By T. Martino
My life has turned in an unusual way, falling back into childhood dreams and beauty. When I was a child, the horses could speak and through my career they became silent then came swinging back into full voice. Horsepersonship as an Art shows itself to me in time in the arena by myself, bareback on one of the little teaching stallions. Or on a trail through the woods watching a cooper's hawk duck and dive after a chickadee. The horses I own now are unusual too. As if life wished me to ride what my ancestors rode. And these horses fell into my life like stars. And the impact craters are deep and fiery, life transforming. Inniskim, Buffalo Stone was one of these. His life story was explained in my book Dancer on the Grass. But the other horse was truly a strange one, Natoowapee PonokarnitaSun's Own. Bob Blackbull called me one day about a horse. His voice tired and sad as he told me the story of the grulla stallion roped and almost stolen from him. Horses are still stolen and vanish on the wide prairies of the northern plains. This stallion had been roped and thrown on the ground. In my gentle career I had not seen this kind of violence done to a horse, And my gentle classical teachers such as Lingren would never believe such a thing could happen. But it happened to the grulla buffalo horse. And now the horse was dangerous. Bob Blackbull had founded the Blackfeet Buffalo Horse Coalition. He is bringing back to the northern plains the horses of the past. The swift, sturdy, wise plains horse of Native America. The horses that our ancestors rode may be genetically linked to the ponies of Mongolia. Proof that the old people may have brought the horses with them to North America. Also testing is being done in the horses frozen in the glaciers in Canada. Some of those horses are only 7000 years old. When all the genetic testing is done, some history books may have to be re written. But to rope a three year-old that has lived wild is a mistake. We have seen these little horses drive grizzlies from their prairies and one stallion, Inniskim's Uncle I believe, killed a mountain lion. The little grulla stallion was no exception. He was roped and down and he fought fiercely, I was told, rising finally to attack his persecutor with bared teeth and striking feet. A man was injured from his attack. Bob had gotten the horse back but now the young stallion was so angry at life, humanity and captivity that he was dangerous. Bob despaired over what he should do. Contemplating the hard choices that stared at him in the sparkling eye of the young stallion.
Now, maybe my contemporaries will think me crazy. There are only 2000 of these buffalo horses left in the world. Even one lost is tragic. They are tough and intelligent requiring time to convince them about the partnership of humanity. They are not slaves; they are not quite domesticated. But once made a friend offer a very unique partnership that Inniskim had shown me. And there is the sadness of a horse's life lost through brutality. So I told Bob I would come get the young horse. My kids went with me. It was October and the threat of weather hung over our driving. Snow topped the mountains as we rolled along over the highways towards Glacier National Park.... And past Kalispel with its new event course. We drove over the Rockies to Browning to the Rez.
The young stallion stood head lowered but eyes very watchful in a 6 foot heavy timbered round pen. He was the color of a gun barrel. Blue gray with the dorsal strip and stripes on his legs and ears. As unusual a color as I have ever seen. A very small horse he was barely 14.2 hands high. The most significant feature about him was that his ears were flat back. Not merely in displeasure but in a kind of forceful hatred. One of the young men walked over to him and the young stallion bared his teeth like a tiger and snapped. One of my young interns asked me cautiously, "How are we going to get him into the rig?" At that moment the stallion made a charge of the fence line at one of the men and we all took three steps back. I wondered how we would. The horse was not halter broken, untouched except for the roping incident. Blackbull ran the horses in family bands so they were wild as the buffalo. I looked at the blue stallion then at the sky. The clouds hung over our heads like lead and they were full of snow. We barricaded the round pen gate with heavy timber and backed the rig into it. The colt watched with extreme concern the whites of his eyes showing. His ears were always flat back. We opened the horse trailer up. The divider was already out and we tied the doors open. We fed the young stallion in it for two days. Two days of watching him go in grab a mouthful then back out. At first he preferred to go hungry and then lipped at the hay blown down the ramp. Finally he would go halfway in. In those two days I rode Lonesome, a bay red roan gelding on the rolling prairie. Bareback I rode him in a war bridle and the kids and I watched the family bands of horse's feed and run and lay down amid the long grass and ever present wind of the plains. I felt I could have rode off into forever during that time, with the circling horizon and the horses. One night a grizz killed a cow near where we were camped in the thin-skinned tipi. I remember my young student, Summer asking me. "Will you wake up T if there is a bear near us?" Her voice was strained and young. I answered, "I will wake up." The final day I could wait no longer. I led Lonesome up to the front of the rig and the stallion excited to see this new friend surprisingly got into the rig and we climbed back out and quickly shut the doors with no incidents. Afterwards there were heavy kicks and scrapings as the stallion found that he could not get out of this strange box.
We drove him back to Vashon. He was silent on the trip back. No poundings, watching us with a glittering eye and laid back ears.
17 hours later we unloaded in the dark and he had to run out into our barn aisle since we couldn't touch him. We lured him into a box stall with the promise of sweet hay and water. Once inside his eyes still sparked with hatred and his ears were still flat back. They stayed that way for many weeks. Once a child told me that horses must trust us a great deal. Trust that we will bring them food and water. Clean their house and care for them. The child figured that if this was done every day at the same time the horse would like it better, and love us for our concern. I asked this child, "Where did you hear that?" The child answered, "The Fox told the Little Prince that! T!" Bob had named the stallion when we left the Rez, "Sun's Own Horse." I called him Smokey after the book by Will James. I watched him for hours. He turned his rump to me and his ears never pricked up. I called Bob and we determined that if he didn't want to be friends with people then we would have to let him go, back to the wild to take his chances. Bob told me of the Blackfeet warrior, Mountain Horse, and that his war stallion fought as fiercely as a grizzly and that he ate people. Bob whispered, "I think Sun's Own is that horse come back." I replied softly, " Bob, he is now at my youth project, he cannot eat anyone." I started feeding him by hand. Every day laying out his food one handful at a time and he had to come up to me and eat it or go hungry. Those were long days. Finally four months went by and he came up and lipped hay out of my hand breathed a sigh and his ears moved forward. I stood there and felt my heart melt seeing his trust returning. His eyes softened after that and though he would move away if you tried to touch him he no longer laid his ears back at my approach. I started to round pen him. I could not lounge him yet because of his distrust of ropes and wanted him to get used to the voice commands and fun that work together could be, slowly. At first he kicked and reared at me. It was rather alarming as I ducked out of the way of his black hooves. But I noticed his kicks were pulled at the last moment and the rears carefully timed. He was respecting my space and careful not to touch me. I took deep breaths and began trusting him. Once when going through a gate it swung shut by the wind trapping him against me. My thoughts turned slowly as stones, 'My God I'm gonna get crushed by a wild horsewhat a stupid thing " But the little stallion looked at me strangely and did not step on merely pressing up to me as he tried to avoid the gate. I felt his warm hide and breath. Wild horses are very social and the stallion proved to me that he was trustworthy. We worked. The voice commands were easy and he learned them so swiftly that it seemed he spoke English. I remembered a time with Pat Compton on the Rez, three years ago. We were standing in a high prairie pasture of over 600 acres. The buffalo horses had come up there to graze and look out over the high vistas. "Look at the new colt!" Pat had told me and there was a tiny two day-old grulla colt with a sweet face and sturdy frame.
"It was you." I told Smokey. "You were that colt! I wish you could have come to me then and be spared all that pain. But you are here now." My old Pop had told me that the grulla color was the strongest. And horses of that color were equipped with a thick hide and hard hooves. I had always admired them, as it is a beautiful and unusual color, and primitive looking with all the stripes. As an Event rider I had not been around such a variety of colors the little buffalo horses displayed. But their strength was proved as they outmatched the horses of the US Calvary in war. The little stallion's progress was slow. But he was a teacher within Wolftown. Kids came and watched him work. Kids who have been abused. And kids that had led lives of pain and hardship. One boy who's drunken father had beaten him black and blue. He asked me. "Will Smokey heal? Will he forget? Can we ride him someday." I watched the young man and said, "Of course. If we love and trust and expect good, sometimes miracles happen." The boy nodded, thinking. I worked on brushing Smokey, softly with the halter and leadrope. Letting him get used to what was once pain for him. His eyes took on an expression of wonder. He came when I called him and stood still to be petted. His ears never laid back now. Finally I haltered him. And now one year from the day of his troubles, he is letting us show him the partnership that is riding. Sun's own horse. He is a teacher at Wolftown for the rest of his life. And we are grateful to his lessons. For he teaches it is the love of horses that draws us to them. And they are true partners if treated well with respect and love.
T. Martino is the Director of Wolftown! a 501c3 Non-profit organization which does horse rescue and has a mentorship program for youth. Your donations are welcomed and are tax deductable. See their website at www.wolftown.org or contact T. at (206) 463-9113.