"I
live on the top of the world. In the never-summer mountains of Wyoming,
8,000 feet closer to the sky, when spring finally comes to save me from a
perpetual winter, and the world comes to life again, I remember what it
is I am here for. I’m the only daughter in a long line of ranchers. And
when we let our horses out every spring, I love to watch them
rediscover the world. I can see in them an expression of my own restless
spirit. Charged with an appetite for adventure, they take to the land
without hesitation. They are pure power. When I see them running free, I
often think of the first horses and how they were the true pioneers of
America.
The
stories we hear about how the West was won are all lies. The history of
the West was written by the horse. Where ever a settler left his
footprint, there was a hoof print beside it. Men came further and further
to stake their claim in the great American wilderness. But they
encountered a strength that couldn’t be tamed. Wild horses. Mustangs.
The settlers called them parasites that stripped the land and starve
their own herds. They couldn’t domesticate them so they destroyed them.
Isolated and hungry, they were on their way to disappear from the face
of the earth. Sometimes when light goes away an afterimage remains, just
for a moment. Mustangs are an afterimage of the West, no better than
ghosts hardly there at all. No one really wants them, not ranchers, not
city people. That’s their destiny. Let them disappear once and for all,
along with the other misfits, loners, and relics of the wilderness no
one cares about anymore. Lucky for us, a few Mustangs survived, hidden
away in the mountains. We need to protect them, for they are the hope
for some kind of living memory of what the promise of America used to
be... and could be again."
Skamp, me Skamp; Shotgun - Oh how I miss them, especially Shotgun