09/25/2025
The other day, I had one of those rare, quiet moments with Floki that awed and humbled me. A trainer had come out to work with Lagertha, and as I was leading Floki up from the back run-in, she entered the pasture. Instantly, Floki went on high alert. He froze, ears pricked, body taut, assessing the new presence.
For a wild-born mustang, this reaction is survival itself. Floki lived free on the McGavin Peak HMA in northern California before his capture, and in the wild, any human would almost certainly mean danger. That instinct never fully leaves them, no matter how much time they spend in domestic settings. A once-wild mustang may learn to trust his or her human, but unless they are socialized frequently with a lot of different people (a luxury that I don’t yet have), they will always be wary of strangers. Such is the case with Floki, who is naturally a watcher—the herd member responsible for overseeing the safety of the rest of the herd.
But instead of bolting or bracing as he once would have, Floki turned to me. He reached over with his nose, touched my cheek, paused, watching the stranger—then nudged me again. He wasn’t looking for treats or play. He was asking, “Is this safe? Have you got my back?” I’m always telling him, “I gotchyer back, Jack.” This was my chance to prove it.
I wrapped my arm gently around his jaw, stroked his cheek and whispered reassurance. After a long moment, he relaxed ever so slightly. He exhaled, his muscles eased, his head came down a bit, and he was ready to walk forward at my side.
A few months ago, this would not have been possible. Floki’s instinct would have been to retreat. His world, until recently, had taught him to depend on himself alone. But trust is something that builds with time and consistency. Every moment of calm handling, every positive experience, every gentle release of pressure stacked up until the day he chose to lean into me instead of away.
This wasn’t just about desensitization or training mechanics. It was about relationship. Floki didn’t need to override his instincts; he found a way to honor them by asking me for guidance. And I was able to give him the answer he needed: Yes, you’re safe. Yes, I’ve got you.
For those who have worked with mustangs—or any sensitive horse—you’ll know that trust isn’t something you buy with grain or gain by force. It’s earned slowly, sometimes painfully slowly, through:
• Consistency: Showing up the same way, every time, with no surprises. A soft, relaxed demeanor is critical.
• Patience: Allowing the horse to make the choice to step forward, even if it takes days or weeks.
• Reassurance: Meeting hesitation with calm, not pressure.
• Respect: Acknowledging their instinct to be cautious as wisdom, not resistance.
With Floki, trust has come in layers. First, allowing me to touch his face. Then, to groom him. Next, standing quietly for haltering. Then, walking past new objects. And now, choosing to check in with me when another human entered his space.
A small side note about how Floki likes to work with me: he does not like to be micromanaged. I don’t hold his lead close to the halter—I give him about three feet. Even with that slack, he walks respectfully with me, only switching sides behind me when something makes him nervous, and never bumping or pushing against me. But even when he does spook, he no longer hits the end of the lead. I’m respectful of his decisions about which side to walk on, and he’s respectful of my status as a “squishy, fragile thing” that can be easily hurt!
These moments may seem small from the outside, but they are monumental in the journey of a mustang and his human. Each one is a foundation stone. They create a horse who does not just obey but partners—a horse who believes that his human can be trusted to keep him safe.
For me, this is the heart of horsemanship. It isn’t about control. It isn’t about forcing a horse into compliance. It’s about listening as much as leading, and about becoming a place of safety in a world that sometimes still feels threatening to them.
When Floki touched my cheek that day, I felt the weight of every small choice that brought us here: every time I stepped back instead of pushing; every time I rewarded the try; every time I waited instead of rushing. It all added up to this one quiet moment where my mustang chose me over fear.
And that is worth more than any ribbon, title, or milestone. It’s trust—real, living trust. And it’ll bring tears to your eyes every time.
