CHAPTER ONE You Can''t Lie to a Horse No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses. They see through us at a glance. -Herman Melville The galloping hoofbeats slowed and came to a halt. The frightened young horse had stopped running around the pen and turned toward the middle, where I stood. I could hear his heavy breathing and smell the sweat that streaked his rich chestnut coat-the inspiration for the name we''d given him, Wildfire. Not long ago, he''d been living wild with a herd of mustangs, never touched by a human hand. Now it was up to me to teach him how to live and work with people so that he could be adopted into a good home. "He''s considering that maybe I''m not so scary after all," I told the group of people watching from the fence.
"I can''t force him to trust me; he has to decide to do that for himself. I want him to choose to face his fear, rather than fleeing. So what I''m doing is making the right thing easy and the wrong thing difficult. Running away is hard work. Coming to be with me is easy. He can rest here in the middle." The horse hadn''t quite realized this yet, but I noted that his expression had changed. His wild eyes were softening, and he was lowering his head, a sign of submission.
Soon, I could tell, he''d be ready to walk slowly toward me, and I''d feel his warm breath as he reached out his head to sniff me. I knelt down in the dirt, making myself as small and unthreatening as possible. He''d shown respect to me, so now it was time for me to show humility to him, to release the pressure and indicate that I was not a predator. As I waited for the colt to take those first tentative steps of trust, something on the other side of the pen caught my attention. Standing by the fence was a young cowboy, tears streaming down his handsome face. Jeremy Morris was our first employee at Diamond Cross Ranch, and at that point he''d been working for us for just a couple of weeks-or rather, as my wife, Jane, and I liked to joke, we''d been working for him . A born leader with natural confidence and charisma, Jeremy was the kind of guy people loved to be around and were quick to follow. But he didn''t take direction easily.
Not long after he began working for us, I asked him to ride a horse I''d recently gotten in a trade. "Don''t tie him up tight," I warned. I''d already learned that this triggered panic in the horse. He would pull back violently, fighting the rope and risking injury to himself and anyone around him. But Jeremy didn''t listen, and that horse freaked out. He reared up, breaking the rope, and then flipped over backward, scuffing up Jeremy''s saddle. Luckily no one was hurt, but they could have been. Jeremy was good at his job, but he''d always push the boundaries.
He''d show up tired for work because he''d been out partying the night before. Still, he was talented with the horses and cows (and great with our corporate clients, who thought he looked like a Western movie star in his buckaroo outfit and silk necktie). The other ranch hands liked him, and our kids adored him. So we tried to make it work. Jane and I were inexperienced leaders ourselves at that time, so I''m sure we made our share of mistakes. Jeremy had been around horses his whole life and had come to us because he wanted to learn my training methods. Like me, he''d been raised with the tough cowboy approach, but he was intrigued by the possibility of a way to train horses that didn''t rely on fear, pain, or force. I''d explained to him that I couldn''t really teach him a method, but I could share the philosophy-the set of principles that all my training is based on.
Every horse is different, and each one requires a somewhat different approach, but the principles stay consistent. I know these principles-which I''ll be sharing in the pages ahead-work with horses. I''ve seen it hundreds, if not thousands of times. But back in those days, I had only a hunch that they might apply to humans as well. So it surprised me to see the impact of my words and my demonstration on the young cowboy by the ringside. Today, almost two decades later, I wouldn''t be surprised at all. It''s become common for people to approach me after demonstrations with tears in their eyes. I''ve seen powerful CEOs grapple with their own shortcomings as leaders while watching a wild horse respond to firm but gentle boundaries.
I''ve seen fathers break down in tears, recognizing that they were too harsh with their children. I''ve seen grown men and women begin to release decades of hidden trauma as they understand for the first time that it''s safe to trust. I''ve learned that the horses have an extraordinary ability to reveal people to themselves. In so doing, they become a powerful catalyst for personal growth and leadership development. Like I always say: you can lie to others, and you can lie to yourself, but you can''t lie to a horse. A Horse Is Like a Mirror Why is it that so many of us can be truly ourselves around a horse? Perhaps it''s because horses see us for who we really are. As prey animals, they''re highly sensitive, attuned to human body language and energy. Horses have a direct line of sight to what''s inside of us.
They see who we really are, not who we pretend to be. They intuitively know what we''re made of, and they can sense our intentions. "Put a wild horse in the middle of a group of people, and it will pick out the most dangerous guy, every time," says my friend Mike Buchanan. Mike worked at the nearby Honor Farm, running a program that taught ex-convicts to gentle and train mustangs. It''s a win-win idea: these men, who are getting ready to reenter society, get to learn some valuable skills, and the horses get trained so they can be put up for public adoption. Mike said that when a new group arrived, he would tell the guys to stand around the edge of a big pen, and then he would turn a horse loose inside. That horse would run around, and pretty soon it would throw its head up and snort at a particular fellow in the group. Without fail, the horse knew which among the men was the most dangerous criminal.
The horse could also pick out the least threatening guy-the one at the bottom of the pecking order-and would be drawn to him. Sometimes a horse knows us even better than we know ourselves. A favorite poem of mine is called "The Guy in the Glass" by Peter Dale Wimbrow Sr. It''s about the idea that we all have to answer to ourselves in the end-"The feller whose verdict counts most in your life / Is the guy staring back from the glass." Oftentimes, for this very reason, we avoid taking a good hard look in the mirror. We''re embarrassed, ashamed, or just not brave enough to reckon with who we are. This is where I''m grateful for the horses in my life. They''ve acted as a mirror, reflecting my own shortcomings back to me even when I didn''t want to see them.
They''ve helped me to see myself as I am, not as who I hope to be or pretend to be. Too many of us hide from ourselves, pushing the parts we don''t like out of sight and going about our business, hoping others won''t see them. But if you''re walking through life trying to look like someone you''re not, that''s hard work. You can''t keep it up for too long. You build up shame and self-hatred around the things you''re hiding, and you live in fear of them leaking out for all the world to see. Many people find it hard to admit their own faults, weaknesses, vulnerabilities, wounds, or fears-even to themselves. For someone in a leadership position, whom people look up to, this can be doubly true. And yet it''s critical that we find a way to be honest about all of who we are.
If we are to grow, as leaders, as parents, and as human beings, and be able to help others do the same, we need to stop pretending. I think that''s why so many people find the experience at our ranch to be life-changing. No one''s pointing out their faults or confronting them with their fears, but they naturally start being more real with themselves. It''s a safe place to see themselves honestly-and to see the possibility of transformation. We Live What We''ve Learned For Wildfire, like hundreds of other horses I''ve known over the years, I was his last chance. He''d been adopted by well-meaning but inexperienced folks who loved the romantic idea of owning a mustang but hadn''t the first idea what to do with a wild horse. He''d ended up in their backyard, and they couldn''t even get close to him. After a few failed attempts and a couple of close calls, he''d been written off as "dangerous" and "untrainable.
" "That horse is more trouble than he''s worth," I''d been told. As I began to work with him, it wasn''t hard to see why. At first, he galloped wildly around the pen, clearly terrified of human contact. I just waved the long-handled flag I carried, encouraging him to run. I didn''t blame him for his behavior. Who knew what he''d been through in his short life. Had he been terrorized by helicopter roundups and loud-voiced men who tore him away from his herd? Had he been trapped in a narrow chute, branded, vaccinated, and packed into a dark, noisy truck with other frightened colts? As I told Jeremy and the others watching that day, "He''s just living what he''s learned." Every horse that comes to me is living what he''s learned.
He has a story, but he can''t tell it. If I don''t know his story-and I often don''t-all I have to go on are the sign.