Judy Andrekson - JB Andrew: Mustang Magic

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arly dawn light shone softly on the mares dark hide as she picked her way through the thick brush. Her shoulders and flanks were damp with sweat, and she paused now and then to listen, wait, and nip gently at her bulging sides. She had left the herd farther down in the valley and wandered up the mountainside alone, searching for just the right spot.

At last, she found it a small clearing in the scrub where she would be hidden when she went down, where her foal would have time to gain strength before having to face the dangers of mustang life.

She wouldnt have to wait long. Thick, yellow milk dripped onto her hind legs as she grazed. The pains soon came more steadily. She was restless lying down, standing up, pawing, and lying down again on her other side. When she went down the final time, the contractions were strong. With barely a sound, she pushed hard, pushed again, rested, and pushed once more. Her foal slipped onto the clean grass, and the pair lay still, exhausted. Life had begun for another wild horse in the Winnemucca area of Nevada.

The foal was a big one a throwback to the heavy draft horses that had been turned loose amongst the wild Spanish mustangs when gas-powered machinery had become accessible to local farmers. The herd was a mix of many breeds, but continued to be known as mustangs, and they were as free and wild as their ancestors had been for almost two hundred years.

The colt was on his feet within half an hour of his birth, wobbling unsteadily to his mothers flank, searching for his first meal of rich, strength-giving milk. In a few hours, he had gained enough control of his long, spindly legs to trot sturdily beside his dam, even attempting a little leap or buck now and then. He tired quickly and needed to rest often, but before the day was over, the mare had led him back to the safety of the herd. A horse on its own was vulnerable.

The Winnemucca band was a healthy one. The Eugene Mountains, where they spent most of their time, were rugged and dry. Vegetation was sparse, but there were few predators, and the animals were hardy and well adapted. Their numbers were climbing steadily each year, sometimes forcing them to travel over large ranges in search of enough food and water. The colt was strong and ready to face the tough life that lay ahead.

He passed his first summer and autumn wandering the desert-like valley and the mountainsides next to his mother, running and play-fighting with the other foals born that spring, and joining in the incessant hunt for nourishment. He watched as young stallions in their prime challenged the old. He learned the movements of combat as he played with the other foals. He learned the scent of the mountain lion and fled with the herd as the sounds of a newborn foals agonizing squeals assaulted his ears and the smell of blood filled his nostrils. The herd taught him almost everything hed need to know to survive in the wild. But they could not prepare him for what lay ahead. They could not teach him about humans.

The colt knew something of people. Their fences blocked the herds progress at times, their cattle competed with the horses for grazing land, and men sometimes chased the herd away. The scent of humans was strong and distinctive, and, as they did with the mountain lion, the band stayed clear of them whenever possible.

But on a clear, crisp day in November 1985, they were not to be avoided. The Bureau of Land Management helicopter came early in the morning, loud and terrifying. The horses bolted and scattered, trying to seek refuge in the scrub and trees of the foothills where they were grazing. The helicopter moved quickly, blocking their way to cover. More than forty animals turned as one, and the band galloped down the pass toward the valley. The helicopter hovered behind them, low and menacing.

The colt tried to stay close to his mother as the herd pushed and crowded around him. The panicked flight of the horses slowed to a trot as they made their way across the rocky terrain. The helicopter hung back and didnt push, so long as the horses continued moving forward. They trotted and loped until they were lathered and blowing, but the menacing machine did not go away.

Guided by subtle shifts of the helicopter, the horses were run into a shallow ravine. In the brush and trees surrounding them, tall, burlap fencing was visible and alarming, and the horses hesitated. A few animals scattered at the entrance as the scent of humans and their strange animals horses, but not horses wafted to them on the breeze, warning of danger. Before the rest of the herd could follow, the helicopter flew closer and dipped its tail, raising a dust cloud behind it. Tired, but freshly worried, the band broke into a gallop once more and charged into the ravine.

Everything happened quickly then. As the horses crowded farther into the enclosure, the fencing narrowed until there was nowhere left to go. The opening behind them was pulled closed and they were trapped. People on horseback and on foot were amongst them now, shouting, waving arms and whips, separating, and forcing them toward a narrow chute.