A young stallion I call 'Newman' dozes on top of a high ridge in February. The horses moved up out of the valleys in search of grass on the wind-blown ridges.

This has been the hardest winter I have seen in six years for the mustangs. Over a foot of crusty snow lingers stubbornly in the frigid valley below, and the mustangs find little to eat on the rocky upper country.

This particular day I saw the remains of three horses that had died in the cold, but not wanting to know which individuals had died, I did not go too close.