The Five Roles of a Master Herder. Linda Kohanov

it’s important to emphasize that I gained proficiency in this model by working with herds of empowered horses for over a decade before I could codify and describe these skills, let alone use them consciously with humans. Saying that I invented the Five Roles of a Master Herder is therefore like saying Columbus discovered America. Numerous cultures were thriving in the New World long before this wily Spaniard washed up on shore thinking he had found a more convenient route to India. Similarly, the information I’m offering is actually very old, so old, in fact, that pastoral tribes throughout the world left this earthy wisdom behind whenever they, either by choice or force, traded nomadic freedom for sedentary security.

      But one night, deep in the heart of the Arizona outback, I realized that my own horses had been silently tutoring me in these ancient ways for years, counting on me to reclaim this wisdom and use it fluidly — if only, at first, to save their lives.

       Introduction

      The moon is almost full. Its soft light shines gold at the source, yet somehow turns blue as it flows over the desert landscape. The black horse paces back and forth, her labor pains increasing in intensity as her powerful mate mutters a deep, gentle sound of reassurance nearby.

      Still, something is not quite right. Well before midnight, when most equine births occur, I sit down on a bed of straw and pat the ground, looking for some way to encourage the mare to rest for an hour or two. Surprisingly, miraculously, she lays down beside me.

      Even so, Rasa’s distress is palpable. She continually touches her nose to her hip, her gestures becoming so emphatic that I grab a flashlight and check under her tail. And there it is, one of many potentially deadly complications I was warned about: Though her water has not yet broken, Rasa’s foal is emerging from the womb, destined to drown in amniotic fluid if I don’t do something fast. I break the sac and support the emerging child, breathing onto his nose to encourage that first breath, relieved to realize the birth is not breech. By the time my ranch manager arrives on the scene, answering a concerned call I made to her not twenty minutes earlier, the foal is resting quietly under a canopy of trees, their leaves blowing gently in the warm September wind.

      The tiny colt looks up at me, his eyes reflecting the rising moon. He stands quickly, easily, and ambles on shaky legs toward his two-legged midwife. The mare, however, is facing yet another challenge. She cannot get up. In fact, she doesn’t want to try, in part because of a problem with her right back stifle (similar to the knee in humans) that was taxed to the limit by the stress of pregnancy.

      Rasa’s eyes begin to glaze over, and I feel tears welling in my own. Horses who can’t stand can suffocate due to the increasing pressure of body weight on their weakening lungs. Somehow, my colleague Shelley Rosenberg and I have to inspire this mare to choose the promise of life with her newborn over the very understandable urge to sleep.

      With Shelley guiding him from behind, the coal-black foal follows me like a shadow as I lead him toward his mother.

      “Rasa, here is your boy,” I say, directing the still-wet yet increasingly engaged little horse to breathe into the mare’s nose. “You must get up now and feed him.” The experienced mother nickers and suddenly comes to life at the soft, curious touch of her long-awaited second child. Yet Shelley and I exchange worried glances as Rasa struggles valiantly, then lies back with a weary, disturbingly defeated sigh. We know that we must make her stand before she gives up completely.

      It takes two of us, one pulling a halter attached to a lead rope in front and the other pushing from behind, overriding our own fears and empathetic responses in order to increase the pressure on this exhausted mare. We progressively encourage, then insist, then demand that she rally every last resource she possesses to stay in this world. Finally through the herculean efforts of all three of us, Rasa leaps to her feet, shaking her mane in defiance at the specter of death slinking back into darkness.

      Moments later, Rasa is caressing her boy, pushing him gently toward his first taste of milk. Indigo Moon drinks with delight as all the horses begin to whinny, welcoming another herd member into this strange and beautiful new world.

      Five Roles

      To save the lives of both mare and foal, Shelley and I each performed four of the five roles of a Master Herder that night. Though it would have been tragic, we were also prepared to engage the fifth, if absolutely necessary.

      In the days leading up to the birth, a number of staff members traded shifts in the Sentinel role as we kept watch over the pregnant mare, concerned that the long-standing lameness in her right back leg might lead to complications. Since horses usually give birth less than a half hour after breaking water, we knew we’d have to act quickly if there was a problem, long before a veterinarian could drive down the rustic dirt road to our ranch. While I was confident in Shelley, who had assisted in numerous equine births over the years, I also realized I needed to somehow overcome my notorious fear of medical procedures to learn not only what to look for but what I might have to do in any number of disturbing labor scenarios. It turned out to be a prescient move: While Shelley was planning to take over the watch at midnight, Rasa’s foal emerged from the womb several hours earlier than expected — minus the classic signal that he was on his way.

      Without the mare breaking water, it would have been deadly for the foal if I had stubbornly maintained the role of Sentinel, that is, if I had watched from over the fence and only called Shelley once something ran amiss, while abdicating a more hands-on approach because of my lack of veterinary experience. To read the subtle nonverbal communication Rasa exhibited during those crucial moments, I needed an intimate understanding of her unique behavior and a desire to comfort her. I needed to recognize that the feeling of concern my horse conveyed when she laid down was more than an early stage of labor. This intimate knowledge combined with my intuition came from years of close association and trust. Without my proficiency in the role of Nurturer/Companion, and the connection Rasa and I shared as a result, it’s highly unlikely I would have been sitting on the ground next to her when the foal first emerged. The bond Indigo Moon and I developed as I helped him out of the womb also served us well in the years to come.

      Yet this birth required much more than watching, nurturing, and supporting our four-legged companions. Shelley and I also had to engage two much more active roles that night, those of the Leader and the Dominant. We had to be quick about it, too. Taking the leadership position, I walked toward our first goal, drawing little Indigo forward, gaining his interest and cooperation without the benefit of restraints or training, compelling him to follow me around the corral to his mother as Shelley gently herded him from behind, taking the position of Dominant. When the feel and sweet smell of Indi’s soft muzzle wasn’t enough to inspire Rasa to face the pain of standing up, Shelley and I increased the intensity of these roles, simultaneously pulling and pushing, coaching, encouraging, and then demanding that the mare get on her feet.

      Finally, if the situation had become dire, both Shelley and I would have had to accept — with deep courage and compassion — the role of Predator. We would have had to make the decision to euthanize Rasa. This would have been difficult enough, but if the vet could not arrive in time to humanely end our beloved companion’s suffering, we would have had to use a gun normally kept on hand for protection in the desert outback and perform this most grievous and sacred act ourselves.

      To this day, I thank our lucky stars we didn’t have to engage all five roles that night. But our ability to incorporate and exchange the other four as needed offered me the first, most visceral glimpse of an ancient form of wisdom, one that has been all but lost in humanity’s increasingly insulated, highly specialized, city-based, sedentary lifestyle.

      Power Struggles

      Fall flowed into winter as Indigo Moon grew stronger and bolder with each passing day. His older brother, Spirit, was navigating the fretful challenges of adolescence, testing boundaries and finding ever-more-clever ways to amuse himself at others’ expense. Luckily, I had some experience with disorganized male aggression. Both Indi and Spirit were sons of Midnight Merlin, a proud, at one time dangerous Arabian stallion who refused to submit to simplistic dominance-submission