We were bundled up against the crisp morning chill in the quiet solitude, gazing at the orange and lemon sherbet sunrise spreading across the mountain crests. As we huddled behind a waist-high pile of rocks about 20 feet from the wide-open pasture gate, distant muffled drumming broke the silence.

The drumbeat grew closer and closer and louder and louder. Then, in a blink of an eye, dozens of muscular mustangs with steaming nostrils and outstretched tails charged directly toward us, at the last instant streaming past without breaking stride. The ground trembled under their thundering hooves. Our hearts raced in time with their breakneck pace.