Like anyone who works on reporting in dusty and remote country, I relied on the graceful guidance of many locals who made my work easier, pointed out unmarked roads, warned of washed-out arroyos, and at one point helped me replace the bumper on a pickup. Many thanks to them. Just as important, the Ted Scripps Fellowship in Environmental Journalism at the University of Colorado in Boulder gave me the time, companionship, and first-rate research library to start my work. Propublica, High Country News, the Gazette of Colorado Springs, and the New York Times allowed me to continue the reporting that made this book possible. A number of very gracious wild-horse lovers were willing to guide me even though I didn’t know a halter from a hat, including Ginger Kathrens, Laura Leigh, and T. J. Holmes. The scientists whose work I relied on, and who were patient and generous with their time, deserve great thanks: Gus Cothran at Texas A&M, Douglas Bamforth at the University of Colorado, and Ken Rose at Johns Hopkins University; and a special thanks to John Turner and his crew who not only showed me Montgomery Pass but also showed me that beer mixed with Gatorade can be a refreshing field ration when the thermometer in Wild Horse Country climbs above 100 degrees. Thanks also to Jay Kirkpatrick, who died during the time when I was writing but whose spirit lives in the growing number of people pursuing wildlife fertility control.
Thanks to Julie Litts Robst, who helped me track down information on her great uncle, Frank Litts, whom she described as a “rather strange man.” Thanks to the many people from the Bureau of Land Management who helped in public and private ways to get the information and access I needed, even when it often meant opening the agency to criticism. Thanks to the many reporters whose work I relied on, especially Martha Mendoza of the Associated Press, who did phenomenal work and whose footsteps I followed years later. And a special thanks to my two sons and my wife, who showered me with patience and support, even when it meant long hours away in the desert or sequestered at a keyboard. You mean more to me than I can ever fully express.