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Mystical Journey
In the high desert of southwest Utah lives a band of feral horses known as the Sulphur Herd. These small, tough animals have galloped the dusty hills since the late 1500s, when their ancestors strayed from the encampments of the conquistadores. Isolated for five centuries by the 9,000-foot peaks of the Needle Range, they are nearly identical to their Spanish forebears.For mustang lovers, a visit to the herd's habitat is an almost mystical journey -- a voyage to a time when the West was truly wild. On a Saturday in January, Tom and Tamitha Garner were making that pilgrimage in their Dodge Dakota. The couple turned off Highway 56 near Modena and headed north up a dirt road into Hamblin Valley. Soon they'd entered a stark terrain of sagebrush and red earth. A dusting of snow lay on the road, deepening gradually as the truck climbed toward the mountains.
For about 20 miles, the going was easy. Then the pickup crested a hill, cruised down the other side, and became trapped in a bumper-deep patch of white. Tom, who'd brought along a shovel, could have dug out the truck and driven back to town. But he figured this was a lone drift. Besides, the trip was his wife's 39th-birthday present. He wasn't about to let her down. He cleared a path, gunned the truck over the next rise-and there, in a grove of aspens, stood the horses.
Entranced, the Garners stopped and began snapping photos. When the mustangs trotted off, the couple got back in the pickup and followed. Before long, they were getting stuck every few yards; the digging grew increasingly difficult. Returning the way they came was no longer an option: The road was too narrow and snowy to turn around in, the hills too slippery to navigate in reverse. It was 4 p.m., and darkness was approaching. "I guess we'll be spending the night," Tom said. "I'll get you home tomorrow if I have to shovel the whole road."
"You better," Tamitha laughed.
Neither knew something else was on its way: a brutal wave of blizzards.
Some people wander into disaster's path at random; others, like the Garners, are led by overpowering desire. In most respects, the two were models of practicality. Tom, 41, was a printing press operator; Tamitha was a nurse's assistant at a home for the elderly. They shared a modest home in Kearns, a Salt Lake City suburb, with their 19-year-old daughter, Krystal. The only hints of their unruly passions were their pets and their photographs.
The Garners had two dogs, two rabbits, four cats, and several terrariums full of tarantulas. Their computer's hard drive was crammed with snapshots of wild beasts-winged, clawed, and hoofed. Tom and Tamitha were as crazy about animals as they were sane about almost everything else.
Their favorite subject was wild horses. Tom was drawn to their beauty; for Tamitha, they represented freedom. Several times a year, the couple would load their cameras into the pickup and head for mustang country.
For this trip, they'd driven 400 miles to central Nevada and spent Friday-Tamitha's birthday-shooting horses they'd visited on previous outings. The highlight was to come on the way home, when they would meet the Sulphur Herd for the first time. They'd left their daughter with a rough idea of their itinerary, but the plan had been to stay for a few hours and be back in Kearns around midnight. Now they'd need to bed down in the truck instead.
They tried to call Krystal on their cell phones. No signal. Rummaging through the pickup's cab, they took inventory of their supplies. To eat: two dozen granola bars, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jam. To drink: 36 small bottles of water. They also had two afghans, two reflective emergency blankets, and a bag of dog food for Medusa, their basenji mix. A suitcase held jeans, sweatshirts, and tees. Tamitha had an insulated denim coat, but Tom's jacket was unlined. Their only shoes were the sneakers on their feet. If they could get out in the morning, they'd be fine. But the wind was already beginning to blow harder.
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