My Wild Horse Trace

By Ginger Kathrens

The fog was thick—so thick that the local man driving my trailer could not see the road. I stared out the passenger window looking for the old, long-unused two-track on which I’d ride Trace into the wild horse range.

Trace is my blue roan wild horse. We met when he was a colt on the Arrowhead Mountains of southern Montana. As a yearling he was rounded-up and offered for adoption by the Bureau of Land Management. It was the fall of 1997 when I brought him home to my ranch in the Colorado Rockies.

Now we had returned to his rugged mountain home. The fog grew thicker, and when a sign loomed in front of us, I knew we’d missed our turn. Dryhead Overlook, it read, marking the edge of an abrupt escarpment that dropped thousands of feet into the vast Crow Indian Reservation. “Let’s stop here,” I said. In the damp chill, I unloaded Trace and saddled him, slipping a Power Bar and water into the small pack attached to my lightweight endurance saddle. Lastly, I put on Trace’s Natural Hackamore, just a string halter and lead rope—no bit, no tie downs, no running martingale. We were in a 60-thousand acre wilderness with over 100 wild horses out there, somewhere in the fog, and I had a string halter on my horse's head.

I’d been introduced to the Natural Hackamore when Trace and I attended the Horseman’s Experience Workshop at the Parelli International Center in Pagosa Springs, Colorado only a month before. For 5 days, with a dozen trainers and Pat Parelli himself, we worked on our 7 Games ground skills and applied them to riding in the big arenas.

I should mention that Trace is nervous when he encounters people mounted on horses, and there were forty mounted riders, some working only an arm’s length away. On the ground, he and I had few problems, but when we mounted up, it was a different story. When a tall horse and rider trotted up beside us Trace bolted. I learned early on that the one rein emergency stop can come in really handy! Within thirty feet, I had him stopped and that was with just the Natural Hackamore on his head. I think Trace’s fear is quite legitimate. Bad things have come at him from up high. . .the helicopter that drove he and his family off the mountaintop, workers atop corral fences shaking sticks with plastic bags on the ends to get the horses to move into the chute for processing and mounted cowboys forcing the horses through the maze of alleyways, again flicking plastic bags at the terrified horses. On our last day of training, Pat instructed the entire class in the huge Area Grande. One-by-one we were called into the center. When he called my name, I went brain-dead. Pat was mounted and on the end of his long stick was—guess what? A plastic bag. Oh, my God. Trace tensed but performed, despite my inept attempts at the right maneuvers. “Belly button,” Pat commanded, and I pulled the rein to my stomach. “Eagle,” he continued, and I tried to look over my shoulder, lifting the rein skyward to turn Trace on his forehand. Bottom line—it wasn’t pretty. But we lived. Trace learned to control his anxiety and I learned to be more confident and to help him be confident. It was an incredible learning experience for both of us!

Riding off in the fog, I knew we’d need confidence in each other. Trace and I followed the main road into the horse range, a muddy two track across open sub-alpine meadows broken by dense groves of firs. Somewhere ahead were wild horses, and there was zero visibility. I imagined coming upon a family band and having the band stallion run us out of the country. Even worse we might encounter a bunch of bachelors who might try to play-fight with Trace. Not fun either. I listened hard for a snort, a stallion scream, footfalls—any clue as to what lay ahead. I only heard the wind in the firs, an occasional chickadee, and the rhythmic beat of Trace’s feet.

This was our third trip back to Traces’ old home. My Nature producers were already at Penn’s Cabin atop the mountain, there to film my opening of “Cloud’s Legacy.” It’s the next installment in the saga of Cloud, the wild horse I’ve filmed from the day he was born. I hoped they weren’t smothered in fog—kind of scary for this trio from Manhattan. It turned out they were having the time of their lives.

The fog was starting to lift as I crested a hill above a crystal clear waterhole. At the instant I saw the cinnamon bear drinking, he lifted his beautiful head, sniffed and galloped into the forest. Trace acted as if nothing had happened. What was a bear to him? He’d grown up with them. While riding we have seen bears—even a mountain lion—but Trace has shown no agitation or fear.

As Trace drank the dun stallion Shaman and his band appeared above us. The yearling palomino colt who’s a key player in my new Cloud program was with them. What a looker! He’s Cloud’s son, but the mare was with Shaman when she gave birth. So the colt only knows the dun as his father. Trace and I left quietly and made our way into the wild Krueger Valley, more noted for bear sightings than wild horses—and one of the mountain’s most isolated places.

In this valley, my film crew had left my 4X4 parked beside an old corral and barn. Trace would stay there, while I slept in the car. That night I awoke as Trace prowled the perimeter of the enclosure. He had hay and grass, but he was alone. And, I knew if he leaned hard on the rickety pole fence, it might collapse. Then what? I imagined him rejoining the wild horses. I got up and talked to him. He settled right down and I climbed back into the car, only to hear him prowling again. Then, in the dim light of pre-dawn, I heard hoof beats. Oh, great. I made out the shape of a horse and recognized him immediately. “Red Raven,” I whispered. It was Cloud’s half-brother, a feisty son of Raven. What was he up to? Red Raven watched as I haltered Trace and gave him some oats as a distraction. Thankfully, Red Raven wandered off. Then I tried to ready myself to be filmed. No sleep, no electricity, no running water. I was in trouble.

Regardless, the rest of our time in the Arrowheads went without a hitch: me walking and talking; Trace walking alongside, hitting his marks and standing quite still while I babbled to the camera. We rode around, too—Trace in his hackamore—again hitting every mark as if he’d been a movie horse his whole life. The New York producers were impressed.

As I rode Trace out of the Arrowheads, we spotted Cloud and his growing family. The pale stallion looked up and I waved as I have since the day he was born. “Nothing to worry about big fella, it’s just me.” In spite of predation, bachelor attempts to steal his mare, government roundups, killer storms, and a frightening wildfire, he has survived. “Stay safe,” I whispered and Trace and I turned to head down the mountain for home.

While Cloud continues to travel the wilderness trails with his family, Trace and I travel the mountain trails above my Colorado ranch. The time we share is precious. Still, never a day goes by that I don’t wonder “what if?” What if Trace were still wild? Would he have a legacy, like Cloud? I rub the little place under his eyes that relaxes him, give him a kiss and a hug, and mount up. He walks out as he always does—boldly, bravely. In this way, I think he is very much like Cloud.