Free Horse Lover by H. Alan Day Page B

without attracting so much as a glance, but standing in the baggage claim of Dulles International Airport outside Washington DC dressed in the same attire, I attracted some blatant body scans. Usually when I traveled here once a year to visit my sister, Sandra, and her husband, John, I did so sans western regalia. The itinerary of this trip, however, demanded an identity statement. The thing about cowboy hats is they don’t pack well.
    The Wild Horse Division of the BLM had sprung a new mission on Dayton and me. The higher-ups had indicated that a wild horse sanctuary was more than a good idea; it could be a practical solution to the problem of what to do with unadoptable wild horses living in holding facilities. We thought we were headed down easy street until they advised us they didn’t have the power to authorize such a venture. “You’ll need to get approval from Congress,” a representative from Washington stated during a meeting in South Dakota. Congress, huh? Did the BLM really need the approval of its boss, or were the good folks in the agency sending us down the yellow brick road on a bogus journey? It was more likely they didn’t want to stand up to Congress so they handed us the script and set us on stage, a tactical cover-your-ass move. But certainly the BLM folk wouldn’t underestimate a cowboy, would they? Because a cowboy does what it takes to get the job done, even if that includes personally soliciting politicians.
    As luck would have it, Dayton’s flight from Oregon was landing twenty minutes after mine. We had agreed to meet near the exit to catch a cab, but signs indicated three exits for taxis and the place was busier than a pub on payday. I stood by a large column and watched for a familiar face in the flow of people.
    An older woman passing by leaned over to her husband and pointed behind her. “Did you see that guy back there in the white cowboy hat?”
    He looked over his shoulder. “No, why?”
    “I think he’s famous. I swear I’ve seen him in a movie.”
    I looked behind them and, sure enough, bouncing above the crowd was a white cowboy hat with Dayton beneath it.
    “Hey partner,” Hawk said, slapping me on the back. “Been waiting long?” I could see how someone might mistake him for a movie star. Put an eye patch on him and he could be John Wayne playing Rooster Cogburn.
    “I use to have a pair of them boots,” said the cab driver, throwing our luggage in the trunk. “Did a bit of wranglin’ up in Montana.” He explained that was before an injury shoved him off the ranch and pushed him east little by little, farther and farther, until he hit salt water. His nose had a jaunty bent and a scar smiled across the bottom of his chin. He became our captive audience during the rush-hour drive downtown, listening to all the reasons why the government should sponsor a wild horse sanctuary. We had become pretty good at outlining our argument, but a last-minute practice couldn’t hurt. We were no longer in laid-back South Dakota or Arizona. Did busy congressmen and -women give you an hour, half hour, or ten minutes?
    “Best of luck to you,” said the driver. He set my duffel bag on the sidewalk. “Hell of an idea. I’d sign on to wrangle with you if I could.” He shook my hand. Was that a standing ovation for our dress rehearsal? I handed him the fare and a healthy tip.
    That night over scotch, we reviewed our agenda. We had three days to corral Congress and so far had a whopping four appointments. The empty blocks of time stood out starkly on the calendar, yet they felt more like a blank canvas than a white surrender flag. What pictures would be painted on them had yet to be determined. With over five hundred politicians on our call list, odds were they would be colored with interesting conversations and characters.
    Buzzing through congressional offices the next day proved to be a far bigger high than I anticipated. There’s something about being a citizen and tapping into the