a jackknife of pain kept it down. The motor roared next to me, then stopped.

  John yelled, “Al, are you okay?”

  I tried to push up off the ground, a fruitless effort. All I could do was groan. John’s boots and jeans appeared.

  “Roll me on my side,” I said.

  “Let’s not rush this. Let’s make sure everything’s intact.”

  I gingerly moved muscles and limbs. Neither of us thought my neck or back were injured, but the condition of my left shoulder, sides, hips, and right ankle were a far different state of affairs. The pain shot right into my
gut. I concentrated on not throwing up. John tried to lift me into a standing posture, but I slumped to the ground. I needed to get to a hospital, but it would be an hour before an ambulance could arrive.

  “Go get the Suburban and Debbie,” I said. It hurt to talk. “If you can get me in there, she can take me to the hospital. Put some padding in it and a pillow.”

  His mind must have gone through the same scenario. “Yep, the ranch ambulance. I’m on it.”

  He fetched my hat from the grass ten yards away and helped settle me against the wheel of the ATV. For the time being, the grass was a soft mattress.

  “Promise I won’t go anywhere,” I said. He looked like he didn’t want to leave but hopped on the ATV and drove off. The drone of the motor dwindled. I concentrated on breathing and not moving for what seemed like an hour. I tried to figure out what might have caused the wreck, but my last memory was of the horses galloping ahead. The breeze pressed against the cold sweat covering me. At last, I heard the grumble of the Suburban. John backed it up close to my slumped body. Debbie jumped out and came over, concern spread across her face. Somehow, the three of us managed to get me up and into the makeshift ambulance.

  “John, look around. See if you can find what I hit.” He never did find any object, hole, or camouflaged outcropping.

  I lay on the blankets in the back and marveled at how uneven the ground really was. The road was even worse. And here I thought we had smoothed it out.

  We rolled through a pothole that must have been a mile deep. “Deb, I’m not dying back here. You don’t have to race to the hospital,” I said. “Any more bumps like that last one and you’ll have to find me a stick to bite.” I’d bite it in half. I focused on inhaling and exhaling, which wasn’t the easiest task. Highway 20 felt like a paradise of freshly asphalted roadway. It afforded the opportunity for a few thoughts to seep in.

  What was happening at the ranch? How long would it take the production crews to set up? Where would they film? I was pretty certain the horses would perform well. I hadn’t wanted the crew to come, but now I was bummed at missing the event. John was more than capable of handling the horses and people. But still. In between the throbs of pain, frustration pulsed at having had the wreck and now lying immobile in the back of the Suburban. By the time we finally pulled into the emergency entrance at Cherry County Hospital in Valentine, Nebraska, I was one ornery, beat-up mess.