gosurf outthere gohunt WHERE DO WILD HORSES GO IN WINTER? rearview
“When are we going to see the horses?” they repeated impatiently. “The sooner, the better, right?” I joked. And hoped. There are reasons we don’t do many tours in the off-season. Horses probably want a break from humans, too. But if someone wants to try, we’ll take ’em. Still, it doesn’t hurt to build up the anticipation by suggesting we may get skunked. “There’s always a chance we don’t see any,” I said. “But I know a few places where they like to hang out.” “Where?” asked the kids. “Probably back among the live oaks,” I said. “That’s where we’re heading now.” I crested the dune around milepost 20 and made for the sound side. A few minutes later, we rounded a sandy curve. Just there, on the edge of the maritime forest, I saw a circle of stamping hooves. “Horses!” I shouted. “Where?! Where?!” “I see them,” said Mrs. D. “But why are they standing that way?” “Because it’s freezing!” I exclaimed. “They put their heads together and huddle up, using each other for warmth or protection. They do the same during hurricanes. The whole harem has to work together to survive.” “But what do they eat?” asked Mr. D. “They eat what they can depending on the season.” “I suppose we all do,” I mused to myself, thinking how much I’ll appreciate this tour on my next Food Lion trip. y “Green summer grasses, sea oats, persimmons, tb Ar acorns,” I continued. “It’s a specialized diet. They’ve adapted to survive on it over the centuries. But take a horse from anywhere else in the world, drop them here, and they won’t last two weeks.” I decided to let that sink in for a second. As the sun set behind the dunes, everything around us was fuchsia. The clouds seemed washed in a burnt orange, painting the waves and whitewater with pinks, purples, and silvery blues. There was no darkness on the horizon, east or west — just color. I let them get a final gander at the herd while I took a second to soak in the stillness and calm. Then I fired up the truck and headed south for the shop. “Tough life for a horse,” said Mr. D., peering over his shoulder as we pulled away. “It’s tough, yeah — but it’s theirs,” I replied. “And they wouldn’t fit in anyplace else.” — Peter Graves Roberts Br iY ou ng
It was the coldest day I’d ever experienced on the Outer Banks. The Currituck Sound was completely frozen. Flurries flew as snow drifted against the dunes and hung on sea oats along the beach north of Corolla. It was January 2nd and sixteen degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill of about negative twenty. No local in their right mind would be out in an open-air truck that day. But the Davidsons were from Canada and had a whole different definition of cold. And I had a job to do. “Where do the wild horses go in winter?” came a tiny voice. I looked down to see a pair of inquisitive eight-year-old eyes looking up, vapor breath still rising from her words. “They hide,” I answered, helping her and her brother up into the safari truck. “But you just have to know where to look for them.” Mom and Dad hopped up and squeezed in on either side. I zipped up my insulated coveralls, fired up the engine, and moments later we were rumbling over the cattle guard and onto the beach toward Virginia. “Welcome to Highway 12 north,” I joked. “Next stop, Carova Beach.” “So, excuse me. I’m sorry. You mean that there is no other road to—,” Mr. D. asked. “There’s no other road,” I interrupted. “This is it.” Directing their attention northward, I said, “You see all those big houses? Everything it takes to build, furnish and maintain ’em comes in by the beach, same way we are. This is it.” “Unbelievable!” exclaimed Mrs. D. “It’s not easy, but they do it,” I said. “The real problem is when folks from out of town try to take a regular car out here. I’ve seen brand new Porsches stuck to their hood ornaments.” We made our way onto the flat sand. The wind whipped up ocean whitecaps and sent seafoam balls rolling down the beach. I pointed down to show them — then raised my arm a little toward the west. “Oh! Look back there,” I pointed. “See that huge dune? Locals call that Penny’s Hill, though purists call it Lewark’s Hill — named for the Lewark family, whose house was buried beneath it.” The kids didn’t care about the history, though. Or spindrift. Or the damage one foolish mistake can do to a fancy car. Those were grown-up concerns.
Ed. Note: Read more of Peter Graves Roberts’ homespun tales in “Confessions of an Outer Banks Tour Guide,” out this winter. milepost 41
