The First Few Days

Mustangs are born in the wild. If they are lucky, they remain in the wild. But the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) manages the wild herds in herd management areas (HMAs) all around the western US. This management includes controlling the size of the wild herds by rounding up some of them, as is deemed necessary, and then keeping them holding facilities until the horses are adopted. While in a holding facility, a mustang’s only contact with humans is seeing them walking around outside the holding pen fence, or chutes, and on rare occasions seeing them closer up when them come inside the pens to deal with veterinary issues, or take pictures for upcoming BLM auctions.  

Songwe was two years and half years old when he came to me. And, from what I can tell, he was handled very little. Most of his social interactions were with other horses, both when he was running free in the Great Divide Basin of Wyoming, and then in the holding facility in Colorado. Horses are often the best teachers of other horses, when it comes to learning social skills. However, it doesn’t teach them much about how to interact with humans, who in their eyes are predators. 

I figure that prior to his arriving in North Carolina, Songwe had five primary interactions with humans, all negative: 1) when he was rounded up and captured as a foal, 2) when he was branded, 3) when he was castrated, and 4) when he was given vaccines, and blood testing to prep him for interstate transport, and 5) when he was loaded on a truck and sent East. Given those interactions, I am pretty sure that in his mind humans were no fun at all.  

Songwe Getting Used to His New Digs

So my first few weeks with Songwe involved trying to prove that I wasn’t going to kill him. And quite honestly, having never been around mustangs before, I really wasn’t sure he wouldn’t hurt me. There is a lot of negative lore out there about mustangs, mostly spread by people who don’t know a damn thing about them…they’re untamable, crazy, killers, not trustworthy, stubborn broomtails. So Songwe and I spent a substantial amount of time during our first few days together sizing each other up, and quietly observing each others movements.  

Now there are people out there who would choose to take a rough approach to training a mustang, one that involves wrangling it and breaking its spirit. But, to me, taking time to build trust and respect is the best way to develop a solid foundation on which I can start training Songwe to do the kinds of things I would like to eventually do with him, like riding quietly down a trail, jumping small fences, dancing in a dressage arena, and maybe even rounding up cattle. I want a partner, not a robot with a broken spirit. 

When Songwe first arrived, he came with two mustang mares, adopted by my friend, Chelsea. All three horses shared a paddock. So during the first few days, Darrell, Chelsea, and I, and a couple of Chelsea’s friends would enter the paddock with wads of green grass in hand, offering human kindness. We approached the three horses slow and steady, often crouching down so that we’d seem less threatening to them. It became a sort of dance…approach, kneel, offer grass, retreat. Approach, kneel, offer, retreat. Approach… retreat.  Over and over. Never putting too much pressure on the horses. 

Songwe and the Mares

At first Songwe was nervous and suspicious. As the youngest member of the little herd, he clung to the two mares as they moved around the paddock. But then every now and then, he’d approach tentatively and stretch out his neck as far as he could to take the luscious green grass from my outstretched hand. Then he’d quickly retreat to several yards away. And so would I. Gradually, he’d come in an inch or two closer, and stay a few extra seconds after taking the grass, before retreating. At this point, I added a tiny condition… I would hold back the offering in exchange for a quick touch to his head. He decided to tolerate this. Then over the next few days, those touches became rubs to his forehead. And then to his nose, and his neck. 

After about 3 or 4 days, I could stand near Songwe at the hay trough, curry and brush him, and comb out his tangled mane while he quietly munched his hay. Sometimes, while I rubbed him, he would nibble on one of the mare’s necks and we’d form a daisy chain of rubbing. But the moments were brief, and even just a little too much pressure from me would send him walking off to the other side of the paddock, with the two mares by his sides. But it was progress. Pretty damn cool progress. The amazing thing is that I never saw one iota of aggression from any of the three horses.

Songwe and Chelsea

It wasn’t long before the three mustangs grew used to the small cadre of humans who would come to visit, rub, and groom them each day. They gradually let us rub their legs, pick up their feet, and slip ropes quietly around their necks. Songwe even allowed one of Chelsea’s friends to apply antibacterial ointment to the scratches on his fetlocks. There she was, kneeling down right beside a wild mustang, who trusted her enough to let her help him. The horses were always very careful around us, never offering to bite or kick, never an ear laid back. Not even once. Mustangs are actually better behaved than many domesticated horses I have known, who often grow spoiled and disrespectful as a direct result of their human handlers. 

Standing among the wild ones is a privilege. These last few weeks, feeling their breath on my skin, and their manes softly tickling my face, has given me an overwhelming sense of peace. It sure beats any other therapy you can imagine.

Approach and retreat. 

Trust and respect. 

And love. 

Photos Courtesy of Chelsea Cloutier, Cloutier Studios

Beginnings

Before I get into the details of the relationship I am now forming with Songwe, I think it is worth taking time to talk about how I came to this place of adopting a mustang.

Prior to Songwe, I have owned nine horses, and leased two. My love affair with horses started at age three when my Mom took me to the Lorraine Country Fair, near Oberlin, Ohio. In an effort to find a shortcut from the midway to one of the children’s exhibits, we walked through a horse barn. I remember it vividly still, even 49 years later. On either side of the aisle there were horses of various sizes and colors––some solid, some with spots or patches––parked in straight stalls, their massive hind quarters facing out, tails swishing away flies, only feet away from where we walked. Some had their heads buried deep in mangers of hay and I was comforted by the rhythm of their chewing. Others dozed with one hind leg cocked in a resting stance. From time to time, one snorted or whinnied. The stalls were heaped with straw, and here and there were piles of fresh and steaming manure. I was in absolute awe. I held tightly to my mother’s hand, both fascinated and terrified by these huge beasts. I couldn’t move; I was captivated by the scent of horse, and hay, and manure, and leather all melded together to form a magic vapor that crept into my nose, to my lungs, and then to my soul and cast a spell on me that has lasted ever since. 

Like many young girls, I became obsessed with all things horse. Around age 4 or 5, my parents bought me a rocking horse that sat on springs. I spent hours sitting on his plastic back, galloping across the fields of my mind, dreaming of one day riding a flesh and blood horse. When I was old enough to read, I devoured every horse book written (Marguerite Henry’s series on Misty of Chincoteague, Anna Sewell’s “Black Beauty,” stories of race horses, stories of mustangs, books on horse care, and on and on). At one point, I even memorized every known breed of horse and could recite them in alphabetical order. I collected Breyer horses and my brother helped me build a to-scale stable that became part of a fictitious ranch that I named Silver Spring Farms. It was run by a matriarchal family of Barbie dolls, brave horsewomen all, and was located, in my mind, in western Montana. 

I didn’t officially start riding until around the age of eight. At this point, my family lived in Walnut Creek, California, and due to incessant begging, my mother finally agreed to enroll me in western riding lessons. Once I had the basics down, she found me a horse to ride for free, after school, which was owned by a friend. The horse’s name was Jet, and he was solid black with a white star on his forehead. I am not sure of his breed, a grade horse of some kind, but he was probably the best horse I have ever known, even to this day.  I rode him in a bosal bridle and a bareback pad, and we’d walk, trot, and lope around the corral, the nearby walnut orchards, and out on the trail, and he never ever complained or balked, not even once, even with my imperfect seat and lack of experience.

When I was 11, we moved to western New York, about an hour outside of Buffalo. And much to my delight, our new house was next to a small horse farm. Heaven! I quickly made friends with the resident horses and talked with them daily, over the fence, and brought offerings of carrots or wads of green grass. It didn’t take long for the farm owner, Mr. Harbison, to catch on to me, and he officially invited me over to the barn so I didn’t have to sneak around. My favorite horse was a large Appaloosa gelding named Pepper. He was stocky and bold, and would often prance proudly around the paddock when I came to see him. We bonded immediately. I liked to stand in his stall, where he’d sniff me from head to toe, and then rest his head on my shoulder or arm in quiet contentment. 

Pixie and Dixie

Mr. Harbison also had Arabian Stallion named, Royal Scepter. I was in awe of his delicate and fiery beauty. Arabians were (are still are) one of my favorite breeds, and I would sit on the fence of Scepter’s paddock and he’d come over and untie my shoelaces with his lips. Mr. H’s herd was rounded out by Echo, and Anglo-Arab mare, and Pixie and Dixie, twin Welsh ponies. I was allowed to ride the ponies whenever I wanted. I’d mostly ride them bareback (sometimes sitting on both of them at the same time). I found out quickly that ponies could be a bit more wily and obstinate than the horses I had ridden, and sometimes, as I’d lope up a trail, my little mount would take one branch of the trail, while I took another. This inspired me to improve my riding skills, so I begged my Mom for more lessons…and started up again with lessons at a local riding stable. I also joined a local 4-H club. It wasn’t long before Mr. H asked me to take care of his horses when he and his wife went away. And he started to invite me to go along with him to shows. He eventually let me ride my beloved Pepper, and it was on Pepper that I won my first ribbon in a 4-H show. 

When I turned 15, we moved to another town with no horses nearby. So my lessons stopped, and I was left to only dream of horses again. When I was 16, I came very close to inheriting my cousin’s horse, but then due to a major career change for my Dad, that plan was thwarted by a move to suburban Atlanta, GA where I finished out my last two years of high school, horseless. For a graduation present, my Aunt and Uncle, who lived in London, invited me over. My Aunt took me down to the New Forest region, south of London, and booked a ride for me…a proper English “hack” through the countryside. It was a dream of mine to do that by the time I was 18. 

During college, I had no contact with horses, except from afar, but not long after graduating I moved to suburban Maryland, just outside DC, where I finally took up riding again. I enrolled in lessons at a beautiful stable not far from Annapolis. A year later, I bought my first horse, an Arab/Saddlebred cross named Als Artwork. I continued to learn, and take lessons, eventually focusing on dressage. I also worked weekends on a small Thoroughbred breeding farm, where I’d muck stalls, play with the foals, and groom the broodmares, learning what I could from the farm owner, a somewhat grumpy older racing trainer named Tony. 

My interest in horse training grew, and I became very passionate about both classical dressage and natural horsemanship (which share many things in common). Over the years I learned from many trainers, some unsung heros and some famous. Whenever I had the opportunity, I attended horse expos and demonstrations, symposiums, and clinics featuring well-known natural horsemanship trainers, like John Lyons, Dan Sumerel, Pat Parelli, Clinton Anderson, Richard Shrake, Julie Goodnight, Chris Cox, and others. I took a lesson with the venerable Sally Swift, and had a weekend clinic with Classical French Dressage trainer, Dominque Barbier. I audited many clinics given by famous dressage gurus such as Charles De Kunffy, and Walter Zettl. And I learned about T-Touch and clicker training. And I read books like, The Art of Horsemanship by Zenophon, The Practical Dressage Manual, by Bengt Ljungquist, and Dressage in Lightness, by Sylvia Loch. 

But perhaps my best trainers of all have been my horses. I had some great horses, and some not-so-great, but every single one of them taught me important lessons, both about horse training and about myself. I don’t consider myself to have the perfect seat, nor do I consider myself a bold and fearless rider. I have never been a daredevil, like some riders I know. I have no desire to gallop at top speeds down the trail or jump high jumps. And it seems I am always working on relaxing my shoulders, stretching my legs longer, breathing, and centering my riding. And quite honestly, I have even had the shit scared out of me by horses on a few occasions. But I am sensitive and quiet, and able to be strong, when needed (even when it was really scary). I have developed an ability to communicate and build strong and trusting relationships with horses. Some of my very favorite horses have been Arabians and Thoroughbreds, who were high strung themselves. Somehow our sensitive natures mesh, and we relate to each other. 

A Few of My Favorite Horses 

Viva and Me

“Viva Ridge” –– One of my favorite horses of was Viva Ridge, an ex-race horse and the grandson of the famous racehorse, Riva Ridge. He was 12 when he came into my life, and was one of the best horses I have ever had. He was high strung, but took wonderful care of me, never wavering in his trust. He had incredible heart, which he gave to me every day.

Viva was immensely sensitive and he would even tell me if another horse in the barn was sick by dragging me over to that horse and visibly fretting over it. He saved one pony's life that way.  

 

Dakotha - Our First Trail Ride

“Dakotha”–– In my 40s, after many years of owning “trained” horses, I had the opportunity to “start” two young horses myself. They were both Arabians, and each had had some basics (halter training, grooming and handling). I applied natural and classical horsemanship training methods, and had input from professional trainer friends, as needed. Those two horses turned out to be two of my very best horses…trustworthy beyond measure…and wonderful to ride.

Dakotha (Kody) was my best friend and I will never forget our first trail ride... he was so good...even when deer spooked him in the woods...he held me in the center of his back (head up and tail up, Arabian style) even though he ran forward a few yards and did a 180. In his later years, deer could come into the arena where we worked, and we'd trot circles around them.

 

Michante

“Michante” –– And then, finally, there was Michante, the last horse I owned. He was an Appaloosa who was rescued from an auction by a trainer friend, who traded him to me for a horse I didn’t get along with. Michante was a delight…and while he was 50% blind in both eyes (due to severe Equine Recurrent Uveitis), he trusted me implicitly, and we’d even run around the indoor arena playing soccer with a large rubber ball. I’d use my feet to kick the ball, while Michante would butt it with his nose. 

A New Beginning

After I lost Michante to his illness, I decided to take time away from owning horses. Honestly, I did not plan to get another horse of my own, ever. But then I met Chelsea, my boyfriend’s niece, and her mustang, Shiloh. She introduced me to her trainer friend, Darrel Fox, of Willow Creek Farm, who had helped her gentle her mustang. 

And so now here I am again… a horse owner...tentative, and yet surprisingly thrilled…this time with a two year old mustang, Songwe, named after a lion I met in Africa. I am working with Darrell (the “professor”) with me in the role of the teaching assistant. Our goal is to gentle Songwe and train him. It has been awhile since I have worked with a young horse, so I am learning to get my horse mojo back. Not exactly easy at age 52, with my sometimes crusty joints. But I was never a conformist. It has only been a few weeks, and I am learning a lot about myself. “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” Winston Churchill was right. 

And so my journey begins. Again.

Mustang Matchmaking

“Matchmaker Matchmaker,
Make me a match
Find me a find,
Catch me a catch
Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Look through your books
and make me a perfect match…”

The Search

During those heady days leading up to this past August’s BLM Wild Horse & Burro Internet Auction, where I eventually found Songwe, I must have looked at each and every one of the 75 or so horses pictured on the site about 10,000 times. Meanwhile, my friend Chelsea (of the AppalachianCenter for Wild Horses), was doing the same thing. We were both deeply ill with mustang madness. Our mutual goal? Find me the perfect mustang match.

We later joked that the BLM auction site should really be called MustangMatch.com due to its similarities to online dating sites. You are drawn to the handsome headshots, and then you click on each picture to read a profile and see more photos. You stare for hours into the eyes of each prospect, wondering if you might find a spiritual connection with that one. The only difference with the mustangs is that there is no communication, coffee dates or candlelight dinners before you get involved. You have to pick a horse based on the slim data on the available on the BLM website and what you feel in your own gut.

Hell, it’s an insane process when you think about it; choosing a wild horse to gentle and train, basically sight unseen, except for a few photos. During the process, I questioned how I had allowed Chelsea to talk me into this. I would wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat. Fortunately, when I was about 12 years old, I was in 4-H and I entered the New York State Pictorial Horse Judging Contest. I had to judge the conformation of 10 horses based solely on four photo views: front, back, and each side. It took me less than an hour to complete my analysis. I earned the highest score in the state of NY… 98 out of 100. So I at least had some “skills” to draw on during the selection process.

So each day, for about two weeks, Chelsea and I sent links to individual horses over to each other via Facebook messenger in an attempt to narrow the field of prospects. All of them seemed viable. All were breathtakingly beautiful, all needed homes. And each had their good points and bad points. It was tough. But after endless mustang ogling, I kept coming back to Necktag #: 8619, a 2 year old grulla colored gelding. I discovered him one morning over coffee and sent his link to Chelsea to see what she thought of him. She liked him too. He was sort of plain looking, but he had very nice lines, and a soft eye, and he looked more like an "English" type horse than many of the others. Most of my training as a rider has been in dressage and general English balance seat, so his body type attracted me. Though none of the photos showed him doing anything but standing around, I could just imagine riding his smooth and floaty trot and balanced canter.

I quickly dubbed him “Mr. Grulla” and I kept imagining myself standing in front of him in a round pen. The vision was so real and vivid that I knew he was the one for me. To help with my decision, I read about the horses from the heard management area in Wyoming where he came from:

“Wild horses in the Divide Basic HMA have many domestic bloodlines in their background, including American Quarter Horse, Thoroughbred, Standardbred, Arabian, and smaller draft breeds. Nearly every coat color can be found within the herds. The animals tend to be of moderate to large size for wild horses. The combinations of size, conformation, coat colors and patterns, and excellent physical condition have become a draw for potential adopters.” – BLM Adoption Site HMA Info

Sounded pretty good!                                                                              

The Final Day of Bidding

When the final day of bidding arrived, I was a nervous wreck. Chelsea had registered with the BLM and handled the actual bidding process. She had already put a few early bids in on Mr. Grulla to test the waters in the days preceding the final day. The bid amount held pretty steady and mostly unchallenged for several days. But when we got to the final 30 minutes of bidding Mr. Grulla’s price shot up by hundreds of dollars. It was worse than eBay! Apparently someone else had also imagined him or herself standing within Mr. Grulla in a round pen. But I couldn’t let this horse go to anyone else. I felt that he was meant to be mine.

"Matchmaker Matchmaker
Make me a match,
Find me a find,
Catch me a catch
Night after night in the dark I'm alone
So find me a match of my own..."

So we persisted, texting each other back and forth like two madwomen, for ten minutes, and in the end, won the bid. $1025. Phew! A bit more than I wanted to spend on a horse I had never even met. But nevertheless, I was so excited!

A week later I left for Africa to work on a conservation project with lions. Mr. Grulla (who I eventually named Songwe after my favorite male lion cub) was scheduled to arrive in North Carolina the day I returned from Africa. And every day while I was in Africa, seeing the most amazing wildlife spread out across the plains, I daydreamed of Mr. Grulla and what lay ahead for us.

From lions to mustangs. Wow! Life was and is good!

A Horse of a Different Color

"Grulla" (aka "grullo") is a Spanish word pronounced "grew' ya" or "grew' yo." It is a rare and interesting horse color. You only see it in a few domestic horses … typically American Quarter Horses. It has primitive roots and is more common in mustangs, but still uncommon overall.

Songwe has the telltale solid stripe down his spine and dark squiggly stripes on the backs of his legs and on his neck. His head is also darker than his body. If you look closely at his picture, you can see what I am talking about. Pretty cool!

More information on the grulla color:
http://www.grullablue.com/colors/grullocolor.htm
http://glacierridge.com/grulla.htm 

A River, A Village, A Lion, and a Mustang

The Songwe River Basin divides the countries of Malawi and Tanzania. It is the target of a collaborative project between these two countries to contribute to economic growth, reduced poverty, improved health, better living conditions, and enhanced food and energy security for the people in the Songwe Basin as well as economic development of the two countries.

Songwe is also the name of a village located on 300 acres of private land, 5km downstream from  Victoria Falls on the Zambia side of the Zambezi River, perched 300 feet above the deeply incised and rugged Batoka gorge. This village is built to resemble a traditional Zambian village and the atmosphere is just as peaceful, calm and relaxed as that of the local villages.

Playing with Songwe with a stick and string

And Songwe is the name of my favorite male lion cub at Lion Encounter/Livingstone, Zambia (not far from Songwe Village). I lived onsite at Lion Encounter, inside the Mosi Oa Tunya Game Preserve, for 2 weeks in August, learning about lions and lion conservation as part of the African Lion Environmental Research Trust.


Songwe. A beautiful African word, representing three inspiring stories of Africa, the land of my dreams, still wild and untamed, inspiring, breathtaking, and heartbreaking all at once.

So I guess it isn't surprising that I chose this word as the name of my horse. I chose it for him only hours after returning to North Carolina from Africa, the red-brown dust of Zambia still stuck to my boots. And like the other Songwes, he represents something special, unique, and ambitious, because he's a 2 year old mustang that I adopted, sight-unseen, except for some photos, from the Bureau of Land Management's (BLM) Wild Horse and Burro Internet Adoption Program. 

Songwe arrived in North Carolina the same day I did, the travel dust still stuck to his coat after his long journey from Colorado where he had been living for many months in a BLM holding facility. His birthplace was the Great Divide Basin in Wyoming; a drainage basin that adjoins the Continental Divide in southern Wyoming, with mostly flat to slightly rolling foothills, and a dry, grassy landscape not unlike what I found in southern Africa. He was captured when he was just a few months old, in November of 2011. It must have been traumatic.

And so we came together, from opposite ends of the earth, both tired from our long journeys to begin a new journey together. My choice more than his. If it were his choice, he'd still be running free on the plains of the Great Divide. 



I credit my decision to adopt a mustang to my friend, Chelsea, who recently started up The Appalachian Center for Wild Horses, a non-profit designed to advocate and promote wild horse preservation and encourage mustang adoptions in the eastern U.S.. After nearly 30 years of owning domestic horses, I had been horseless, by choice, for a few years. And at age 52, quite honestly, I was okay with the path I had taken. I was done. But then Chelsea introduced me to her mustang rescue, Shiloh, which planted the seed in my head about me adopting a mustang. A crazy idea, probably...but then I had harbored a long time love affair with mustangs since childhood. I first learned of their plight when I read Marguerite Henry's "Mustang, Wild Spirit of the West" at age 10. The story of Velma Johnston ("Wild Horse Annie") inspired me to write my congressman, Rep. Jack Kemp (R), about voting to protect wild horses and burros and ending the cruel roundups that would result in maimed and tortured horses being mercilessly captured and taken to slaughter for dog food and other animal feed. The efforts of thousands of kids like me paid off, and The Wild-Free Roaming Horse and Burro Act was passed in 1971. It was a huge victory for the mustangs. (Read more about the problems facing mustangs today by visiting the American Wild Horse Preservation website.)

And so here I am, beginning a new chapter in my equine story. I don't expect this will be easy. Not by a long shot. And I have no idea how it will all turn out. I guess you could say that I have high hopes and an open mind. No matter what happens, I know that it will be an experience like no other. So I invite you to check back each week to see how the story of Songwe unfolds.

Just think...in the last few weeks, I went from walking with lions in the grasslands of Africa to walking beside a wild horse born in the grasslands of Wyoming.

Songwe. I whisper your name into the wind as your mane blows softly against my cheek.