by Kim Meeder
Brenda closed by saying, “Travis is the daddy who made you … and as you choose, he would like to become your friend. And when you are ready to choose him as your dad … Travis wants to become the daddy that will raise you. Honey, do you understand?”
Jason answered her question with a weak nod.
“Jason, do you want to have Travis lead you around the arena again so that you can talk?”
Jason’s expression softened slightly as he thought about this suggestion, and again he replied with a wordless nod.
I was in complete awe. Even though I have the privilege of observing it often, I am always completely amazed at the resilient heart of a child. It appeared as if the veil between them was, thread by thread, being torn in half. The film of uncertainty surrounding each of them was beginning to lift like a vapor.
A little boy abandoned … then fostered. Once an orphan … now a son. A child without family … takes the hand of his father. The boy once lost … was now found.
Truth and time … are like that. Combined together, they form a sieve that eventually sifts away all that is not genuine.
I watched in awe as together father and son circled the arena over … and over … and over. Like ruts in a familiar, well-traveled dirt road, each revolution seemed to further entrench the new truth growing between them. I could see that once again, as with their earlier laps around the arena, the animation, the stories, and the soft laughter rose from their combined company.
Relief, joy, love, and “completeness” mulled together in a powerful combination, reflecting the desires of everyone on the ranch. All those present saw how the healing love of a foster family had become the literal stepping stone of reconciliation and support for time to prove what is true.
We all need to be needed, to be special to someone … to become part of a family. Watching father and son choose to become united inspired my own gratitude to rise on the wings of thanksgiving for the “family,” both blood and chosen, that God has provided in my life.
In a different way, in a different time, in a different voice … someone once did something similar for me—by reaching through what might have looked like impossible odds and inviting me to become part of their family … and it saved my life. The “baton” of parenthood had been passed within my life, and I was glad that I was able to be a small part of this “passing” for another.
The path of hoofprints leading around the arena seemed to become much more than just a symbolic reminder that within my heart also … a “full circle” had been made.
Rachel, who is the Volunteer Coordinator for Crystal Peaks, shared with me a unique conversation that she recently had with a child who was visiting the ranch.
Upon seeing someone that she did not recognize, the little girl asked Rachel in a purely inquisitorial fashion, “Who is that man over there?” Rachel looked in the direction of her inquiry and answered, “Oh, that’s Allan. He’s a ‘Kiwi’ from New Zealand. He has a wonderful voice … you should go and talk to him so you can hear how beautiful his accent is.”
Armed with such a delightful suggestion, the little one set out to discover what a “Kiwi” sounded like.
Rachel recounted that a short time later the little girl returned to the group in apparent triumph. She bravely declared to all her friends, “That man over there’s name is Allan. He sounds so neat … you should go and talk to him, because he’s … ahhh, ahhh, a … Zucchini!”
Darkness had already overwhelmed the weakened daylight of December. It was early evening, and Troy and I were in our bedroom and just beginning to pack for a five-day trip. We had been eagerly anticipating the six-hour drive together to the Steens Mountain wilderness simply to just get caught up. In the high desert of southeastern Oregon, the region where we make camp is so remote that it greatly facilitates a time of restoration, refilling, and concentration for the work projects that had to be completed during this time. Even though our laptops were going with us, we were still so excited for our mini-getaway.
I had just separated out all of the super-warm clothing that I intended to pack, when the phone rang.
The call for help came from a frantic-sounding volunteer who had just been appointed as a volunteer coordinator by the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Department. Within moments, I felt like I was being buried alive under her avalanche of desperate information. Scribbling wildly, I tried to record the incredulous report that was pouring like an icy flood through the phone. As I listened, I noticed that I was physically shaking my head no. I realized that my heart seemed to be rejecting all that poured into my ear. I didn’t want to believe, couldn’t believe that these atrocities were true.
Apparently, the Sheriff’s Department had confirmed that just east of Bend, there was a large herd of horses in critical need. During one of the most frigid months of the year, these horses were largely without food or water. Many of them had hooves so long that they could barely move. Others were so desperately thin that emergency care would surely be needed. It was currently estimated that the needy herd involved more than one hundred horses … and counting.
We were officially requested by the Sheriff’s Department to help give aid in moving this starving mob. The volunteer on the phone continued by making it very clear that most of these horses had rarely seen a human being—and certainly had never been touched by one.
The location we were called to was approximately twenty-five miles east of Bend. It was just beyond a roadside gas station that was the only indication of a miniscule town called Millican. From this time-forgotten landmark, the actual rescue sight was about eight miles further east into the windswept hills of the high desert.
Summoned to join a team of many other volunteers, Troy and I would be pulling out before dawn.
Our packing screeched to a halt and our overnight bags were left open on the bed as Troy and I stepped out into the bitter darkness to load and hitch our horse trailer. Our time of rest would have to wait. For now, only a few hours of sleep separated us from what would become the largest horse rescue in Oregon’s history.
Within the pre-daylight hours, an ice fog had cast its frigid cape over the land, covering all in a thick, translucent garment of ice. Merely driving in these conditions was hazardous. Many would consider pulling a horse trailer in such treacherous weather as bordering on suicidal behavior. Driving no more than twenty miles an hour, with both hands firmly gripping the wheel, Troy drove as if he had no steering or brakes. When traveling over such heavy ice, the reality is that you truly have neither. With a heavy trailer behind us, it was tenuous going at best.
Nearly an hour and a half later, we were grateful to turn off the dangerously icy highway and onto a rutted dirt road. With no trees, buildings, or other signs of life in sight, the road seemed to wind aimlessly through the hills toward some forgotten place.
As we crested the top of a small rise, the fog had lifted enough to reveal an illusive image in the distance. Dozens of parked horse trailers emerged like a mirage from the desert floor. The newly appointed herald had apparently done her job well, as had the dozens of ranchers who were contacted and who chose to respond with immediate compassion on such a treacherous day.
In the feeble light of morning, we followed the lead of those who had come before us and parked in an organized diagonal pattern out in the frozen sage. Looking back through the fog in the direction that we had just traveled, I could see the approaching headlights of more rigs on the way.
I stepped out of the warmth of the truck into air so frigid that my breath seemed to shatter like white glass before me. With a deep shudder, I slipped on my hat and gloves and met Troy at the front of the truck. Side by side, we walked together toward a large gathering of heavily bundled folks.
As we walked hand in hand, the remnants of trash came into view. Reams of snarled barbed wire lay partially up and mostly down in what appeared to have been a fence at one time. Perhaps fifty to sixty people were milling around between completely dilapidated makeshift “corrals�
� that looked to hold between one to three horses each.
Even before entering the crowd, I could feel everyone’s combined anxious tension from our distance. What are we walking into? I wondered. As the hairs on the back of my neck began to hackle, I simply asked, Lord, be our strength, wisdom, and peace …
I could see maybe six uniformed, deputies surrounding one lieutenant from the Sheriff’s Department who appeared to be trying to organize what to do next. Everyone talked at once, and the lieutenant was trying, amidst a cloud of rising stress, to locate a place where these horses, who were all in desperate need, could be relocated.
From the deputy standing next to me, I learned that a middle-aged couple—who were now under arrest—had lived on this site for four years. During this time, the number of their horse herd had exploded to a staggering 130 horses! No wonder the rescuers were having so much trouble finding a suitable location. Most rescue facilities, ranches, or private homes were equipped to handle only a few extra horses in need … not 130!
The only known facility large enough to handle a herd this size was more than one hundred miles away, and was equipped to handle only “healthy” horses. Further complicating the problem, this location was well over a hundred miles away from those who could provide continuing care for these neglected horses.
Breaking up this critical herd into dozens of smaller groups spread over several counties was not an option either. Not only were these horses needing specialized care, they were also being held as “evidence” in a pending investigation. And—most limiting of all—they were completely wild.
I couldn’t help but notice the unmistakable sound of desperation in the voice of the deputy who spoke to me. No county in the state of Oregon had ever attempted an equine rescue of this magnitude before. There were no previous examples to follow, there were no guidelines, and currently … there were no suitable locations to house this starving mass.
According to the deputy, there were no less than thirty horses who needed to be moved to an intensive care center immediately. The remaining hundred, although in dire condition, needed to be moved to a facility that could accommodate continuing first-aid measures, vaccinations and deworming, hoof care, and safe fencing. These horses included several dozen adult stallions, several adult mares who nearly all appeared pregnant, and about fifty sub-adult colts and fillies.
Now, it became clear why the deputies felt such incredible pressure. Here were 130 starving, wild horses turned over into their care … and as of yet, they had nowhere to properly care for them.
As I began to fully comprehend the severity, complexity, and sheer magnitude of this rescue, each aspect felt like a separate stone falling into my heart.
Everyone was here to help … yet, without a safe location and a plan, there was nothing the assembled group of volunteers could do.
Many, in an effort to help, offered various ideas that ultimately all sounded something like, “Let’s move the entire herd to ‘so-and-so’ field until we can find something better.” It was clear that their intentions, although kind, did not fully consider that these were not “normal” horses, but wild horses that could not be touched. Just moving them once was going to be an extremely dangerous affair. Not to mention fencing, vetting, and adult stallions attempting to kill each other …
Unfortunately, with so many offering partial solutions at the same time, the result seemed less like help and more like a verbal firing line to the assaulted officer. A barrage of cell phone ring tones cluttered the air even more as they all seemed to compete for attention. Like a hapless grade school band warming up, voices rose in conflict and contest against each other.
While Troy paused beside the lieutenant, who was acting as the incident commander, to hopefully glean some information, I walked on beyond the crush to evaluate the situation.
I am not certain that I could have spoken even if I wanted to, as there were just no words to describe the overwhelming amount of sheer squalor that filled my eyes. While slowly passing through row after row of haphazard horse “pens,” abandoned fencing, collapsed sheds, and discarded black plastic bags of trash gutted out everywhere, I came upon the first horse. She was loose, wandering aimlessly around looking for something to eat. When she saw my approach, she slowly moved away. She was a very tall, chestnut, thoroughbred-looking type. She was in much pain, judging by the way she moved on her front feet. She walked as if she was trying to balance on an egg with each step. Adding to her sorrows was the fact that she was missing at least three hundred pounds.
I had been walking for what felt like a short distance when the morning fog began to lift. All my previous years of equine rescue did not, could not, prepare my heart for what lay ahead.
Approximately thirty horses had been singled out into “pens.” Some of these enclosures were no larger than our truck. As I had been told earlier, the husband and wife who were under investigation for this atrocity, had lived on the property for four years, and it was clear that these penned horses were standing in a four-year accumulation of their own waste. Because they were denied any natural movement on an abrasive surface, their hooves had grown into what looked like grotesque ram’s horns that curled up and backwards nearly into their own knees.
Of these, some were blind, most were lame, all were starving. Some walked on the front of their coronet bands instead of the soles of their hooves. Others had legs so twisted with deformity that one might expect hidden wires were holding them up. Just gazing at these haunted creatures … looking into their empty eyes … made my gut tighten with sorrow.
I noticed that several other people had gathered around an area up ahead. As I approached the corral where they stood, I could see that it housed a poor horse with particularly gruesome, overgrown hooves. I felt my body pull in a deep breath of sadness. I quietly remembered that someone wiser than I once said, “There is nothing stronger in this world than the heart of a volunteer.” With that resolve firmly in place, I steadied my emotions and raised my camera to document the case. Without warning, the camera was almost slapped out of my hands by an onlooker who nearly screamed at me that I had no authority to take photographs of such a scene. I was so stunned by her demanding and aggressive behavior that I silently obliged her by slipping my camera back into my pocket. Like her, each one of us seemed to be “slapped off balance” by the sheer carnage of what filled our eyes.
Information scattered through the volunteers like white-hot sparks blowing off an abandoned fire. Although there were many faces I did not recognize, most I had seen before. One older rancher, who I knew only casually, stood with his hands buried deep within his worn coat pockets. He had arrived very early and shared with me what he had learned from the lieutenant in charge. He recounted how four years prior, the middle-aged couple fled to this area after being charged with horse abuse in the state of Washington. They moved to this remote sight to start their future herd in seclusion. Within a short amount of time, they were able to secretly acquire roughly twenty horses to start their “retirement” herd. Their unseemly horses consisted of the rejected—old, injured, or behaviorally dangerous—horses from local auctions, race tracks, and equine meat buyers.
It appeared that most of the adult stallions had been kept in the tiny pens, while all of the male offspring ran wild within the rapidly growing herd. It seemed as if the offending couple hadn’t bothered to separate out the colts for four years, ensuring that every male horse born on the property was left an intact stallion capable of breeding any female old enough to be in estrus. The breeding “program” was completely unattended. This rag-tag herd had been left to field-breed at will, so sons were breeding their mothers, brothers were breeding their sisters, and fathers were breeding their own daughters. Many fillies had been impregnated before they were even two years of age, fully three years earlier than what most would consider a suitable time for them to safely conceive. The milling, destitute horses before me had grown into a herd of more than one hundred starving souls.
T
here was more.
I could see that the dwelling being occupied by the couple was no more than a steel travel trailer. Holes in the walls where windows had once been were now boarded up in a primitive effort to prevent the bitter wind, which was now beginning to blow, from entering their living space. I was told that they did not have conventional power or water either. A generator was needed to provide electricity to start up the water pump which would, in turn, fill the meager plumbing with water … until the generator shut off again.
Many of us looked to the horses. How long had it been since they had been offered a drink of water? Even in frigid conditions, the average horse needs at least five gallons of fresh water a day—in this case … multiplied by 130!
Slowly circling back toward the main area where the deputies had gathered, I learned even more about what needed to happen. The task at hand was monumental for the overwhelmed animal control division of the Sheriff’s Department. Slowly they began to organize themselves with chosen volunteers and branch out into areas of immediate need. The horses were desperate for water, so a small team set out to see what they could do to remedy the situation.
We learned that the couple also had acquired several working dogs that were likewise “field breeding.” An estimated sixty dogs were reported to be living in a nameable mountain of garbage. Another tenacious team was sent head-first into the enormous heap of trash to retrieve them.
Frantic canine mothers barked nervously as, one by one, officers and volunteers pulled their beautiful black and white puppies from dens burrowed deep within the waste.
I walked to the “catch truck” where all the captured puppies were being held. As I approached, every air hole filled with a tiny nose that sniffed wildly to perhaps catch a scent of their elusive mothers. Cautiously, I held my flat palm up to one little nose. To my surprise, the black nose was replaced by a little pink tongue that began to wash my hand. Casting my caution aside, I pushed two of my fingers through the hole and began to rub the head of my frightened new little friend.
