Where the Horses Aren’t Tame

Assateague Island sits on the Atlantic coast between Maryland and Virginia, and it is, by design, not really a place for people. No permanent residents, no boardwalk, no resort infrastructure. What it has instead, roaming the beach and scrub and campground parking lots with complete indifference to human opinion, are wild ponies—technically feral, descended from horses brought over centuries ago, small from generations of island grass, entirely unbothered by cameras or tourists or signs that say don’t feed the wildlife.

I’ve always had a soft spot for horses. Not in any competitive or equestrian sense, just the basic animal fact of them—the size, the smell, the particular blend of power and stupidity they carry through the world. A wild one that wanders past your tent at three in the morning looking for snacks is a different proposition from anything you’d meet at a riding stable.

Assateague’s ponies have a reputation for being pests. They steal food, knock over coolers, stick their heads into car windows. One apparently bit a tourist who thought hand-feeding a feral animal on a barrier island was a reasonable idea. The wildlife service has signs. The ponies ignore the signs.

There’s something clarifying about that. You go to a place specifically because it’s wild, and then the wild thing inconveniences you, and you have to decide whether you’re annoyed or whether that was exactly the deal you signed up for. An animal that doesn’t perform for you is always more interesting than one that does. I’d take that deal every time.