The Auction

She had soft, brown eyes, strawberry blond hair, and legs that went on forever. Moving in the swirl of the pen she was one of hundred or so donkeys that had arrived at Sequin for a Bureau of Land Management (BLM) auction. We fell in love immediately. The donks were popular today. Many were chosen as companions for equines at home, being good company with few requirements. One buyer wanted a companion for a lonely donkey at home. He left with two.

The mustangs were popular as well. Most were sorrel, a few bays, and one storybook buckskin with a dark mane, tail and toes that went for the highest bid of the day, at $280. The starting bid was $125. Most went for $135. An incentive program would return $1000 to some successful adopters after a year.

The BLM holds these auctions in several locations across the west. These are adoption auctions, meaning that you don't get title to the equine for a year, until the BLM has verified that the homing requirements have been met. "Wild horses and burros" as they are referred to, are been rounded up in ten states and brought to BLM holding facilities. The group at Seguin today is only a small number of the equines rounded up and held in the BLM pens.

Buyers are diverse: hardened ranchers, fathers and daughters, mothers and sons. All have been vetted through a careful application and background process. Quiet conversations by the rails reveal an unabashed love for the beauty of these wild creatures. The auction went quickly, with nearly every equine adopted. Those that weren't would be added with others to the next auction.

One adoptee was lost shortly after boarding, an aneurism they say, perhaps brought on by the stress of the ordeal. The rest would be bound for a more secure, if docile future. Most go on to careers as saddle horses.

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Of course there is more to the story. There are questions about the need for round ups in the first place; whether the "overcrowding" in the pens isn't a situation created by the BLM itself; whether the leasing of public lands doesn't in fact amount to a subsidy for the cattle industry; whether the round up business isn't just another revenue source for that industry, the ecological effect of reducing grasslands for the carbon emitting agricultural industry, and so on. But these are questions for another day.

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Natchez

"You'll never find it," she said, when we inquired about the Devil's Punchbowl.  The flyers on the table at the Natchez Visitor Center encouraged us to "drive the Natchez Trace" and visit the "Antebellum Mansions," and so we visited the mansions.  We drove by some, walked around others, and toured the interiors of one or two. 

One cannot visit Natchez without stepping directly into the historical nexus of the Civil War, with all of its moral ambiguities.  Fact and fiction confound. Many owners of the large mansions had come from the North to take advantage of slave labor.  When Natchez surrendered peremptorily, the senior ranks of the Union Army included many of their relatives.  Occupation preserved their fortunes and their mansions, allowing them to stand today.

Natchez was also home to one of the largest slave markets in the South, The Forks of the Road, just outside the city limits. The Natchez Trace had provided a return route North to Memphis for crews manning the barges that floated down the Mississippi. With the advent of the steamboat, it became instead a highway for slave traders like Isaac Franklin and John Armfield, who took advantage of the failing tobacco economy in Virginia and the Carolinas to purchase slaves at a discount and sell them at a premium in the burgeoning cotton market of the Deep South. Cotton could now be shipped upstream on the Mississippi River or around the Florida peninsula to merchants in New England, and then to off to England. With the cotton gin increasing the productive capacity of the plantations, the textile industry in England and in the North, where slavery had already been outlawed, continued to drive the demand for cotto with its associated misery.  Today a small grass lot, across from a muffler shop and window tinting garage, marks the Forks of the Road.

Where fact and fiction collide in the most confounding way is the Devils Punchbowl.  The facts are that starting in about 1862, many slaves had left abandoned plantations and were headed north to freedom.  Often, sick, barely clothed and starving they arrived in Natchez to swell the population from approximately 10,000 to nearly 100,000.  Quarantined outside of Natchez, nearly 20,000 died of infirmity and starvation. Narratives compete to explain the circumstances surrounding this gruesome event.  One is that the Confederate Troops drove the escaping slaves toward the Union Army to slow their advance, thus creating a humanitarian crisis.  The other is that the Union Army created a "concentration camp" resulting in genocide. Both versions perpetuate the Lost Cause as well as the putative moral superiority of the Union. The reality is probably closer to what refugees experience when caught between two warring armies. Today the site lies just outside of town in a reconstituted landscape between Route 61 and the Mississippi. 

Perhaps our guide was correct when she said we would never find it.

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The Gulf Coast

From Mobile to Galveston, there is an uninterrupted coastline of white sand beaches.  Unlike Florida where condos tend to line the beach, here a road separates the beaches, meaning that they are almost entirely open to the public, that is, since 1965, when Blacks were finally allowed, after a yearlong "wade-in" at Biloxi

Cities come and go along this route.  Sometimes it's just a gas station, a thrift shop, a mini-mart and the ubiquitous tire shop.  Other towns have a vague resort quality with a combination of casino, hotel and RV park. The economy of the gulf coast is largely supported by oil and gas industry.  Nearly half of the country's fossil fuel demand is met here. To give you a sense of proportion, the annual industry report for Texas includes:

Refinery: Crude: 250,000 barrels (10.1 million gallons) processed daily Gasoline: 170,000 barrels (7.1 million gallons) produced daily total regular and premium grades Jet-A aviation fuel: 44,000 barrels (1.9 million gallons) produced daily Ultra-Low Sulfur Diesel: 95,000 barrels (4.0 million gallons) produced daily Anode grade coke: 1,000 tons produced daily

Chemicals: Ethylene: 3.33 billion lbs/yr Propylene: 1.44 billion lbs/yr Butadiene: 0.35 billion lbs/yr Aromatic Feedstocks: 0.84 billion lbs/yr

In Texas these refineries are mostly offshore on manmade peninsulas just off the coast.  In Louisiana they lie inland, in the infinite swamp above Lake Pontchartrain. In the daytime they blow cumulous clouds of steam.  At night they produce a halo in the sky from literally millions of lights illuminating their infrastructures.  Tankers move out to the coast the coast or up the Mississippi.  Railcars move in mile long phalanxes.

There is a Southern Gothic point & click narrative adventure that purports to “immerse the player in the sinking suburbs and verdant industrial swamps of a distorted South Louisiana.”  It is also the name of an oil refinery compound in South Louisiana.  We were returning from Natchez to New Orleans when we noticed a halo in the clouds in the night sky was.  As we approached, it seemed as if we were driving up East River Drive.  A virtual city was completely illuminated for several miles, with occasional flare stacks flashing in the night. 

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/mapping-climate-grief-one-pixel-at-a-time

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Seaside

"Seaside has become kind of seedy and I kind of like that," said Andres Duany, one of the founders of the New Urbanism, along with his wife and partner, Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk.  They designed Seaside as a prototype forty years ago.  When we arrived today it had hot dogs, crepes and grilled cheese sandwiches served from vintage Airstreams on the main plaza, so we felt at home. 

There have been innumerable towns built since on the model of Seaside, some designed by Andres and Lizz and their firm DPZ, and some designed by their protégés in the New Urbanism movement. The principles are empirical, traditional, and based on research. The fundamental notion is that streets are what make a town.  This might seem obvious at first, until you realize that the United States is largely rebuilt in the form of gated communities.

From a sustainability point of view one of the unique things about Seaside is its density, which is unusual given its location. Houses are close together with narrow streets, gravel aprons, alleyways and walkways winding through. This sort of thing is not normally permitted under most zoning codes, which dictate single family houses on minimum acreage lots. Such restrictions not only are environmentally destructive, contributing to endless suburban sprawl, but also add to the social stratification of America and the housing crisis in general.

At Seaside, as well as in subsequent towns based on this model, a new zoning was necessary to allow each house to exist in a mutually balanced arrangement with its surrounding neighbors. The design of each house is governed by a code that reinforces the definition of the street, similar to towns like Tupelo, Savannah or Oak Bluffs. Unlike an historic district code, it is not stylistic code. Rather, it is a dimensional code where the house and the street work together to create public spaces that contribute to the town as a whole as well as to each individual house. Lawns and asphalt are prohibited. Picket fences create a continuous Robert Frost civility.

It is interesting to note that the towns that have imitated Seaside fail to incorporate its fundamental principles. A development next door has borrowed many of its stylistic attributes in an attempt to emulate the "brand" yet was unable to shed the ubiquitous developer tropes of central parking lots, ambiguous pathways and dramatic architectural features with no real purpose.

The irony is that Seaside has considerably more dwelling units than the adjacent development, and these houses, originally built for a reasonable amount, are now worth a fortune, despite existing in a density comparable to public housing.

There have been many criticisms of Seaside and New Urbanism as a whole.  Are these real towns or just resort communities with second homes? How do these communities contribute to the problem of housing in America? All of these criticisms have some underlying truth to them, and in recent years Duany and Plater-Zyberk have focused their attention instead on the potential for new communities of mobile homes as a way of addressing the inequities in the market. Still, one has to ask, when looking at the gated communities sprawling across America, what is the alternative?

Seaside provides one answer.

The Hay Field

The mist was like a fine rain this morning, except that it didn’t fall. It just hung in the air like a cool and gentle elixir.

Last night we watched the clouds advance over the hay field, cut and fallow, and so wide you could almost feel the curvature of the earth, captured only by the hammock at the far edge.

The sun faded behind bursts of gray and silver, only occasionally revealing the turquoise sky behind. We sat quietly until all turned to stillness.

Okeechobee

On either side of Florida's meridian is the west coast of St. Pete, Clearwater, and the pre-Castro Cuban communities of Tampa and Ybor City; and the East coast, starting in Miami and spreading North through Palm Beach, Vero, Windsor and an infinite variety of gated, golf communities.

A delineation of more cultural significance is Lake Okeechobee, separating the world of South Florida, oriented to the Caribbean,  South America, and Europe from a world that is essentially part of the American South. The people in this part of Florida are commonly known, both affectionately and jocularly, as Crackers.

The Crackers have a long history in Florida, starting as early as the late seventeenth century.  Scots-Irish for the most part, they became the custodians of the horses and cattle left behind by the Spanish. By the time Spain forfeited Florida to Great Britain in 1763, they had managed to develop a unique breed known as the Cracker Horse, made famous in an illustration by Frederic Remington.

The Cracker Horse was bred from Iberian stock, and was a small-boned, light horse. Gaited, it could be ridden for hours in relative comfort, and at a significant pace .  This made it well suited to the herding cattle that roamed freely throughout the flat landscape of Northern Florida.  With the crack of a whip, and hence the name "Cracker" the cattle were herded to their fate, serving both the Union and Confederate armies during the Civil War.  It is a source of significant pride to be called a Cracker today, and most are at pains to describe a genealogical heritage, no matter how convoluted or tenuous.

The cattle business is now defined by large ranches, both dairy and beef, serving most of the East Coast.  The Cracker Horse has been replaced by the Quarter Horse, a stockier breed. It is capable of of speed, though not long distances, and of cutting cattle, roping and reining, and is generally nonchalant in regard to bulls. Desirable characteristics of the breed include its gentle nature, versatility, beauty, speed, agility, and loyalty.

Bred from the Thoroughbred, the Quarter Horse derived its name in the late 17th century, having been raced successfully over quarter-mile courses, mostly in Rhode Island and Virginia.  They are the Olympic sprinters of today , just as the Cracker Horse was the long-distance runner of its day.

It is not uncommon to see a stock trailer drive by in the middle of the day with Quarter Horses tacked up and sweaty, being transported to their next detail.  Its a working life.

The Grand Prix

We had driven there from Salt Springs in the Ocala National Forest, an hour away on a dead straight, isolated road, leaving the Dollar General stores and BBQ stands far behind. We emerged into Ocala, then passed miles of post and board fencing and verdant pastures, before finally arriving at what seemed like an international airport. Large hangars housed the stables, and a grand hotel and exclusive shops surrounded illiuminated competition rings as bright as runways. We might as well have been in Qatar.

Touring the stables at an event like this you witness some of the highest and most expensive forms of equestrian breeding. Living in a kind of spa environment, they are bathed, groomed, clipped, and massaged. Their coats glisten like a prize fighter. Most are seventeen hands or more, with the strength required to launch over the twenty or more jumps in the Grand Prix.

In their stables they are calm, often friendly, sometimes oblivious or entranced. They are elite athletes, and professional in their demeanor. The only things missing from them is a silk robe with their name emblazoned.

Passing Through

It’s a soft Carolina evening. Half the herd is dozing. It’s tranquil at Lynnwood Farm.  The lessons are done for the day.  The farm hands have gone home.

Over forty equines, twenty-five of whom train after-school riders, live here at Lynnwood.  They are arranged in paddocks according to the social order of the equine world.  The Arabian, who pitched his owner after leaving his paddock of mares, is now settled down peacefully with a group of no-nonsense geldings.  New arrivals are carefully integrated.  There are donkeys, minis, mules and horses of every stripe and feather.  There are thoroughbreds, acquired in Kentucky for practically nothing, and developed by young instructors to be resold later for thousands. 

On any given night, half the herd is inside, the other outside under the stars. “Hot bunking” as the Navy calls it.  Everyone has a healthy winter coat, not too spoiled by the luxury of the barn.  They seem to prefer the outside, the company of other horses being important.  One lies down down, one or two stand watch, as donkeys keep an eye on the coyotes.

There are many stories that accompany each equine, the underlying theme being the undiscovered magnificent creature, saved from a fate of iniquity.  One wonders about the parts of the stories that are understood amongst the creatures themselves, in the careful silence that exists between them.

This is a way station for four-leggeds of all types travelling south for the winter. Last night a trailer arrived with two mammoth mules, a quarter horse and three dachshunds. Fur heaven…

Histories

Blossom

Led into the barn by another donkey, she faced the corner of the stall, hoping that by not seeing us, we would not be able to see her either.  She was one of eighty wild donkeys, dumped at the Bowie kill pen in Texas, and still too feral to approach.  It would be nearly two months before Jenny could sit in the stall and feed her from the bowl.  It was another few months before a touch on the muzzle was permitted, and then only when distracted by feeding.  The rest of the time she preferred to be left alone, out in the paddock, the breeze gently blowing, calm, but with ears constantly attuned to potential danger. 

You never know what goes on during a round-up. The equines are crowded together, young and old, healthy and infirmed, mares and stallions. It is a prison yard.  There are no guards, except when they arrive with their electric prods.  What can relieve the trauma of such circumstances?  Histories are hidden. You only hope, as you look into their eyes, that with time they will begin to trust.  Hers were soft, fearful, and surrounded by long  strawberry blond eyelashes, saying maybe…someday...but not now.  We named her Blossom.

It’s difficult to assess the exact age of a rescue donkey.  Her teeth would have told us. We guessed eleven. Early on, donkeys develop a stout, stolid figure, but Blossom's figure continued to, well, blossom.  Perhaps we should ease up on the grain, we thought, and then it dawned on us…she was pregnant. 

We watched as she became enormous.  She 'bagged up' and began to drip milk. The time was near.  We knew that we couldn't be of any assistance.  We worried.  Then, she escaped from her paddock.  At night.  Feral.  Uncatchable.

We searched in the night, we called, we listened.  Then we heard her footsteps on the wooden footbridge in the lower field.  We attempted to round her up.  She headed in the opposite direction.  We circled around.  She maneuvered the other way.  Finally, when she was ready, she casually returned and hopped back into her paddock. There’s an old expression that if you think donkeys are stubborn, you’ve just been outsmarted by a donkey.

The next morning there were two donkeys.

Apple

Apple was irresistible. Her mother did not object as we swaddled her, patted her, pushed her and played with her as she developed from a shaky foal into a rambunctious paddock presence. She was eminently adoptable. Nevertheless, we decided to keep her with her mother, for her sake, and with the hope that her mother might soften with the arrival of her new charge. This did not happen unfortunately, and when it came time to wean Apple, a year later, off went Apple to adoption, and off went her mother to Save Your Ass Long Ear Rescue in New Hampshire for hopeful rehabilitation.

Noah

At the age of 4, Noah found himself at the New Holland Auction in Pennsylvania, the largest auction house east of the Mississippi, known to be frequented by kill buyers looking for cheap horses to ship to slaughter in Mexico. He had sustained an injury to his stifle making him unfit for work of any kind.  A Percheron,  black as night, tall, lanky thin, he stayed for his thirty day quarantine with Jenny before joining his rescuer/owner, Kara, at Meredith Farm in Topsfield, who had his stifle surgically repaired.

When Kara adopted Apple, she joined Noah at Meredith Farm. Jezzie the senior donkey, took it poorly.  She had ruled the larger, acquiescent Percherons, Noah and Ella, and the old chestnut Rondo, unchallenged.  It was only when Rondo stood guard over Apple day and night, that peace was finally restored in the paddock.

When Kara decided to move them all to Mooresville, North Carolina, Rondo had passed on,  Noah had turned from black to dappled gray, and finally to pure white. Ella remained aloof, and Apple and Jezzie had become inseparable. 

When we visited the Meredith Farm crew in Mooresville today, we wondered if they remembered us, our scent, of voices, our touch…or was it the carrots.

Shoebox Canyon

Lunch was served.  It was black eyed peas, mushrooms, garlic, chives and lettuce from the garden. We had just let the mules and ponies out.  They ran and bucked in the lower field before settling down to graze.  Earlier we were treated to a ride on the Pickle Raft in the pond behind the barn. We floated dreamily, gliding over the snapping turtles in the pale green water below.

Julia and Bernie live a life of ascetic luxury.  They are both writers, she of a blog called https://www.consideringanimals.com/ and Bernie of several books, including Too Proud to Ride a Cow: by Mule Across America.

Everything on the farm is considered, carefully made, enhanced, celebrated, reconsidered, remade, transformed, preserved, repurposed or put to greater use.  It is a palmlipsest of objects born of and yet always returning to nature.

The equines are pristine.  Coats shimmering, they are brushed, loved and tended to daily.  In return they carry Julia and Bernie on journeys into the Blue Ridge Mountains and beyond.  It is a partnership well understood.

Julia was our neighbor once and had left everything to join Bernie here in Shoebox Canyon, just outside Lenoir, North Carolina.  They thrive on working hard, eating less, and being a little cold all the time.  Until recently they had no bed, but slept on blankets on the floor of the cabin. 

She showed us a small coatrack with a few shirts and jeans.  That’s my wardrobe, she said.

The Uwharrie Forest

We’d heard the dogs howling until past midnight, tracking under the moonlight.  Most in the Canebrake Horse Camp did not appreciate it, having settled their horses down for the night, they were not in the mood for interruptions. Ensconced in the front quarters of their horse trailers, they turned up the radio.

“How did you guys do last night?” we asked Willy Trent when he walked by in the morning.  “Oh…just one possum in a hole.”  We gathered this was not success.  Still, he seemed unperturbed.  Cautious at first, he paused, waiting to see if there was anything else.  We asked about the dogs.  Black and tan, he said. We asked some well-meaning, uninformed questions.  No, that would be a blue tick.  Yes, those are blood hounds, but that’s something else. They all do something different. 

There are many things that go on in the Uwharrie Forest. One hears shotguns in the distance all day, and sometimes at night.  It might be a good idea to wear blaze orange when hiking, they said.  Wait, aren’t there designated hunting areas?  Yes, they said…

During the day dust covered jeeps stream down the dirt roads with military style trailers in tow.  At night, ATV’s ride back and forth. On the roads during the day we brace ourselves at every curve, waiting for an encounter.

On our first day we got lost in the woods. Paint slashes, plastic triangles, colored reflectors, numbers and names mark the trails.  Some trails remain unmarked.  Few correspond to the map. This is common in the national forests, and it appeared to be the fourth or fifth iteration here, creating an archeological and disorienting accumulation.

We came across two men trying to drive a jeep up a steep ravine.  No they weren’t stuck, just seeing if they could do it, and no, they had no idea where the horse camp was.   A motorbike approached, lost as well.  We looked at his map together and surmised our location, then headed back to the nearest forest road.

Eventually we were saved by two women on horseback who guided us back to the camp, just before sundown. 

Today we bought a compass.