11 PM
July 5, 2026
Near Mono Lake, California
Yosemite Valley was empty by 7 p.m., right around when I crept in during my unplanned detour. The plan was to leave San Francisco around 2 p.m. and make the 250-mile drive to Mono Lake via Tioga Pass by sunset. I knew I’d missed it once the sky started fading around Tuolumne Grove, so I took a right and headed into the valley to test out my new zoom lens before the light was gone.
Wandering into the park was good for my soul. I sat alone in the meadow beneath El Capitan, flanked by Yosemite Falls and Bridalveil Fall, with only the sounds of insects and the river around me.
Tonight, I’m sleeping in a covered wagon next to Virginia Creek. Like, three paces away. The sound of the babbling creek will woo me to sleep. The stars are vibrant and plentiful. I think I’ll sleep well.
I’m here to find the horses.
The Montgomery Pass wild horse herd is scheduled to be gathered for adoption by the federal government on Wednesday. I’d read about it briefly in the San Francisco Chronicle — supposedly, the herd has grown beyond what the federal government considers appropriate for the area. All I have to go on is a planned gathering and a date. There’s very little information to be found online, via media outlets, or directly from the government. I’m hoping to find someone local who can point me toward them and help me understand what’s happening before the helicopters arrive.
6 AM
July 7, 2026
Tierra Antigua Cafe, Lee Vining, California
I spent most of yesterday evening off-roading around Mono Lake in search of the herd. After nearly five hours of inhaling dust and stopping at every movement in the brush, I’d found only fresh manure and hoofprints — confirming only that I’d just missed them.
The rangers at the visitor center showed me a notice with the upcoming road closures and a map of the areas being blocked off by the Bureau of Land Management and Forest Service. The map gave me a general sense of where the gathering might happen, but no real direction toward the horses. One ranger said a coworker had found tracks on the east side of the lake the day before, but that the horses tend to move away from people and were probably no longer there.
I haven’t had much luck asking around town either. Lee Vining is sleepy, especially early in the week. So far, I have no horses, no useful leads, and no permit to observe the gathering.
I’m going to try the Mono Lake Committee when it opens. For now, I’m drinking coffee and enjoying being here. The basin has a way of simplifying life.
Update: Two women from Monterey are sitting near me as I write this, talking about a lawsuit against the government. When someone asked whether the gathering could still be stopped, one of them said, “We’re trying.”
Interesting use of we there. I’m going to introduce myself.
12 AM
July 8, 2026
Near Mono Lake, California
The women from the café are Terese and Erin. They volunteer with a wild horse rehabilitation organization in Monterey and came out here to support the local tribe and look for the horses before they’re removed. I gave them a copy of Cypress Magazine and explained that I’m trying to understand what’s happening with the gathering. No agenda, per se — just a love for nature. They told me about a pending emergency injunction and a tribal contact named Ronda who had taken them to see the herd somewhere near “Adobe Road.”
They kept saying they were probably mispronouncing it.
I bought a topographic map at the visitor center and found Dobie Meadows Road. It was much farther east than I’d gone yesterday, beyond another set of hills in a small valley tucked beneath Glass Mountain.
Before heading that direction, I stopped at the Mono Lake Committee because I had assumed it was affiliated with the local tribe. It isn’t. The people there suggested I contact their communications director, who doesn’t live in the area, and said that the Committee wanted there to be one story about the lake rather than different “sides.” I left with some local art, a free bandana, and no better understanding of where the horses were.
On the way toward Dobie Meadows Road, I saw a man standing beside the road with a camera and a massive zoom lens. His name was Bill, and he was working with Spectrum News. He said a friend was scouting farther ahead, knew where to find the herd, and that I should follow him.
Creatives recognize creatives, I guess.
We found the friend. Then we found the horses.
They were at the far end of the valley, divided into small family groups around a stream. There were foals only days old, still learning how their legs worked and trying to keep up with their mothers. Mountains surrounded the meadow on every side. The whole place felt made for them. It was hard not to feel, in that moment, that maybe we weren’t the ones who belonged there.
I had brought the new zoom lens because I expected to photograph the horses at a distance. Instead, they walked right up to us. One stood inches away and stared directly into my eyes.
It was magical. Spiritual. The kind of encounter that stills you.
We stayed with the herd for almost three hours. I watched the foals move between their mothers and the stream while the older horses watched us as they grazed. Standing there, the idea of helicopters driving them out of the valley felt suddenly inhumane. If reporting on stories like this involves staying objective, then I’m not sure how far I can push it. Being this close to wild, gentle animals and experiencing their lives will radicalize you.
Most of the public dirt roads across Mono Basin had closed that morning, with law enforcement posted around the restricted areas. The horses happened to be accessible from the last open road in the valley, down a dirt trail on privately managed preserve land. Terese later told me that I wasn’t supposed to have been able to reach them. Notably, just before we left, Bill and his friend asked me whether I knew what time the roundup was starting. They had press badges for the morning but hadn’t been given a start time and didn’t know whom to contact.
On the drive back to Lee Vining, I caught a small burst of phone service and found a voicemail from Terese. She was at Mono Lake with her tribal contact, Ronda Kauk, a spokesperson for the Kutzadika’a people and one of the people leading the legal effort to stop the gathering. They were planning to meet at the Mobil station outside town around 7 p.m.
It was 8:46. The Mobil closes at 9.
I texted: “I found the herd 😊. If y’all are still around town somewhere, I’d love to meet up.”
This particular Mobil station and I have a deeply intertwined relationship. It isn’t the first time it has played an instrumental role in one of my road trips. Funny how this one spot keeps coming up.
They were still there. Ronda is an incredible person with a fascinating story. A loose summary of our late-night conversation:
- Ronda is a Mono Basin native whose family has lived and gathered here for generations. The Kutzadika’a are connected to the Northern Paiute and are still seeking federal recognition. Locals pronounce the name Mōnō (the name comes from monachie, meaning “fly people” or “fly eaters,” in reference to the alkali fly larvae traditionally harvested and traded from the shores of Mono Lake).
- Ronda spoke about knowing the horses for her entire life and about her family’s longer relationship with them. She believes they have been part of this landscape for generations and disputes the government’s account of the herd’s history and population.
- Federal land managers consider these horses an extension of the Montgomery Pass herd and say their growing presence in Mono Basin threatens springs, sagebrush, tufa formations, and other sensitive habitat. Ronda sees the horses, the water, the sage, and her people as parts of the same landscape.
- This all feels vaguely similar to the way previous stories in this area about LA water rights have played out: the government has hired biologists, ecologists, and other scientists from Los Angeles to measure groundwater and write reports on the habitability of the area. Those reports were used to determine if the herd was causing harm. She says tribal knowledge has been left out of the government’s decisions about how that landscape should be managed.
- We’re also struggling to understand which media outlets, if any, are following this story. I had a photo of the San Francisco Chronicle article that led me here in the first place, and Ronda was thrilled to learn that the story had reached readers in San Francisco. It jogged her memory that someone from the Chronicle might be around for the gathering tomorrow. The fact that I had stumbled upon a Spectrum News crew from Los Angeles also gave her hope that the gathering might receive some coverage. So far, though, she feels that getting the tribe’s voice heard has been nearly impossible. With an active federal lawsuit surrounding this, that feels odd.
The conversation moved quickly: the tribe’s attempts at federal recognition, disagreements within the community, the Mono Lake Committee, population estimates, a bad winter that killed several horses, and biologists brought in from outside the basin. There is much more here than I can understand after one late-night conversation at a gas station.
The court declined to stop the gathering earlier today. The horses will still be removed.
We have to be at the visitor center at 4 a.m. Ronda and the other tribal members do not have permits to observe.
We’re waking up at 3 a.m. anyway.
9 AM
July 8, 2026
Tierra Antigua Cafe, Lee Vining, California
At 4 a.m., I found myself alone with the stars and the crickets at the Mono Lake Visitor Center. The back of the currently empty lot gave me a clear view of what was to play out — so I parked, pulled out my sketchbook, and waited.
Government trucks slowly started arriving, all of them white and outfitted with yellow floodlights. Forest Service and BLM personnel gathered near the vehicles. Law enforcement arrived around 4:30. A representative from the Department of the Interior approached me through the headlights and asked for my name so he could check it against the observer list.
“You won’t find me on it,” I said. “I’m just here to support the tribe. I was with them last night.”
He was the first to mention Ronda’s name as he explained that her emails didn’t make it very clear whether she wanted to attend. I think last night had gotten to me.
“Well, it seems like she was given the wrong day and no time, but she’s the one who told me to be here at four, so I think she got a tip. I won’t speak for her, but she’ll be here.”
“Oh, good. Well, you know you can’t come, right?”
He was kind but direct. I would not be allowed to accompany the permitted observers. I was given a couple of first names to contact for daily updates, although I’m still not sure how to reach either of them.
The gathering started around 4:45.
Ronda came running toward me in the dark and whispered, “Mac! It’s me! The tribe made it.”
“Good morning,” she said. “Well, I guess it’s not a good morning, but I have to say that to you.”
She hadn’t slept. Her stomach hurt. She didn’t know what the day would hold. She introduced me to Rana, another tribal member who was much less interested in concealing her anger over what was happening.
Ronda asked whether my lens was strong enough to photograph the gathering from the overlook above the Mobil. She thanked me for coming and said that having an outsider care about the story meant a lot to them. I hadn’t considered until then that showing up with a camera might give anyone hope that I could do something useful. I told her I would document what I could and that I wanted to speak with her again after the gathering dust had settled.
Lights had already been visible in the closed section of the desert before dawn. We think the gathering started before 4 a.m. Later, once the sun came up, I could see dust rising from that same area on the far side of the lake.
None of the photographers or media contacts I met the day before arrived while I was at the visitor center, including those who had permits. The only people there were Ronda, a few other tribal members, another photographer they knew, and me — none of us permitted to attend.
Around six, I drove to higher ground. Through the zoom lens, I could make out a trail of horses moving in the distance and dust rising behind them as they were driven up the mountain. That was about as close as I could get.
Back at the café, people are only beginning to learn what’s happening. Terese and Erin have apparently been telling everyone in town. Two different people have now asked whether I’m “also here for the horses” and whether that explains why they’ve seen me sitting in this café for the past few days. When I apologized for taking up a table with my laptop, they thanked me for being here. “It’s for a good cause,” one barista called out.
An Instagram post circulated this morning calling for a protest at the Mobil at 7 a.m. Terese, Erin, and I went over to support it.
No one showed up.
Before we separated that morning, Ronda told me the legal fight would continue. She was tired and worried, but not resigned. Her parting words to me: “We’re going to keep fighting. This isn’t over.”
10 AM
July 11, 2026
Home, San Francisco, California
Ronda has appeared on CNN representing the Indigenous Wild Horse Society, a nonprofit working to protect wild horses, landscapes, and future generations. Her interview is titled “Tribes sue to stop removal of wild horses from native land.”
Videos from the gathering are circulating online. The helicopters fly low and close behind the herd. In several clips, foals are visible at the back of the run, trying to keep up.
There are also rumors spreading about horses killed during the gathering, the cost of the contractors, and a large grave dug near Goat Ranch Road. I haven’t been able to verify those reports, so I’m writing them here only as a list of things I need to investigate.
I have names for a Forest Service rangeland manager, the Mono Lake Committee’s communications director, and the tribe’s attorney. I’ve reached out to several of them but have received no responses. I’ll continue reaching out this week. I also plan to call Ronda again once some of the dust has settled.
This began as a trip to photograph the horses before they were gone. I came home with what Erin described to me as a story in three parts: the horses and their effect on the basin; the federal gathering and the reasons behind it; and the fight for Kutzadika’a recognition.
For now, these are the notes. Over time, we’ll keep finding the story of the people who get to decide what belonging to a place means.
