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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Wild Souls of the Ochocos
Cynthia Murphy
“The moon is at her full and riding high, floods the calm fields with light; the airs that hover in the summer sky are all asleep tonight”
William C. Bryant
Bryant perfectly captures the enchantment of the evening as this passage trips lightly across my mind. I can feel the heavy descent of nightfall in his words. Pulling my sweater close, I let my eyes follow that mystical glow rising above the silhouetted pines in this Oregon forest. Our equine companions shuffle contentedly on their high lines, chewing softly. Two humans, two mules, and an Arabian mare are only a few of the many temporary visitors that have descended on this world of willow covered streams. We have all come together in this place for the annual summer count of the wild horses found deep in the Ochoco Mountains of Central Oregon. Eighty volunteers with one objective are camped strategically over almost 28,000 acres of National Forest land, waiting to ride.
“Are there any men on this count?” I ask Gayle Hunt with the Forest Service the following morning; she shoots me a suspicious glance.
“I mean how many as opposed to women,” I clarify quickly since I am certainly here to see wild horses, not men.
Gayle smiles in understanding, “let’s see, there are two guys over there, and…..” she proceeds to verbally tally the men in the assigned camps. I understand that there are some, but not many, and nowhere near the number of women combing through the woods.
“Why is that?” There is no definitive answer to my question, “I think people don’t take our work seriously because we are mostly women” she laments as she tightens up the cinch on her own adopted mustang. Let me tell you something about Gayle…..this is a woman with determination and grit. She is the president of the Central Oregon Wild Horse Coalition, as well as working for the U.S. Forest Service. With long untamed blonde hair streaked with gray; she is sinewy, strong, and extremely tough. She minces no words, and hates wearing hats. Her main concerns on this three- day venture are the horses and the safety of the participants. Some riders she is confident about and others… well, I fall into the latter category of the new and untested volunteers.
At this point, I must clarify my expertise in this area……none, not a lick. My Farrier suggested a riding partner to me when I recently moved to Central Oregon. I have not been riding much over the last couple years. Estalita, the well tended pet in the pasture, is my 25 year old daughter’s horse left behind not without angst, but without finances. In my new life I want to use her more, so this spring I met Cynthia Shaw a retired school teacher from Alaska, and owner of the previously mentioned mules. She is a bubbly fanatic about trail riding and she is how I ended up here; wild horse counting on a nice little mare my daughter bought in 7th grade.
“You need a crupper”, Cynthia comments. “What?” I am barely on my first cup of coffee after a tough night on the ground in a tent. I know something about horses, but not much about trail riding. “A crupper, it holds the saddle back off of the horse’s legs going downhill”, she continues nonchalantly. I glance painfully at the open galls on Estalita’s front legs. ”Yeah, I guess so”.
I can’t ride her. It is like asking someone to sunbathe the next day after a really bad burn. The wounds are from some previous steep terrain we tackled earlier in our assigned unit, and I still had not seen a wild horse. Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I catch a slight movement on the shadowed hillside above camp. I don’t believe my eyes; he is grazing close to us completely unconcerned about the effect of his presence. He is a stunning, although not mature, dark bay stallion. “Cynthia! Horse, it’s a horse, a WILD horse!!!” I stammer stupidly, grabbing for my camera. I click off several pictures, but as I learn later this is normal wild horse curiosity, and several camps enjoyed similar visits from different equine bands during the count.
“You can take a walk through this next draw,” Gayle points up outside our camp. “No one rides up there much because of all the down timber.” She is trying to give me a mission so my horse can heal, and I can still contribute.
Cynthia, and Judy Haigler, also from the Forest Service, are busy saddling the mules to continue the mounted search. Estalita is an excellent hiking partner so in a light halter and to her delight, free of a saddle; we begin our trek to the top. Nobody mentions ticks, and now I know why.
Our arduous hike up offers some time to mull over what I have learned about wild horses so far. This is one of 19 Herd Management Areas (HMA’s) in Oregon, and there is a steady count of about 60 here in the Summit herd. The Forest Service has set a limit which triggers a round up if the numbers climb above 65. The captured horses are then put up for adoption from the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) corrals in Burns Oregon. The regulations surrounding this activity alone are very controversial. There seems to be no good reasoning for only allowing this small number to remain on the forest. To keep herds genetically healthy, a much larger population is needed but no one knows why this herd size limit was selected with apparently no scientific backing. This has over burdened the adoption process tremendously.
Unaware of the precarious life of her fellow equines, Estalita blissfully nibbles grass on the steep slope as I scan the trees for any trace of horses. Her breathing and mine mingle heavily in the hot still morning, and my heart pounds forcefully in my ears from the climb. I have seen wild horses before when I was very young on the eastern beaches of Virginia and Maryland, as well as later in life as I passed through the high desert near Frenchglen Oregon. I have never seen them in forests or even thought about them living in places like this. I cringe as I pick off another roving tick, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and press on.
They say wild horses are living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the old west, and to survive this kind of life requires intelligence, endurance, and strength. There is evidence that horses not only existed on this continent, but originated here (May ’08 issue of Natural History). There is also proof that they actually evolved here rather than just contributing primitive versions that crossed the Northern Land Bridge to develop and return later with early explorers and settlers.
Gayle pointed out that a 27,000 year old fully developed specimen was found in Dawson City indicating that the horse was here until humans directly or indirectly caused their extinction. Because of this, advocates feel that these horses should qualify for every protection that native species have in addition to those in the Wild Free Roaming Horses and Burro Act of 1971.
Presently, this is not the case so horses have to endure ongoing ill treatment by those whose financial interests supersede known facts about their origin or value to this country.
Today, there are those that love them, and those that sadly use them for target practice. This is a painful and frustrating reality for the people who regard them as American treasures. Equally annoying is the fact that many people don’t believe these are truly wild horses.
“I’ve heard there are no wild horses out there, only those that people have turned loose recently,” a friend sadly commented obviously not wanting to believe it.
Gayle rolls her eyes severely when I mention this to her. Not true. Some of these bands bear a strong resemblance to the classic well muscled Morgan horse mostly dark bay, or black, with sound hooves and perfect tracks. These are not local stock, they are rugged, smart, and know how to survive.
Connie Baker and Dewey Hamilton, who ride these woods more than anyone, tell me of a mare they spotted during the count with cougar marks down her flanks. They suspect a valiant fight ensued to protect a foal, and since she was alone, they came to the sad realization that she probably escaped with only her life.
Irresponsible and cruel people do turn horses loose in our National Forests, and one in particular stands out. Unwanted by his owner, Trooper a domestic horse, was shot and left for dead in the mountains near Sisters Oregon. He was found in the winter blind, starving, and barely alive. Ultimately rescued, and rehabilitated by horse benefactor and trainer Kate Beardsley, he still remains a profound symbol for abused horses everywhere.
Estalita stops abruptly snorting as she stares keenly downhill, and all my senses go on heightened alert. Standing a short distance away is a mature and regal black stallion. The two horses observe each other with quiet intensity. Estalita is only of brief interest to him as his attention turns toward movement in a thick patch of timber.
Three other horses wander into the lush meadow. He is focused on taking charge of a mare and yearling, but the reigning bay stallion is determined to stick close to them, and regards the challenger with utter contempt. Poised for a fight, the bay chases the black off several times while we watch. Moving closer I can see the scars of battle imprinted on the challenging stallions hide.
About a quarter of a mile away, the young bay stallion from earlier today grazes. He knows his place and is much too young to even consider a contest, but he stays within range knowing his time will come.
We reluctantly leave this quiet forest niche climbing steadily to finally crest the top of the high ridge. I pull out my cell phone and call the only person who shares all things horses with me, my daughter Tess. For one delightful moment with a little help from technology, we stand here together on this mountain with wild horses and the Ochocos at our feet.
Home once again with saddle blankets washed, tack cleaned, and the last tick pried off my neck, my thoughts now turn toward the annual Wild Trails Horse Expo. Cynthia assures me that to gain a full appreciation of wild horses; this mid-summer event is a must. My son Pete is home following his college graduation, and his friend Ryan has just arrived for a brief visit before they head out into life. I didn’t think they would be interested in a horse show, but surprisingly both are reasonably receptive as we head out to the Rim Rock Riders Arena at the lovely Brasada Ranch near Alfalfa Oregon. This is two days dedicated completely to celebrating the American Mustang with trail courses, training clinics, demonstrations, music, vendors, and above all else, a parade of mustangs needing forever homes.
Entering the arena with one of the potential adoptees is a young girl named Jordan. She is leading Eagle, a beautiful but highly apprehensive horse. At the microphone, Kate Beardsley, owner of the Mustang Rescue Remuda, announces that Eagle was taken from an owner who planned to make some money by selling him to be killed for lion food at Wildlife Safari in Western Oregon. She explains that Eagle needs a gentle home to help regain human trust. His distress is apparent as he experiences the arena and an audience for the first time, but Jordan handles him flawlessly.
The indoor course mimics a forest environment complete with trees, weeds, brush, tent, mountain bike, and even a simulated entry to a marijuana plantation. Out in the mountains, the first clue to this dangerous hazard is a water pipe crossing the trail. A good riding horse must know how to stop, and back out of the situation. To continue forward could possibly lead horse and rider into very risky circumstances with protective traps or sudden violence. It takes a long time today for Eagle to progress through this menagerie of odd obstacles. Jordan does not rush him but extends encouraging pats to his neck until his trembling subsides and he is ready to effectively face the next challenge. Although there are different temperaments and training levels, the one thing all captured wild mustangs have in common is the unique “freezemark” each carries.
An alpha angle code is used with liquid nitrogen to painlessly identify the date of birth, and mark the individual ID number on a shaven area of the neck. The hair will grow back in a contrasting color….dark on light or light on dark, and very visible.
The procession, of wild horses continues moving on to a mounted trail competition with more experienced under saddle maneuvers. On the sidelines in round pens trainers Lesley Neuman and Todd Titus begin the gentling process of two young mustang’s fresh from the BLM corrals.
“You don’t make a soft horse by being hard” Todd shares as he calmly works with confidence. Not too far into his session he successfully saddles the wild mustang for the first time. In a separate pen, Lesley has a light rope that she works over her horses back, legs, tail and head area to help her adjust to the feel of it moving across her body. Lesley is also looking for the mustang to make eye contact with her establishing a connection and level of trust. Patience pays off with these two youngsters, and today they begin their journey toward a future partnership with someone willing to adopt them.
Nora, who has entered several of the classes in competition points out wild horses can do anything if their conformation allows them to. “They can be show horses, jumpers, cutters, and trail horses. Once they make that connection to an owner, their loyalty is solid, but some people adopt one just to have a wild horse.” These animals require training, work, and connection, they are not meant to be a status symbol in a pasture. It is particularly heartbreaking when an adopted horse is returned to the corrals because of false expectations of an owner.
Adoption is certainly a goal shared by the Central Oregon Wild Horse Coalition, Back Country Horsemen of Oregon, the US Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, and Oregon Equestrian Trails; all are partners in the endeavor to place wild mustangs in appropriate permanent homes.
As we leave this impressive facility today, I have come full circle in the life of the wild horse. From seeing them against the backdrop of the Ochoco Mountains, to meeting those whose concern for their welfare radiates with intensity year after year and finally here to this arena where some of these captured mustangs will find that forever home so badly needed. For the rest, the training continues and foster families will open their doors temporarily to these homeless horses with the hope that others will step up and adopt a living piece of history. The program of events that I picked up at Wild Trails says it perfectly; “through education, patience and partnership anything is possible….. What a ride!” For me, it certainly was!
UUUUUUUUUUUUU
“The grace and splendor of a running horse, the thunder of its hooves, makes my eyes burn and my heart soar; let it always be so”
Author unknown
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