CAMPITO’S LONG WALK HAS COME TO AN END. Sometime in the late fall or early winter of 2021 he departed for somewhat greener pastures, leaving those of us who knew him with an unfillable hole in our hearts. With no effort on his part whatsoever, that cranky old mustang made the world a better place. He was probably thirty-one when his time ran out—pretty remarkable, for a horse that lived so rough.
The Wild-Horse-of-the-Whites’ celebrity had been on the rise for some time—to the point that an increasing number of visitors made the long trek, not just to see gnarled old trees or to bag another 14er, but with high hopes of spotting a legendary equine solitaire. Some of these people learned about Campito by chance through postings on MyFaceSpace; others through vague rumors about an enigmatic four-legged loner with a weird, Hispanic-sounding (maybe Italian?) name. On the other hand, plenty of Eastside “locals”—including hunters and hikers who’d seen Campito dozens of times over the years—didn’t so much as know the old horse had a name. But anyone who knew anything at all about the mysterious dark-bay mustang wondered how he came to be in the Whites in the first place. Where did he came from? And why would a horse be roaming around in the mountains all by his lonesome? Where does he go when the snow flies?
Campito touched everyone who ever laid eyes on him. He was a living symbol of things we admire…things we maybe aspire to. He represented certain intangibles that people of all cultures hold in high esteem. For one, he embodied the archetype of the loner-hero: those rare beings who carry everything they need with them, on the inside. For those of us who loved Campito, there was little reason to try and analyze such notions—it was all about a particular feeling you had whenever you saw him. A good feeling, with a smidgen of sorrow in the background. For him. And Campito? He was living smack dab in the now and the here. He really only cared about one thing: eating.
For the longest time, Campito wouldn’t let humans get within fifty yards of him. Once you crossed that invisible line, he’d start to amble off. If you persisted in trying to get closer, he’d eventually become annoyed and take flight. His unequivocal Seeya!s were often preceded by a spirited head toss and bodacious, rodeo style heels-over-head bucking maneuver. Without fail, though, Campito would stop…turn his head…and shoot you that look. The expression he wore at these times was not unfriendly; it had an inquisitive, almost affable air about it that made you say to yourself, “Secretly, I think the old guy really wants to be petted.” And, secretly, you’d stand there in a reverie wishing you were the one person Campito would bestow that honor upon.
Starting maybe five or six years ago, something inside him shifted and Campito became much less reserved. It came as a shock at first: you’d be driving along and there he was, loitering right by the road. He’d move off if you so much as started to get out of your rig but if you stayed put you could roll down your window and have a little tête-à-tête. Like Mr. Ed, Campito didn’t have much to say. Nonetheless, there’d be some sort of conversation going on between the two of you, yessirree. And then—who knows why?—he began letting people get out of their vehicles and approach. Closer. And closer still…until you’d find yourself standing right in front of a genuine living legend, eyeball to eyeball. For Campito’s long-time admirers, after years of admiring him from a considerable distance, this was an indescribable thrill. You couldn’t help but feel that he’d finally decided to let us all in.
One bonus feature of these unprecedented, intimate encounters: we were finally able to get a clear photo of that curious white mark on Campito’s neck. For those who don’t know about this: that barcode-like tattoo on his neck was a “freezemark.” Freeze-marks are made using a special adjustable branding-iron dipped in super-cold liquid nitrogen. The process is painless and, after the frostbit bits heal, the hair grows back white. The result is an identifying mark that can tell you several things. First off, that the bearer is a captured wild horse that has been formally registered and, if male, gelded. Using a close-up photo of Campito’s unique freezemark and a key available online, in 2018 we were at long last able to ascertain his age (foaled, 1991) and learn from whence he came (some remote corner of northeast California).
The circumstances and events that led to Campito’s living on his own high in the windy White Mountains have always been something of a mystery. Conflicting versions of his story, each bearing grains of truth, helped create an enduring legend. One universal thread running through these tales is Campito’s being a runaway packhorse. By one account, he escaped during a recreational pack outing. After making his way out of the Sierra backcountry he crossed Owens Valley, trudged up one of the White’s interminable west-side ridgelines, and thus reached the promised land. By another telling, Campito escaped during the off season from a local outfitter’s ranch in Chalfant Valley.
The first of these two origin-story variants, unbeatable for sheer romance, is more or less what I heard back in 2004, shortly after my tenure at Crooked Creek Station began. I loved the almost biblical overtones. This account conjures images of Campito on some moonless night, caught in the headlight beams of oncoming semis as he makes a mad dash across Highway 395, hurdling barb-wire fences, freedom-bound.
The other version was told to me in 2012 by Stan Overholt, the Forest Service ranger (now retired) who patrolled White Mountain Road for over twenty years. It made much more sense but lacked some of the gutsy drama.
Neither of these accounts are accurate but the second one comes fairly close.
Years ago I realized that there had to be someone out there who actually knew the story. Like all who were acquainted with Campito, I’ve wanted to find out more about his past (who wouldn’t?) but gradually came to the conclusion that part of me didn’t really want to hear the “true” story. I’m guessing that many feel the same way. But with Campito’s departure I found myself craving something to help fill the hollowed-out place he left behind. Just recently, with the help of an old friend, I was able to make contact with two people who knew Campito’s story first hand. One of them—a long-time Eastern Sierra packer/outfitter—was, albeit briefly, Campito’s legal owner. These two individuals were able to lay some of our questions to rest. But their memories of what happened thirty years ago—dates, locations, and peripheral events—are in many cases hazy or lost to the sands of time. Alas, many details of Campito’s odyssey will never be known with any certainty. Maybe it’s better that way.
As for Campito’s homeland: Throughout the 1990s, Campito’s one-time owner would on occasion travel to Modoc County where he’d purchase, at $125 a head, untamed mustangs taken from Devil’s Garden Plateau Wild Horse Territory and held for adoption. Devil’s Garden Plateau—rugged, high desert sagebrush-steppe underlain by lava flows—lies in Modoc National Forest, just north of the sleepy town of Alturas.
Now, many people have commented on Campito’s regal beauty and fine confirmation…his overall gleaming-coat fat-and-sassiness. (Compared to the scrawny, scruffy individuals that make up your typical mustang herd, Campito looked like a genuine show horse.) It so happens that the Devil’s Garden WHT is known for the quality of its animals. According to a Forest Service website, “Wild horses have been present on the Devil's Garden Plateau since shortly after the first pioneers arrived. Many of the early horses escaped from settlers or were released when their usefulness as domestic animals ended…. Local ranchers and native tribal members turned horses out to graze and then gathered them as needed.” It goes on to say that “Devil’s Garden Horses contributed to the liberation of Europe in WW I.” If so, these would have been US Cavalry “remounts,” animals that came out of federal horse- and mule-breeding programs. Such programs, established shortly after the Civil War ended, provided stock for military use until 1948. After WW I, the Remount Services sold off surplus animals to farmers and ranchers at bargain prices. More importantly, in nearly every state the Remount Services stationed one or more stallions that farmers and ranchers could breed with their own mares for a nominal fee. Significantly, this program—intended to create a ready future supply of up-to-military-standards riding horses—resulted in an overall improvement in the quality of horseflesh throughout the country. Campito’s size and confirmation closely match that of military horses in the WW I era. (How it came about that US Cavalry remount blood got into the Devil’s Garden herd is no doubt a fascinating story.)
Only weeks after his arrival, our hero (who’d been christened “Shaq”) escaped from a corral/stock pen located just outside Bishop. He was probably four years old at the time. Here’s a juicy tidbit we can now add to the dark horse’s legend: he stole away, in the dead of night, by leaping over the corral’s eight-foot-tall fence. When the day dawned, signs of his return to Earth were found on the freedom-side of said enclosure. Just opposite, on the captivity side, were patches of churned-up soil and pawed holes. From these marks we can surmise that the individual who made them was…not happy; they were the farewell note left by a large animal who was pissed off, fed up, and generally disgusted with the current state of affairs; who had been stomping around in a horsey hissy fit for some time before deciding, I’m gonna do it! This all took place just a couple of miles from White Mountain Research Center and the runaway mustang may have sauntered right past the station’s entrance not long after his ballsy break-out.
Clearly, Campito did not want to work for the man.
The former owner, along with a friend connected with the pack station (the other person I spoke with) were in the process of breaking Campito when he self-liberated. Former Owner had already ridden him, bareback, and reports that Campito was a gentle, intelligent animal showing much promise. Along with the other adopted mustangs from Modoc County, Campito’s was being broke as a saddlehorse for use by pack station wranglers until he proved trustworthy enough to be ridden by paying customers—not as a mere beast of burden. (Pack stations generally employ mules as pack animals.)
Following his audacious break out, Campito wandered aimlessly back and forth along the base of the Whites for a solid month. Apparently, he spent some of that time around Warm Springs, at the foot of Black Mountain. Repeated attempts were made to capture the escapee. In the end, Campito made his way up Silver Canyon, perhaps sensing that this was his path to liberty and autonomy. (“He was on a mission,” as Former Owner put it.) They tracked him as far as the top of Silver Canyon before losing his trail. At that point, the pursuit was called off. The Forest Service was notified by letter that a horse was loose in the Whites but no action was taken on their part to remedy the situation. Moreover, no further attempts were ever made to try and catch him. Thank goodness. These events took place in 1995 or possibly 1996.
For a quarter century, Campito graced us with his presence. He had a surprisingly limited range, alternating between three favorite spots—Campito Meadow, Big Prospector Meadow, and Sagehen flat. When Campito made it to the top of Silver Canyon and hit the crest, finding water would have been a priority. He may have smelled it on the breeze and headed north. Once he found liquid sustenance, he was capital-h Home. At that time, there were flowing springs in each of his favorite retreats. Typically, Campito would spend several days in one spot before heeding some instinctive urge to move on. He seldom dallied when switching locales, heading straight from one sagey pasture to another on well-worn paths—barefoot, whistling a happy tune, and munching as he went along. Summer after summer…living the good life.
In his final years, along with other behavioral changes, Campito took to spending time in brand new haunts. He began to frequent spring-fed meadows on the west side of County Line Hill and hung around Golden Siren Mine—places that he’d formerly shunned. Oddly, there any number of choice spots you’d think Campito would have naturally been drawn to that he never, ever set hoof on. For instance: even in the driest years, not once did he venture down into Crooked Creek. What's more, in the course of our unrelenting drought, almost all his once-dependable water sources disappeared completely or were gone by mid-summer. Where Campito went to slake his thirst in dry times is a lingering mystery. The Cave Fork of Crooked Creek (just downslope from Sagehen Flat, one of his usual hangouts) is crawling with springs that never stop flowing. But there’s no indication that Campito ever visited any of them. It may be that the old guy, like crusty bachelors the world over, was simply set in his ways—familiar, unvarying routine lending some sense of security to a comfortless, solitary life.
Here’s a heartwarming story: Campito had a special friend—an ancient packhorse called “Bob” (who was well into his thirties and still alive the last I heard). This story was relayed to me several years ago by two Deep Springs College cowboys. When the event in question took place, the two future graduates of Yale or Harvard or Stanford were out fixing fence. Bob, who’d packed the tools and rolls of wire, was snoozing nearby. Campito suddenly appeared and walked right up to Bob. The two immediately launched into a distinctive equine routine: with necks crossed, they’d toss their heads and exchange little lippy nips—love-bites, as it were; literal horseplay. The cowboys assured me that this was not the pair’s first liaison. The two horses were more than casual acquaintances—they were old buddies. Well then.
One final item. In answer to the question, Where did Campito go in the winter? the answer is: Nowhere. It may sound implausible, but Campito never went down the mountain. There are no indications whatsoever that he ever headed downslope when the snow came. (Believe me, we’ve asked around and searched for sign.) On the other hand, there were a number of reported Campito-sightings during the months of long, cold nights—always, at his customary stomping grounds. He grew his thick winter coat and got by. Even during those years where snow was all the way down to the valley floors, he somehow got by. He knew all the habitually windblown places where the ground was exposed or was able to paw through shallow snow like a reindeer. Yes, it’s truly hard to grasp. But then, Campito was a card-carrying survivor. Visualize him standing alone at eleven-thousand feet on a frigid February night. In a raging blizzard, ass to the wind, just taking it…patiently waiting out the storm. Talk about fortitude.
The Wild Horse of the Whites.
It’s hard to believe he’s actually gone. Several of Campito’s long-time admirers have told me that his passing affected them deeply; far more than they’d anticipated. I would echo that sentiment. We all knew this day was coming and had been dreading it for years now. For me, it’s not so much sorrow—what you experience at the death of a family member or friend or beloved pet—but of mourning something lost that can never be replaced; not an individual—something inexpressible. Campito was old. It was his time. No—it’s what was carried off with him that we grieve over.
One thing I’d like to underscore is that Campito was more than a runaway mustang with a colorful back-story. He was most definitely not the equine version of Joe Sixpack. No, our guy was special. Even those with little or no experience being around livestock could feel this. Solitary feral horses are few and far between but not unheard of—four-legged nonconformists who somehow overcome their deep-rooted herd instincts (generally as a matter of circumstance, not choice). Campito was one of these Lone Travelers. Seeing him up close, you’d tap into a certain above-the-fray, cagey aloofness that Campito gave off in spades. When you’d see him off in the distance: there was something about the way you felt as soon as you spotted that tiny little black speck, a mile away in a sea of grey-green sagebrush. That barely visible speck would instantly transform the austere high-desert landscape, turning it into a symbolic tableau that captured perfectly a sense of isolation. Of what alone means.
Taken together, all these human projections gradually turned Campito into a sort of totem animal: an otherworldly creature who embodied the quintessence of the high White Mountains’ Spartan purity. He was, in a sense, the red-blooded-air-breathing counterpart to the bristlecone pine. I can say this much: with Campito gone, something is missing that was there before. But in the end, it was just knowing he was out there. Free. Living life…on his terms. That was his gift.
In the cage there is food.
Not much, but there is food.
Outside are only great stretches of freedom.
Nicanor Parra
©2023 Tim Forsell 26 Feb 2023
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