Wild Horses Couldn’t Keep Me Away

During the summer of 1997, my closest friend asked me to accompany her family on a trip into the upper reaches of northern California. An article in the local paper had wonderfully described a wild horse sanctuary which offered overnight trips into the territories to witness firsthand the tranquil beauty of our equine friends, and my friend had signed up to go.

Shingletown, CA was the nearest point of civilization to the Wild Horse Sanctuary, and my friend had located the most charming bed and breakfast inn you could ever imagine: Weston House, founded by one of the grandchildren of Edward Weston. The inn was romantic beyond belief, and I highly recommend a stay there, if you’re in the area.

Our wild horse camping trip began early in the morning, where I got to meet my partner and stead for the next two days, a brown haired mare with a sometimes fickle attitude. I hopped on, with attendant cowboy hat and bandana, and prayed that my tender tush would not be too sore at the end of it all.

Being summer, the country was parched like the desert, and our group of fifteen kicked up dust immediately. We saw some wild horses right away, feeding on hay put out by the sanctuary; I couldn’t see any difference between a wild horse and a “regular” horse as I peered at them, until an almost chilling neigh was taken up by the wild horses. They speak in ghostly voices to each other, echoing over the brush, and at once I felt the wildness in their tones and imagined communications.

We began a gentle ascent up the slopes of a volcanic ridge, and I battled with my mount for mastery of our direction. She and I eventually reached a peace, and I began to reflect on the quietude of the experience shared with my stead. I listened to members of the group ask questions, and I learned a great deal about horses. I was also impressed with the stoic calm of Diane, our guide, who spoke quietly and intently about horses and the history of the sanctuary, but mostly remained as reserved as a statue as her mount ambled over the rough terrain.

I could see the appeal of the pioneering life; there was plenty of time to reflect upon a great deal. And still there was plenty of time to consider the delightful scenery passing you by. Nothing seemed rushed, and my imagination stirred to life as I recollected every tidbit of Western nostalgia I had imbibed through the media. For sure, this was a good way to relax and learn to go more slowly.

We ran into wild horses many times, and I was repeatedly struck by how intelligent they seemed. They stared with watchful eyes as we passed, and sometimes they took up the call which seemed so unearthly to my ears. “Creepy,” if you were all alone on the range, I’m sure.

We settled into camp as the afternoon wore on, a large clearing with some cabins along the perimeter. The sanctuary had managed to establish some local plumbing and hot water, so it hardly seemed as primitive as any of my previous camping trips. We washed up and ate, and then we broke up into shifting groups to talk about our experiences of the day and our lives on the outside.

The sun fell, and a full moon made itself known, showering the entire clearing with its beams which seemed, by their nature, to create a misty glow about the region and surrounding forest. Diane and some of the others were going to take a midnight ride to the generator, to power down for the night; you only live once, and so Debbie and I asked to accompany them on their ride.

We rode bareback, and so my horse and I quibbled once more as I tried to hop on with the aid of a fallen tree. And then, almost as soon as I was on, we were bursting through the forest following a narrow trail down the mountainside. I feared being knocked off by all the brambly tree branches we encountered, until we hit a road of sorts and began the ascent to the generator; then it was a matter of holding on to keep from sliding off the gentle (but still fickle!) beast below me. The forest was scarier in the night, and far off I could hear the wild horses calling after me, perhaps to claim my soul as the silvery rays of the moon preyed on my mind. A genuine experience of exhiliration flowed through me at the notion of what I was engaged in, as I desperately struggled to emulate Diane’s ease and poise.

In the morning, wild horses creeped into the clearing of our cabins, to drink at the algae ridden pond located near our horses. Two lead horses came out first, to investigate and secure the region, going so far as to confer with a few horses from our own band on the safety of the area. Satisfied, the mares and foals slowly eased out of the forest to drink, and only the foals seemed to pay any attention to our presence so close by.

Quiet and serene is how I remember my trip to the Wild Horse Sanctuary. And thoughtful.

Reprinted from the original UGCS site.