I DO NOT LEARN. It’s a problem, I admit. However, that, unfortunately, is one of my issues. You see, most people gain some wisdom through experience. I don’t. Some gain understanding by suffering through pain. I wouldn’t. I spent years crashing cars and breaking bones before even beginning to grasp the concept of painful consequences. Others learn from financial loss, memorising their mistakes after losing absurd amounts of money.
Not me, forget it!
I’ll enthusiastically blow my coins on the same idiotic ventures again and again.
To paraphrase the great Formula One driver Mario Andretti (and a few other wise fools):
“I spent 90% of my money on adventures, motorcycles, fast cars, and slow planes. The rest I squandered.”
It’s not that I’m mentally impaired or cerebrally handicapped. It’s not that I am completely oblivious either. At least, I don’t think so. I see the red flags, of course. But typically, I just elect to ignore them until the sky is so full of crimson banners you’d think I was at the heart of a socialist revolution or even a communist parade.
However, there are a few hard facts I’ve finally managed to grasp.
For instance, I’ve learned—after far too many attempts—not to date blondes. The last one ran off with my dentist. Blondes break your heart, and apparently, your molars too.
I’ve also come to understand—after numerous painful mishaps—that pulling wheelies and stunts in heavy traffic is generally frowned upon by both physics and the law.
And most recently, I’ve acquired the crucial insight to never, under any circumstances, go into business with religious zealots. Trust me, that’s a tale for another time, but suffice it to say, divine intervention wasn’t exactly on my side.
The point is, all those glaring red flags I’d willfully ignored when I accepted the job in the Canadian wild came back with a vengeance. And this time, they weren’t just flapping in the wind—they were biting me squarely in the butt.
Back to the Yukon...
It was only very late in life that I came to truly appreciate horses. In fact, I’ve grown rather fond of them in recent years—especially after witnessing the cruel and heartbreaking treatment these gentle creatures endured at the hunting lodge up in the Yukon.
Now, before I go on, let me be clear. I don’t idolize horses the way teary-eyed, eternally adolescent city splinters do. You know the type—the ones who flock to dude ranches and treat every neigh as a divine revelation.
Unlike them, I don’t expect a horse to solve the plethora of problems my cats have proven utterly incapable of addressing. And trust me, that’s quite the list.
Oh, but wait, girls—there’s more!
What never ceases to amaze me is the expectation that Prince Charming will gallop into your life when your "stage" is already occupied by two fluffy, neutered cats and a gelding.
The clues are in the words neutered and gelding. If you have a soft spot for castrated and docile companions, perhaps it’s time to stop daydreaming about a dragon-slaying macho knight showing up with a sparkling wedding proposal.
Ain’t gonna happen!
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but no dashing hero in shining armour is coming to set you free. Not because you can’t have it, but because, deep down, I suspect that’s not what you truly want.
What you’re more likely to end up with, though, is a perpetually whimpering, snivelling crybaby—a human gelding, if you will.
Just some food for thought, ladies…
Back to the Yukon.
You see, I have a soft spot for animals—all of them. That being said, let’s be honest: a two-pound tarantula isn’t particularly cuddlesome and it doesn’t quite tug at the heartstrings the same way a Labrador puppy of equal size does.
Believe me, I’ve had close encounters with both species, and while each has its charm, the puppy is undeniably easier to adore.
And no, it’s not just about the difference in textures
But again, that’s a story for another time.
What’s relevant here is that my deep fondness for animals is matched only by my utter intolerance for any injustice or cruelty inflicted upon them. And therein lay the root of the rapidly escalating disharmony between me, my putrid smelling employer, and the ragtag crew we worked alongside.
Looking back, I still can’t quite comprehend how I ever assumed that people who made their living out in the wild would have an inherent respect for it. Call me naive, but I figured the wilderness would inspire reverence, not indifference.
My first encounter with this particular species—the horses, not the hillbillies—was with the 40 hardworking steeds employed at the hunting conservancy. Their short but gruelling season involved hauling men, gear, and game between our four remote cabins.
There was no infrastructure up there to speak of, apart from a few narrow trails snaking through the wilderness. The entire area was completely inaccessible to any vehicle except a floatplane. Only the main cabin—a cozy and admittedly beautiful little retreat where I was assigned to live—was within reach of a gravel road. That gravel road eventually connected to a highway, which, after an eight-hour drive, led to Whitehorse, the charming yet remote capital of the Yukon.
As for the horses, they were brought in by trailer from their winter pasture in Alberta, where they had spent a luxurious nine months recovering from the grueling previous season. However, not every horse was fortunate enough to make that journey. Only those deemed strong enough to survive another backbreaking term earned a ticket to Alberta’s Equine Club Med.
The less fortunate ones? They were left behind in the Yukon—a convenient snack for the local wolves, bears, and wolverines.
As a spectacular display of gratitude for their gruelling toil—and to help them through the brutal Yukon winter—the weary horses were generously provided with one bale of mouldy hay. Quite the retirement package, was it not?
In stark contrast, the sturdy horses freshly trucked in from Alberta were in excellent condition: well-fed, healthy, and, in their rugged way, even a little charming. But this wouldn't last. The short yet relentless hunting season in the unforgiving Yukon wilderness would change that dramatically. There wasn’t much forage to be found in those barren mountains, so over the course of just three months, each horse would shed an alarming 150–200 pounds.
I recall when I first visited this place in October for my interview. Among the many things that stood out were the skeletal frames of the horses. They were gaunt, malnourished, and visibly exhausted. It was a sobering sight, though at the time I naively assumed it was some sort of temporary aberration.
Upon my arrival for the job, the first task at hand was to shoe the new horses. This was handled by a cowboy on the team, a friendly enough fellow with a black hat and a bushy beard that evoked Wyatt Earp. Or so I thought. Later, I learned that the hat was no Stetson but a budget knockoff, and the beard wasn’t an homage to Tombstone’s famous gunslinger at all. No, it was grown strategically to camouflage some glaring dental deficiencies. Nothing like a little frontier ingenuity, I suppose.
Horses, like all social animals, live by a clear pecking order. To them, it’s imperative to quickly establish who sits atop the hierarchy and who languishes at the bottom. That structure brings order to their communal existence.
Perhaps I’m a touch old-fashioned, but I believe Homo sapiens used to function much the same way—back when Darwinism held sway, and only the strong and fittest thrived. The strong, in turn, bore the responsibility of protecting the weaker. A fair trade, all things considered.
Contrast that with today’s world, where self-declared victims and fringe groups demand to be coddled and safeguarded at every turn, while strength and vigor are dismissed as outdated “toxic masculinity.” In this upside-down landscape, it’s not survival of the fittest but survival of the most fragile—and heaven forbid anyone question that. Evolution, it seems, has taken a baffling detour.
I digress…
Since the horses had come from all over the country, it was inevitable that the strongest of the lot would immediately start establishing dominance. The weaker ones, accustomed to their place at the bottom of the pecking order, were docile enough to shoe without much trouble.
The others, however, proved far too aggressive for the delicate art of shoeing. These were the ones that had to be... put down. Literally. Now, a horse—being a prey animal at heart—doesn’t take kindly to having all four legs roped, being spread-eagled, and violently thrown to the ground. It’s a form of control they simply can’t fathom, and rightly so.
Horses, like giraffes, have some of the warmest, most captivating eyes. Big, brown, kind, and observant, they seem to offer a window into their souls—perhaps even a mirror reflecting your own, if you're open to it. There’s something deeply humbling about the way they look at you, as though they understand far more than we care to admit.
Never in my life will I forget the sight of those horses, their frightened and aggrieved expressions etched into my memory as they were forced to lie on the muddy ground, legs stretched out in an unnatural position, enduring the agony of being shoed. These creatures, like all God's animals, feel pain, anxiety, and fear. And as a result, they screamed in terror, a sound I could never shake from my mind.
It haunts me to this day, even though I’ve witnessed far worse acts of brutality against both men and animals. I’ve seen people shot, stabbed, stoned to death, torn apart in car accidents. When we were in Kenya, tending to the elephants, we learned firsthand what humans are capable of when they deem certain creatures lesser.
But in that moment, watching those horses suffer, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between me and the other guides. While Nicole and I felt deeply disturbed by the cruelty, the others laughed it off, as if it were just a necessary part of the job, some twisted form of entertainment. That was the tipping point for me. It was the moment when the emotional burden of everything else came to a head, and I realised I could no longer stay silent, nor accept the brutality around me.
Everything that followed, every unpleasant encounter, only reinforced that this was the breaking point—the straw that finally broke the camel’s back.
Eight of the horses belonged to an unpleasant East German fellow who had emigrated to Canada a few years prior. Despite being hobbled by metal cuffs, the entire group bolted during the night after enduring that gruesome shoeing treatment. The following day, we tried to locate them—by plane, with a 4x4, and even on horseback—but all efforts were in vain. I could only hope that, over time, the cuffs had come off and that the horses had at least found a brief reprieve in their regained freedom before they were eventually caught by someone kinder.
That was also the point when I realised I had to learn more about these creatures. Surely there were places where horses were treated with more dignity, more respect. The idea started to take shape in my mind—perhaps I could become a cowboy, someone who could actually learn how to handle horses the right way. But that, of course, is a story for another time.
More problems slowly started to surface in the Yukon. Not only did I have to adjust to the harsh flying conditions, the rugged mountainous terrain, and the poorly maintained airplane where parts seemed to fall off regularly, but I also had to endure the relentless assault on my sense of smell from my hygiene-ignoring boss, and the smug horse-handling guides who seemed to think cruelty was just part of the job.
And then there was the sinking feeling that I truly did not belong there. My pipe dream of spending a pleasant, joyful three months in the wild, surrounded by like-minded individuals far from the chaos of towns and cities, was crumbling before my eyes. This place was where fun went to die.
I'd learned the hard way that expectations almost always lead to disappointment. Reality, it seemed, could never measure up to the fantasy—those cheap TV shows, dull documentaries, and heroic stories I'd once adored.
The truth became clear. These people had little in common with the charming, witty figures I’d once imagined. In fact, they were the polar opposite.
I needed to get out of there...
Marcel Romdane
The Yukon, always a stunning view... This is not how you should treat a horse!
