Atalanta

Find me a person who has not been awed by the sight, whether in real life, television or photograph, of a herd of America’s wild horses. I can almost guarantee you would fail.

What is it about these creatures that inspires such reverence, such wonder and loyalty? Once you see them, once you are touched by them, you are forever bound, in one way or another. Others have asked the same question countless times, have written and sung about them, painted their graceful forms, have even built a life around them.

I am one such person. I cannot pinpoint the day, the time, or the moment I was bound to the Mustang. They crept up on me, insinuating themselves, almost forcefully, over time like a rising tide. You lay down on the beach, the water far away, thinking you’ll rest your eyes for just a moment and seemingly out of nowhere, the sea is lapping at your feet. My love for the Mustang was a slow building tide, at once almost unnoticeable, but then impossible to ignore and ever after, a part of me.

When I decided to compete, for the third time, in the 2015 CO Extreme Mustang Makeover, I already knew I loved Mustangs. What I didn’t know was how much more I’d grow to love them, how much more they could give me, and how much one little brown mare could change my life.

Everything has a story. Even the pebble you kick as you walk down the street, if it could tell you, would have many interesting tales about its existence. Our origin story is not all that unique. Like others, I was given a randomly assigned Mustang, picked her up and spent the long, slow process of gaining her trust over the next 100 days. For me, the uniqueness was in our connection. That little brown mare was full of fear and distrust, constantly bolting or shying away. She made me work for every inch. Once I gained her trust, she would do just about anything for me and though I had worked with many, many horses up till that point in my life, it was she that helped me understand true partnership, she that proved how powerful each horses' story could be.

In honor of these stories, these journeys, I have named all of my horses after names found in world mythology. Though, there are many renditions of this particular myth, many opinions and imaginative retellings, I have condensed the basics into a short little story, for any that are unfamiliar with it.

The myth of Atalanta - There was once a foolish King that longed for a son. To his dismay, his Queen gave birth to a healthy daughter and the strength of her cries was heard not only within the walls of the city, but in the wild forests beyond and the heavens above. True to his cruel nature, the King, in his anger over not having a son, ordered one of his soldiers to take his baby daughter into the deepest part of the forest and leave her there. But the goddess Artemis had been watching and as soon as she saw the screaming baby left on the forest floor, she sent her a protector in the form of a massive, shaggy she-bear. The she-bear raised Atalanta alongside her own cubs and the young girl grew strong and fast, like a wild creature of the woods. One day, she met a hunter and helped him and others take down the infamous Caledonian Boar. After that, she went on many other adventures, becoming renowned for her strength and speed. Soon, her fame reached the ears of her father, the King, and much to everyone’s surprise, he acknowledged Atalanta as his long-lost daughter and ordered her to come to the palace. The King had realized a daughter was better than no child at all and wanted Atalanta to marry and rule the Kingdom with her husband. But Atalanta had vowed never to marry, unless the suitor could beat her in a footrace, which had since proved impossible. Despite the impossible odds, suitors came from far and wide to race the princess, all of them failing miserably, until Hippomenes. Hippomenes was not the fastest, strongest or the most successful, but he was intelligent, and he had heard tales of Atalanta, and wished he could meet her. Like Atalanta, he had the gods on his side. Perhaps realizing it was time Atalanta found a worthy partner, Artemis gave Hippomenes three golden apples, the most wondrous golden apples anyone had ever seen. At the start of the race, Atalanta, being bored with the same outcome over and over, let Hippomenes lead, choosing to walk leisurely along the track while he raced ahead. Sweating with exertion, Hippomenes stopped and strategically dropped each of the golden apples along the path, knowing that Atalanta would not be able to resist stopping to look at each one. Sure enough, once Atalanta picked up the pace, thinking it was time she finished this race, she was stopped abruptly in her tracks by the sight of the first golden apple. Hippomenes was halfway to the finish line by now and Atalanta jumped into a sprint, gaining on him quickly. Only to be stopped by the second golden apple. So confident was Atalanta of her own speed that she was convinced she still had time to stop, but Hippomenes was almost to the finish line, and Atalanta rushed forward again, the two golden apples in her hands. Just as she was about to pass Hippomenes, Atalanta was thwarted by her own curiosity yet again when she stopped for the third and final golden apple. Exhausted and triumphant, Hippomenes burst through the finish line amidst the amazed and cheering crowd. He met Atalanta with kindness and good humor and the two were fast friends. Much to the King’s anger, they chose to leave the kingdom and go on their own adventures, eventually marrying and living happily as wild things in the forest under the ever-constant protection of the goddess Artemis.

I cannot tell you the day or the moment my life was irrevocably changed. I can tell you about the horse that contributed the most to this transformation, this slow and creeping obsession. I can tell you about a little brown mare I named for the Greek heroine, Atalanta, a story that has always resonated with me and was such a perfect fit for this fierce and loyal little horse.

One spring day, in the rocky plains of Colorado, a small and plain bay filly was born. She grew up fast and strong with the other horses in her family band, learning to handle the hardships of the land with the help of the instincts from generations of Mustangs before her.

As with any story with a seemingly perfect beginning, the peace could not last. There were forces beyond that determined, that still determine, the fates of the Mustangs. We may argue and fight these forces, but the fact of the matter is, we no longer live in a world where creatures have the freedom to determine their own fates. We live in a world ruled by man and reap both the advantages and disadvantages.

Like thousands before her, the young mare, now pregnant with her first foal, was gathered along with the rest of her band and transported to a holding facility in Canon City, Colorado. Uprooted from their territories, separated from anything familiar, the horses are herded into corrals, frightened and wary of the strange smelling creatures on two legs with flags and whips.

But, like all living things, life wins out and they adjust. They have food and water. They make new bands within the corrals. They live.

Though this life is far from the one she knew; the mare is content. The predictable patterns of her new home bring a sort of relief, while at the same time, it is as if they are frozen in time, waiting. She gives birth to her foal. They are both healthy and they continue living; as if on standby.

Periodically, the people with flags and whips come back. They take horses, seemingly at random, and those horses do not come back. The mare’s foal is one of them. Once he is old enough, he is separated and moved to another pen with the other foals. For a few days, the mares and foals call to each other. But again, life takes over and they adjust, living on in the predictability of their patterns and the ever-constant way of life.

One day, it is the mare the people come for. She is chased into a chute, frantically trying to find her escape. The only way out, the only way to get away from the flags and the whips, is to jump into a huge metal box, much like the one that brought her there. It does not take much convincing. The box is quiet, the men are loud.

After a long and bumpy ride, the box comes to a stop. The doors open and the mare can see another pen, smaller this time, but there are trees and grass and other horses around it, so she jumps. Into the pen she goes, and it is even smaller than she realized at first. Panic rises, but quickly settles as she realizes no one is chasing her, realizes the nearby horses are peacefully eating.

A young woman watches the mare, watches her take stock of her new surroundings, taking note of the way the horse moves, the way she approaches things. And the mare watches the young woman. Each studies the other, one with a knowing excitement, the other with the fear of the unknown.

The days go by, and the mare is again content. The young woman is there almost always, sometimes sitting in the pen with her, other times walking around strangely as the mare just tries to keep out of reach. To the outside observer, it is a sort of dance, the two moving in seemingly preordained steps around each other.

It is weeks before the mare starts to trust the woman. Even so, she only allows her just close enough that she thinks she can touch her. Always moving away, keeping just an inch of air between them.

One day, the woman closes the gap. That first touch, that first feeling of true acceptance of human contact is a turning point. The road is still long, still fraught with mistakes, fear, learning and difficulties, but it is a step in a new direction. A step towards partnership and understanding.

Next, comes the halter and the lead rope. These are even harder for the mare to accept. But the woman is patient and though it is weeks again before the mare understands the strange concept of following on the lead, she adapts. She learns.

Over time, the two begin to trust each other, begin to learn how to communicate. The mare’s start as a riding horse is far from perfect, but in the end, it is as close to perfection as can be. They become one. They become partners.

Like the mythological heroine for whom she was named, Atalanta clung to her wildness and forced me to think and adapt to gain her trust. Our journey to the Extreme Mustang Makeover was not an easy one, and many told me to give up on her on more than one occasion. I was fortunate to have a support system of friends and family that helped me stay on track and helped us make it to the competition.

I had the lowest expectations heading into the competition. Though we had made good progress and had some fun skills to demonstrate, this was still a horse that could hardly be caught by anyone other than me, still a horse that shied at quick movements and was more prone to flight than steadiness. I decided I would be happy if we just made it through the preliminary events, let alone make the Top Ten Finals.

I should have known, should have had more faith. True to her namesake, my little mare did not falter, showing well in the initial classes and making the Top Ten Finals where we’d be required to perform a freestyle performance in front of a large crowd. I had nothing prepared. Our frantic last-minute ideas, costume design and other preparations were comical, but only after the stress of the day was long over.

Ending up a fifth-place finisher in the Extreme Mustangs Makeover with a horse I’d never thought I’d be able to ride was an incredible feeling, but getting to bring Atalanta back home with me was the icing on the cake. After some well-deserved time off, we continued where we’d left off, honing our skills and beginning the new journey of turning this little Mustang mare into an Eventer, a sport (like the human triathlon) that includes three equally difficult phases that are each an equestrian sport on their own. I knew she had talent, but I had no idea she had so much more to offer.

Like many young horses, her first Eventing season was full of ups and downs, but it was clear from the get-go that she loved the cross country phase. Galloping at speed through differing terrain, hurling herself over obstacles with a reckless abandon, this was where she showed her similarity to the wild heroine Atalanta the most, and where I felt the most attuned to my little horse. I learned to trust her instincts, instincts honed in the wilderness of Colorado, and she always brought me home safely.

Over the years, we moved up the levels together and in 2018 we qualified for the American Eventing Championships at Novice. Competing at the AEC’s, a national competition with hundreds of amazing horses and riders, atop my small, brown Mustang mare that I’d trained from her first human touch, was an indescribable feeling that filled me with pride. Not necessarily pride in myself, but pride for my little horse that tried so hard and held her own against the bigger, more expensive horses that are more commonly found in this sport.

Yet again, she surpassed my expectations, but this time, I’d almost been expecting it, having learned early on to place my faith in this mare. We finished tenth in our division, and I had the pleasure of presenting Atalanta during the ribbon ceremony, her large white BLM brand a shining beacon, showing all just where she’d come from. We moved up to Training level later that year, and she showed her strength, bravery and willingness every day. With each goal I set my sights on, she rose to the occasion, surpassing what I thought a formerly wild Mustang was capable of.

When she sustained an injury a couple years later, I was devastated, but I also knew there was no need for this mare to prove herself any longer. She had shown me what she was made of, proven her determination was just as strong as my own and became more than just my partner. I gave her the time she needed to recover, having just as much enjoyment in this down time as I had competing with her. She became a kid’s pony, safely carrying my young daughter around as she learned to ride, and then a lesson pony for other young children learning about the world of horses. Eventually, she started jumping again, even going to a few lower-level events and clinics with the same fire she always had.

Though she has given me so much, Atalanta’s story is not over. She is still my go to horse when she is with me, still the horse I trust the most. She has so much try, so much willingness and it is abundantly clear that she enjoys the sport. I hope to see her taking my now ten-year-old daughter to events in the future, and perhaps they’ll even make it to the AEC’s again and I’ll have the pleasure of watching two of my favorite beings become partners just as strong as we once were. I had never truly known what it meant to find your ‘heart horse’, until I found this small, brown Mustang mare.

I have since worked with almost a hundred more Mustangs, and they each teach me something new. Not every one of them has the competitive spirit of Atalanta, but they each have something to give, and neither is less than the other. I have watched other people form the same, seemingly magical, connections with these formerly wild creatures and been awed every time.

Wild horse, Mustang, captive, partner, athlete, competitor, heart horse, friend. My little brown mare is all these and more. I hope to show her my thanks for all that she’s given me and all that she has yet to give, but most of all, for the love I now have for the American Mustang.