The experience of watching Peacock’s docuseries High Horse: The Black Cowboy resonated deeply, particularly after a day spent forging a connection with a new mustang. This initial encounter, filled with a mixture of apprehension and profound respect, highlighted the quiet communication and inherent intelligence of horses, qualities that mirror the profound lessons inherent in horsemanship. Earlier that day, under the guidance of trainer Andrea, the focus was on mastering fundamental riding techniques: maintaining steady hands, cultivating a deep seat, and employing quiet legs during a loping gait, a brisk trot. These seemingly subtle mechanics are foundational, transforming the relationship between rider and horse, and underscoring a crucial truth: authenticity in horsemanship cannot be faked, as a thousand-pound animal will invariably perceive any pretense.

It is precisely this unvarnished honesty and clarity inherent in working with horses that lent such powerful impact to High Horse. The series serves as a potent reminder that throughout the history of the American West, Black hands have consistently guided the reins—breaking horses, moving cattle, patrolling fences, competing in races, and training animals. The dissonance arises not from the inclusion of Black cowboys in the familiar Western narrative, but from a persistent societal surprise at their presence.

Executive produced by Jordan Peele’s Monkeypaw Productions and directed by independent filmmaker Jason Perez, who benefited from the mentorship of Spike Lee, High Horse masterfully weaves together compelling archival footage and photographs with contemporary scenes of Black cowboy life. The series journeys through the history of film, music, and marketing to expose how the prevailing narrative of the West often diverges from lived reality. This historical revisionism, often a slow process of exclusion rather than a singular dramatic edit, gradually narrows the definition of who is considered authentic.

High Horse resolutely rejects the notion of Black cowboys as a peripheral element in the Western story. Instead, it meticulously traces a direct lineage from the skilled labor of formerly enslaved people who expertly managed horses and cattle, to the Black jockeys who dominated early horse racing, and onward to the contemporary riders, ranchers, and entrepreneurs. The series skillfully keeps history alive without resorting to didacticism, emphasizing the continuous presence and contributions of Black individuals in Western life.

A particularly impactful aspect of the series is its deliberate focus on the tangible realities of horsemanship: the rider’s posture, the delicate movements of their hands, and the countless hours dedicated to practice. For anyone familiar with riding, these details are instantly recognizable. The inherent nature of a horse is such that it responds not to a rider’s story or social standing, but to consistency, fairness, and clear communication. This understanding of equine behavior illuminates how frequently the aesthetic of the cowboy is celebrated, while the actual craft and labor involved are often overlooked.

Throughout High Horse, the camera frequently lingers on Black riders, seated with a quiet authority, gazing across expansive landscapes or navigating urban environments shaped by the same historical forces. These images, often simple and serene, possess a profound emotional resonance. For Black Americans, land transcends mere scenery; it embodies inheritance and loss, represents promises both kept and broken, and signifies the fundamental difference between being a visitor and a steward.

This intersection of land, history, and identity is deeply personal. My own father, raised in Texas, was a rancher from boyhood and later managed land and livestock in California, a legacy that inspired me to launch Outdoor Afro in 2009, initially as a blog and a tribute to his memory. Much like High Horse, Outdoor Afro sought to correct the record regarding Black Americans’ profound and often unacknowledged connections to the outdoors. This initiative evolved into a national organization, now empowering thousands of Black families annually to engage with nature, not as a fleeting trend, but as a meaningful reunion with heritage.

Now, in midlife, I have returned to horsemanship with a seriousness that has surprised even myself. Riding has cultivated in me a greater sense of patience and honesty, while also deepening my perspective on land, encouraging a more dimensional understanding and fostering a profound responsibility for my lifestyle choices and their impact on both my community and the natural world. My new mare, a mustang from the Twin Peaks Herd Management Area in the high desert straddling California and Nevada, was named True Haven, a reminder of faith and the practice of peace. Horses demand a commitment to fairness and consistency, immediately signaling whether one is a trustworthy leader.

While owning a wild horse does not confer expertise in public lands and wildlife policy, it undeniably fosters an intimate connection with critical questions of stewardship and strengthens my resolve to protect the nation’s public lands and wild places. Abstract slogans lose their power when one is holding a lead rope, solely focused on the immediate needs of another living creature for safety and clarity.

High Horse astutely recognizes that the narrative of Black cowboys is inextricably linked to the story of Black land ownership. It moves beyond the romanticized imagery of open spaces to address the complex realities of acreage, access, property titles, taxation, and the power dynamics that influence who remains on the land. While not delving into exhaustive policy details, the series articulates a truth that many in the West often avoid: the freedom historically associated with the West was never equitably distributed, and violence, both overt and systemic, is an undeniable part of its geography.

However, High Horse is far from a somber reflection; at its core, it is a vibrant celebration of freedom. The series showcases young riders honing their skills and competing, elders passing down invaluable knowledge, and families preserving traditions, mirroring the communal spirit found in church potlucks or family reunions. Too often, Black history is presented solely through the lens of trauma; this series offers a refreshing counterpoint, highlighting excellence, craft, humor, pride, discipline, and profound joy.

If the series has a limitation, it lies in its scope. While three episodes effectively raise a crucial banner, they cannot encompass every facet of this rich history. A desire for more focus on Black women riders, a deeper exploration of the economics of horse ownership, and a more thorough acknowledgment of the intertwined histories of Black and Indigenous peoples on Western lands lingers. Furthermore, there’s a sense that the series could have placed greater trust in the voices of its working riders. While the contributions of well-known celebrities and scholars offer valuable reach and context, they occasionally risk overshadowing the Black cowboys and ranchers whose generational stories of working the land and their horses possess an inherent power that requires little external interpretation.

Perhaps the most significant achievement of High Horse is its resolute refusal to frame the Black cowboy as an anomaly. It challenges viewers to broaden their understanding of what it means to be "Western," moving beyond the confines of traditional Hollywood portrayals. For anyone who cherishes the West, this re-examination of its narrative arrives at a critical juncture.

Watching the series, I was reminded of those initial moments with my mare: her observant gaze, her patient waiting, her unspoken questions about the person I would be with her, and my own reciprocal self-inquiry. Just as a horse responds to clarity, consistency, and care, so too should we approach our history. To forge an honest West with a resilient future, we must plainly tell its complete story and actively protect the ground upon which it stands.

High Horse: The Black Cowboy is not, and should not be, the definitive statement on Black cowboys, but it represents a powerful stride toward a vision of the West where Black riders are recognized not as transient visitors, but as integral to the region’s foundation and vital to its conservation future.