The message came on Monday afternoon, August 19th, from Samantha Potvin Besler, who’d been camping for the weekend with her family out in the Alberta backcountry near Cutoff Creek. They’d set up camp and had been exploring on their quads when they came across a young wild horse foal standing guard over his deceased mother and jumping on her body to scare away the winged predators. He hid in the cottonwoods beside his mother when Samantha approached, but she managed to coax him out, crouching low to the ground and reassuring him with her soft voice.
The month-old foal had been surviving on grass and drinking from the putrid puddle of water beside the rotting carcass of his mother. His herd had abandoned him and he was all alone.
Samantha checked on him daily, unsure how to help, aware that it was illegal to remove a ‘wildie’ foal from the wilderness without a capture permit.
As soon as she returned home, she messaged Help Alberta Wildies Society (HAWS). I volunteer for HAWS and my heart stopped when I read her message and saw the heartbreaking photos she sent. Darrell Glover, president and founder of HAWS and his long-time partner, Barb, were away, out of cell phone range, changing trail camera cards, so my urgent messages went unanswered.
I knew that the window to save this foal was quickly closing. According to Samantha, he’d been out there for a few days already and his mother’s carcass was attracting predators. The wolves and grizzlies hadn’t arrived yet, but that was only a matter of time ‒ something this foal was running out of.
I contacted fellow HAWS volunteer Ken Shulko, who was also unable to connect with Darrell or Barb. We texted back and forth and decided to drop everything and help this little foal as soon as possible.
I gleaned more information from Samantha. The foal looked healthy and had no apparent injuries. She dropped me a pin of his exact location and coordinates.
At around 5:00 we finally heard from Darrell. It was too late in the day to make the two-hour trek into the wilderness to rescue the foal. Darrell’s UTV had broken down near William’s Creek and he had plans to retrieve it tomorrow. It looked like it was up to Ken, my 12-year-old grandson Hunter and I to stage the rescue.
Now the serious planning began. I would take my horse trailer, foal halters, lead shanks, and Ken would meet us at my house, then we would all go together, but first I had to race over to Darrell’s ranch to gather a few bottles of milk replacer.
Dark storm clouds loomed. threatening overhead. The temperature outside plummeted and a volley of lightning crackled across the sky. Torrential rains pelted my truck, but by the time I reached the North 40, the rain had stopped. I looked to the east where the storm still raged and saw the lower half of a spectacular rainbow peaking from an angry black cloud ‒ a sign of hope in the darkness.
I collected the milk replacer and Darrell brought up the map on his computer, marking the location of the pin. It was going to be a challenge. I suggested Darrell call Samantha for clarification. I hadn’t seen a road in any of her photos. Samantha replied that it was a ten-minute hike in; they weren’t visible from the road.
This changed everything. The rescue had become dangerous, as Ken, Hunter and I would be hiking in blind with the possibility of surprising a hungry apex predator feasting on the carcass.
Darrell and Barb decided to forgo retrieving their UTV and join the rescue instead. The UTV would survive another day without them. The foal would not.
We decided to take horses with us, hoping they would make the foal feel more comfortable and that he might follow them. Darrell would bring three horses and a quad. Ken would drive in from Edmonton and meet us at the North 40 to drive the flatbed. I would bring my two-horse trailer and we’d all meet up in Caroline early the next morning.
The plan was in place, but this did nothing to quell my anxiety. I couldn’t help but think about that frightened little foal, all alone in the wilderness, cowering beside his mother’s carcass as the wolves serenaded the night under a bright full moon. Would we find him in time?
Something else worried me. I had an older truck with over 220,000 km on it. A month ago, while out in the backcountry looking for wildies, it overheated. I’d had it fixed but the temperature gauge still crept past the halfway mark, especially on steep hills. I hadn’t towed my trailer behind it since then and prayed it would hold out during our quest.
My racing thoughts played havoc as I tossed and turned. Sleep was not on the agenda and I was awake long before my alarm went off. With a cooler full of water and snacks and the bear spray securely locked in my glove compartment, it was time to face the day.
The morning’s weather forecast proved exceptional. Sunny and warm with a few clouds. The following day’s forecast didn’t bode as well with a seventy percent chance of rain and severe thunderstorms. It was as if the universe had paused its succession of turbulent weather just for today. To give us a chance to save this foal. Another good omen.
Two hours later our three-rig convoy, two horse trailers and a flatbed truck hauling a quad meandered single file up and down the steep, gravel roads and switchbacks across Corkscrew Mountain to our destination at mile marker 17. The landscape was spectacular. Tall green pines blanketed the hillsides as the majestic Rocky Mountain rose up beside us. I was concentrating too much on my temperature gauge to notice much of the rugged beauty surrounding me as we began to climb upwards. The temperature gauge needle slunk past the centre, ever closer to the dreaded red line of overheating. Then the road veered sharply left and we started down a steep hill and the needle slid back down. I breathed a sigh of relief until a fully loaded logging truck rounded the corner in a plume of gravel dust and nearly took out Darrell’s rig in front of us. The trucker hit his brakes and Darrell veered into the narrow ditch on his right. Collision avoided, but that was close.
My grandson began to count the yellow-and-black mile markers. Seventeen came into view. A Jack Pine Forest lined both sides of the road; a large clearing came into view with a pile of chopped, stacked wood in the center. The campsite. We pulled our rigs into the clearing and I strained my eyes. No dead mare. No foal.
We unloaded the horses. Darrell and Ken jumped on the quad, taking a loaded rifle with them, and disappeared into the trees. The plan was for them to search for the foal first before we mounted our horses. Barb, Hunter and I waited with tense anticipation.
“There,” said Hunter, pointing towards the tree line. “He’s alone. They found him!” My heart did a somersault in my chest as the quad drew closer and Darrell exclaimed, “He’s alive!”
The two Hunters. (photo courtesy Debbie McGauran)
Much to Hunter’s delight, he was given a quick lesson on how to drive the quad and was allowed to take it out by himself. Darrell, Barb and I mounted the horses. Five minutes later, after crossing a shallow, muddy creek, the dark body of the mare and a small foal came into view. Ken would later tell us that as soon as the foal spotted the horses he nickered.
As we drew nearer, the pungent stench of rotting flesh nearly knocked me over. Ranger began to snort and blow. He didn’t like the smell of death. The mare was in much worse shape than the photos depicted. (Video of the mare and foal can be viewed here, but be warned that the images are extremely disturbing.) The tiny, perfect bay foal was standing right beside her body, watching us with curiosity. The incessant buzzing of hundreds of flies filled the air. The foal jumped over her carcass, sending a wave of small dark insects into the air above her body. He hid in the cottonwoods but soon reappeared. He took a few steps forward, touching noses with Barb’s horse. Then he retreated again.
He wasn’t afraid of us, thanks to Samantha for starting the desensitization process. He approached each of the horses, one by one, clacking in submission. It didn’t take long before Barb was able to lean forward and sneak in a butt scratch. He liked that. All foals do. Then he would retreat, stepping onto the carcass of his mother or jumping over her body, always sticking close to her side.
We talked to him in soothing, gentle voices. Barb would apply pressure by scratching his butt then release pressure by backing off until he was closing his eyes as she rubbed him. He was so tired.
Ken moved in from the other side and began rubbing the lariat loop on the base of his tail. Too much pressure and the foal would jump away and retreat to the cottonwoods for a few minutes. When he returned, Barb stepped up with the butt scratches. Ken worked the lariat slowly towards the foal’s head and put his head down towards the lariat loop. Ken had one chance. If he missed … we didn’t want to think about that. Boom. Ken slipped it over his head.
The terrified foal reared straight in the air, but only struggled for a few minutes before giving in and calming down. Darrell slipped a halter on him. We had him!
Walking him back to the trailers, with a rope around his hindquarters, proved exhausting for the colt. To our delight, he immediately accepted a bottle of milk replacer when offered. The sound of this starving foal slurping down milk made my heart jump for joy.
When we finally got the foal to the trailers, he had another bottle and lay down. We let him rest and brainstormed a name for him. Trooper was already taken and Warrior was a wildie foal who had recently passed away. Then Darrell suggested naming him Hunter, after my grandson who had spotted the foal tumbling down a cliff in May and had now assisted with this rescue as well. My grandson Hunter was smiling ear-to-ear as he looked down and gently stroked his namesake laying in the grass.
Hunter the foal, with a belly full of milk and no longer having to guard his mom from predators, fell fast asleep ‒ the first real sleep he’d likely had in at least six days. His nightmare was over. He was finally safe … and I think he knew it.