It is the stories that keep me coming back to these hills.

This small band, for instance, was the most memorable encounter. These two yearlings were just babies when my daughter and I met them last summer. On a warm July evening, we were gifted with several hours among a large herd of mares and youngsters; some of them also were foals I had met the previous spring. It is amazing to see them grow, not just in size and stature, but in the relationships they form with other horses.

So when we came across these two this spring, I was especially excited. They were not shy, however, and one came quite brazenly up to me, for several minutes nuzzling the end of my lens cover. I’ve had times where young ones in particular have come so close that it feels as though you might touch one another, but I’ve never experienced a wild horse initiate an interaction that deliberately. Normally, I would much rather watch from afar, and give them the ability to decide whether to allow our presence, so as not to disrupt them. I will admit that after some time it became too intense and I left the space, rather than encouraging behaviour that could potentially endanger a young horse in the future. Being overly enthusiastic to interact with humans does not always serve wild creatures well.

However, this was not even the most moving part of finding this small crew living together. The stallion these young ones were accompanied by was instantly recognizable. I gasped when I saw him, for it had been two years since I first sighted him, far higher on the mountain than they were now. I had written an essay after that solitary trip, titled, ‘The Stallion With No Ears.’

He and I had come across one another on trunk road during the peak of a hot summer day, the only two beings on that particular hillside. I would never forget how he constantly turned back to watch me, in my imagination inviting me to follow along, even though I was certain it seemed as though he was pinning his ears, so maintained a very respectful distance. It was only by accident that I had come close enough to realized it appeared both his ears were at least partially missing, either damaged in vicious battle or by a winter deep freeze.

I had not seen him since.

Seeing him here, with his own family band now, brought me more happiness that I could have imagined. He was shy, and wanted no part of the interaction with us. He remained an enigmatic figure.

This kind of story, of resilience, and common bond, is what makes these horses such a special part of our landscape. It is exactly the kind of story that keeps me coming back.