All the Pretty Horses

Recently I had the awesome opportunity to spend a vacation with my sister--in South Dakota. Yes, while some of my friends are going to Europe this summer, I was positively giddy about visiting the American West! On our girls-only trip (after participating in Wild Deadwood Reads), we made a stop at the Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary.

Look at that blaze!

 This 13,000-acre ranch is a little off the beaten path--but aren't most things that are truly spectacular?

In 1988, Oregon rancher Dayton Hyde raised the money to buy a ranch that had been in existence since the late 1880's. Today, the BHWHS has a herd of 700 wild horses--horses that have never had a saddle on them. They came here because they didn't qualify for the Bureau of Land Management's adoption program. "Listless, dejected, some have lost the will to live. Spirits broken, unwanted, either too old, too ugly, or too independent..." That was under BLM care. At the sanctuary, they thrive!

My sister making friends with a Choctaw pony--a special project at the sanctuary.

 My sister and I took a tour of the ranch and saw all four herds. This really was a spectacular opportunity for us. There were only 6 guests total. We drove out onto the land and saw not only the horses but a hill that is an ancient Sioux burial ground--they found this out because the horses would not walk across the area. Sonar shows hundreds of human bones! Centuries of Sioux at rest.

We also saw the cave where the original owner lived for two years while he built the ranch. Not to mention, remnants of a Pony Express station, and ancient petroglyphs! 

The cave where the original owner lived--for two years!

 You can visit the ranch, support it financially with donations or purchases from the gift shop. You can also adopt a horse virtually or for real! 

I have horses and know how hard it is to keep them pretty and healthy. I can't imagine the work involved in managing a herd of 700 horses, but these animals were beautiful and healthy-looking.

If you ever get to South Dakota, don't miss the sanctuary. And if you have a birthday or anniversary coming up, maybe someone would adopt a horse in your name. What a way to honor the spirit of the American West!

Part of the rock wall from the Pony Express station!

Our guide knew the horses really well. The ones who were nice and the ones who were a little iffy. Here he is pushing away a curious-but-unpredictable stallion.

We would do it again! South Dakota ROCKS!

Mustangs Still Run Free

by Heather Blanton

And I'm not talking about the BLM Round-ups. On a recent trip to South Dakota with my sister, we discovered the Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary. The place is awe-inspiring, the horses jaw-dropping, and the dedication of the volunteers humbling.

In short, this preserve protects 700+ Mustangs on a little over 13,000 acres in southern South Dakota.
There are also 200 head of red Angus so the ranch can benefit from some government grants. Wild horses alone don't qualify. They're considered feral animals.

Imagine 700 horses that have never been saddled. The herd contains actual Spanish ponies, descendants of Cortes' foray into the Southwest. There are also a few Choctaw ponies the reserve is trying to bring back. And there are dozens of the striking smoky-blue gray grulla horses. You can tour the ranch (which I highly recommend) and interact with the horses. You can also sponsor horses. Or you can just flat-out donate. With a feed bill of one million dollars, they won't turn your money away.

If you are ever in the state, anywhere in the state, make the trip. Go see the Mustangs. You can find out more about them here!

A little Choctaw Indian Pony with my seester Dawn

 

Our guide showing us the basin where the main part of the ranch sits.

Some of the horses were sweet. Some, not so much.

There's STILL Gold in Them Thar Hills

by Heather Blanton

Most authors have an idea for a story FIRST then they go and research it. I did all the research for my best-selling novel A Lady in Defiance years before I ever imagined the saga of three good, Christian sisters taming a bawdy mining town. I still find the research haunting me.

In the summer of ’93, my husband and I packed up everything from tents to guns (yes, you used to actually be allowed to travel with them in your luggage), flew to Denver, rented a jeep and started exploring the mountains. Even though we drove all over the state, from Denver to the four corners area, what captured my heart were the ghost towns high up in the San Juan Mountains. Silverton, Durango, Ouray, and Telluride are the well-known, vibrant, little towns in the area. The ghost towns you’ve probably never heard of, though, are Mineral Point, Alta, Animas Forks, and St. Elmo, to name a few.

 Now, considering that 1993 was practically the Dark Ages, we planned our trip using a 1963 travel guide, Jeep Trails to Colorado Ghost Towns by Robert Brown. The dang thing was out of print at the time and I had to special order it. But it was RICH with the history of these forgotten settlements, abandoned dreams, and unfinished stories. I was captivated by the lonely, remote ruins that once-upon-a-time had fed the dreams of both the courageous and the cowardly, the greedy and the generous, the noble and the cheaters.

The story that fascinated me the most was the tale of George Jackson of Missouri. He came west to Colorado in 1859 and discovered gold near Idaho Springs. He left (with his gold) to fight in the Civil War and then start a farm. Gold Fever never left him, though, and he returned twelve years later with a group of prospectors. They discovered more gold, somewhere near Middle Park. Allegedly, he and his group squirreled away over $10,000 in gold dust, buried in buckskin bags beneath their cabin.

Late in the fall of ’71, the prospectors were attacked by Indians but managed to hide, and the survivors slithered their way out of the mountains, the gold still lying in its hidden grave. Overjoyed to have survived, the remaining men decided they’d had enough of the San Juans and headed east—except for Jackson. As soon as the snow melted—reportedly in June—he rounded up a friend and headed back to the camp, but never made it. On the way, he pulled a gun from his sled to shoot at a coyote and shot himself right between the eyes.

Fast forward to 1912. Ray Peck, a supervisor with Routt National Forest investigated with the help of an unnamed local mountain man. They found the aspen tree in which Jackson had carved his name. Evidence of habitation and mining activities were deteriorated but evident.

Eager as beavers, they started digging. And they dug till they were blue in the face but the pair never found the buckskin bags full of gold.

 The cache is still up there in those beautiful, dangerous mountains, waiting for someone to come along and find it –to finish the story.

A Cowboy Writes to His Sweetheart at Christmas

By Heather Blanton

This is a letter from my collection. I have no information on the author or the folks he references, no last names, location, nothing. I don't know who Mary and Charlie were, but I hope they never spent another Christmas apart. I have left the letter as-is verbatim, though I did clean up some spelling. I am struck by Charlie's vivid imagery. But back then, letter writing was an art. He seems to just let his heart and his mind wander dreamily. At least that's my impression. What's yours?  Merry Christmas, y'all!

December 26, 1881

My dearest Mary,

 You asked me to tell you how we spent Christmas on the ranch. I venture to guess, it was a far cry from how you spent yours in New York City. I can just see you in the December twilight, hurrying down the snowy sidewalk, your silk hem leaving swirly prints in the powder like little snakes, your dainty black books becoming wet and shiny as you bustle about. Then you dashed up the stairs to your brother’s brownstone to enjoy hot chocolate, the embraces of your family, and a true smorgasbord of food. I bet you had ham and goose, maybe even pheasant. Fresh fruits and vegetables. And desserts. Not just pies, either, but cookies and candy, because sugar is plentiful in the city.

You decorated your tree with delicate glass ornaments, glistening tin cut-outs, perhaps white porcelain stars? You hung presents on the tree as well--store-bought presents. I can imagine the pearl necklace from your parents only pales in comparison to your beauty.

On the ranch, things were different as different can be. I rode fence Christmas Eve. The wind howled and the snow fell in blustery, biting swirls. The air was so frigid it liked to have froze me to death. If not for the fence, I most likely would have lost my way more than once. Upon my return, I can say I was never so glad to see the warm glow of the bunkhouse windows.

Us fellas gathered Christmas Eve night in Mr. Chester’s parlor. Mrs. Chester and the two little girls did a fine job of decorating the tree with popcorn, red ribbons, cookie dough ornaments, and some holly berries. The family then presented all us hands with new neckerchiefs, wool socks knitted by Mrs. Chester’s sweet hands, and our own plate of butter cookies. Much to my surprise and delight, Mr. Chester promoted me to foreman as Jack has given his notice and will be leaving in a few weeks. To celebrate the occasion, Mr. Chester presented me with a new lariat. I am very gratified by this change in my status, Mary, for reasons you may deduce.

The boys and I went back to the bunkhouse and exchanged a few gifts. Pete. S. gave me a fine buck knife from his collection, and I gave him a pair of my spurs. I am ashamed to say I had lamented the gift a little until I was told of the promotion. The jump in pay will much ease the loss of the spurs. I suppose, though, a gift that is easy to give is not much of a gift.

I have several small gifts waiting here for you when you return, and one of greater import. We shall have Christmas in January, you and I, and celebrate not only the season that has passed but a bright and sparkling future. Especially so now. If you see things the way I see them, that is.

I cannot tell you how empty Christmas was without you, Mary, and I hope never to be parted from you again. That is bold of me to say. You know my heart, though, the words I long to say, the dreams I hope to share with you.

I can only say in this letter that I hope you will hurry home.

With deepest affection,

Charlie

The Horse Queen of Idaho

by Heather Blanton

Some girls dream about princess dresses and tea parties. And then there are girls like Kittie Wilkins. Yeah, she liked the more genteel, refined things in life, like her piano, but all that was a poor second to her beloved horses.

Kittie, who became known as the Horse Queen of Idaho, was born in Oregon in 1857, but moved with her family to Idaho where they began ranching. As Kittie grew, so did her skills with horses. Astounding skills. She rode as if she’d been born in the saddle. Passion, skill, and an effervescent personality combined to make Kittie the perfect woman for building a successful horse operation.

By 1880 her father had invested a fair amount of time and money in horses and the payoff was beginning to stream in, especially in the form of his daughter. By ’87 Kittie was making spectacular contributions. Not only riding, roping, and breaking horses better than most of the hands, she was the head salesperson and marketer. Newspapers loved the story of the pretty little filly, pun intended, who could not only do a man’s work but excelled at it. Kittie loved playing to the male reporters who were stunned but, in most cases, also admiring of her success.

For thirty years plus, the Wilkins Horse Company at Bruneau's Diamond Ranch supplied thousands of horses for customers all over North America. Thanks to Kittie’s leadership, it built and maintained a sterling reputation. Sales were strong for decades and the Diamond Ranch counted some pretty impressive customers among its fold, such as the US Army and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.

One cowboy later wrote about Kittie’s tough reputation, “If a man weren’t a good rider when he went to work for Kit Wilkins, he was a good rider when he left or he wasn’t riding at all—unless in a hearse.”

Now that’s how you make a cowgirl … a supportive father and a little burning determination.

If you’d like to learn more about Kittie, allow me to recommend a couple of fascinating articles: http://cdapress.com/columns/syd_albright/article_4dd5755c-a08d-11e5-9fac-97c77a19e031.html and https://ruralwomensstudies.wordpress.com/2015/09/16/meeting-miss-kittie-my-friendship-with-kittie-wilkins-the-horse-queen-of-idaho/