The recent docuseries "High Horse: The Black Cowboy" resonated profoundly, arriving as a potent reminder of the deep and often overlooked contributions of Black individuals to the American West. This visceral connection was amplified by a personal parallel: experiencing the quiet intensity of horsemanship firsthand on the same day the series premiered. Meeting a new mustang, a creature of immense presence and gentle curiosity, instilled a potent mix of trepidation and awe, underscoring the profound trust and respect required in such an interaction. The mare’s steady gaze and unhurried demeanor spoke volumes, hinting at a wisdom that transcends human complexities.

My training sessions that day focused on the foundational tenets of horsemanship – the steady low hand, a deep seat, and quiet legs – while engaging in a brisk trot, known as loping. These seemingly understated skills are, in fact, the bedrock of effective communication and partnership with a horse. As anyone who has spent time in the saddle understands, a thousand-pound animal possesses an innate ability to discern sincerity from pretense; a lack of genuine confidence is readily detected and can undermine the entire relationship. This fundamental honesty inherent in working with horses makes the clarity and impact of "High Horse" all the more powerful.

The series masterfully illustrates that the presence of Black hands on the reins has been a constant throughout the history of the Western United States, integral to the tasks of breaking horses, moving cattle, maintaining fences, participating in races, and training. The issue is not the belated inclusion of Black cowboys into the established narrative of the West, but rather the persistent societal surprise at their enduring presence. This surprise, the series argues, stems from a historical narrative that has, intentionally or unintentionally, narrowed the lens through which the West is understood.

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" weaves together compelling archival footage and photographs with contemporary scenes of Black cowboy life. It navigates through the histories of film, music, and marketing to reveal how the prevailing stories of the West often diverge from lived reality. This historical revisionism, the series suggests, is not always a singular, dramatic act but a gradual process of exclusion, a slow narrowing of who is deemed authentically representative of the Western spirit. The powerful assertion at the heart of the series is clear: "The problem is not that Black cowboys are being added to the West’s familiar story; the problem is that the country keeps acting surprised to see them."

"High Horse" resolutely positions Black cowboys not as an ancillary element, but as central figures within the Western tapestry. It meticulously traces a direct lineage from the essential labor of formerly enslaved individuals who expertly managed horses and cattle, to the Black jockeys who dominated early horse racing circuits, and finally to the contemporary riders, ranchers, and entrepreneurs who continue this legacy. The series achieves this historical reclamation without resorting to didacticism, instead keeping history vibrantly present through engaging storytelling.

A particularly striking aspect of the series is its deliberate focus on the physical realities of horsemanship. It lingers on the rider’s seat, the subtle movements of their hands, and the sheer hours of dedication required to master the craft. For those familiar with riding, these details are instantly recognizable and speak to a shared understanding. A horse, indifferent to human narratives, responds to consistency, fairness, and clear communication. This understanding highlights a common paradox: the romanticized cowboy aesthetic is widely celebrated, while the demanding, day-to-day work and skill involved in the practice are frequently overlooked.

Throughout "High Horse," the camera frequently captures Black riders in moments of quiet contemplation, seated high and steady, surveying expansive landscapes or navigating urban fringes shaped by the same historical forces. These images, often simple and understated, carry a profound emotional charge. For Black Americans, land transcends mere scenery; it represents inheritance and loss, the weight of promises made and subsequently broken, and the fundamental distinction between being a transient visitor and a dedicated steward.

This intricate relationship with land resonates deeply on a personal level. My own father, a rancher from his youth in Texas, later managed land and livestock in California. His experiences were the genesis of Outdoor Afro, an organization I founded in 2009, initially as a blog and a tribute to his enduring legacy. Like "High Horse," Outdoor Afro aimed to correct the historical record concerning our deep-seated connections to the outdoors. This initiative has since blossomed into a national organization, facilitating annual outdoor experiences for thousands of Black families, not as a fleeting trend, but as a vital act of reconnection and reunion.

Now, in midlife, I have returned to horsemanship with a renewed seriousness that has surprised even myself. The practice has instilled in me greater patience and a more profound sense of honesty. It has also fostered a more nuanced perspective on land, prompting a deeper consideration of personal lifestyle choices and their environmental and social impacts, both on our communities and on the natural world.

My current mare, True Haven, is a mustang hailing from the Twin Peaks Herd Management Area, situated in the high desert along the California-Nevada border. Her name serves as a personal reminder of divine refuge and the pervasive peace that can be cultivated in all aspects of life. Horses, in their innate need for fairness and consistency, demand a similar approach from their riders, readily signaling whether one is a trustworthy leader.

While owning a wild horse does not confer expertise in public lands and wildlife policy, it does provide an intimate engagement with critical questions of stewardship and strengthens my commitment to preserving our nation’s public lands and wild spaces. The abstract nature of political slogans dissolves when one is holding a lead rope, focused entirely 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 broader story of Black land ownership and connection. It moves beyond the romantic imagery of open spaces to address the practical realities of acreage, access, property titles, taxation, and the intricate power dynamics that dictate who can remain on the land. While not delving into exhaustive policy details, the series confronts a truth too often sidestepped by many Western narratives: the freedom celebrated in the West was never equitably distributed, and the historical prevalence of violence, both legal and extra-legal, is an undeniable part of the region’s geography.

However, "High Horse" is far from a somber lament; at its core, it is a powerful celebration of freedom. The series showcases young riders in training and competition, elders passing down invaluable knowledge, cherished family traditions, and the communal bonds formed around horses, mirroring the gatherings found at church potlucks or family reunions. In a landscape where Black history is too frequently framed solely through the lens of trauma, this series offers an alternative perspective, highlighting excellence, craftsmanship, humor, pride, discipline, and, most importantly, joy.

If there is a discernible weakness in the series, it lies in the inherent limitations of its scope. While three episodes can effectively raise awareness and champion a cause, they cannot encompass every facet of such a rich and complex subject. A desire for more extended segments featuring Black women riders, a deeper exploration of the economic realities of horse ownership, and a more pronounced acknowledgment of the intertwined histories of Black and Indigenous peoples on Western lands lingered after viewing.

Furthermore, the series might have benefited from greater trust in the voices of its working riders. While the inclusion of well-known celebrities and scholars provides valuable reach and context, there is a risk that their commentary could overshadow the authentic narratives of the Black cowboys and ranchers whose generations of experience working the land and their horses could stand powerfully on their own, without extensive interpretation.

Perhaps the most significant triumph of "High Horse" is its unwavering refusal to present the Black cowboy as an anomaly. It gently compels viewers to broaden their understanding of what it means to be "Western" by moving beyond the confines of traditional Hollywood portrayals. For anyone who cherishes the allure of the West, this re-evaluation is both timely and essential. The profound message is echoed: "Too often, Black history is served up only as trauma. This series offers another way to see it: excellence, craft, humor, pride, discipline – and joy!"

Reflecting on the series, I am drawn back to those initial moments with my mare: her watchful gaze, her patient waiting, and the unspoken questions she seemed to pose about the kind of partner I would be. In mirroring her need for clarity, consistency, and care, I am reminded that our collective history deserves the same deliberate attention. To build an honest West with a resilient future, we must candidly recount the full story and diligently protect the ground upon which it is built.

"High Horse: The Black Cowboy" should not, and indeed cannot, be the final word on the subject. However, it represents a significant and vital step toward a vision of the West where Black riders are recognized not as outsiders, but as integral to the region’s foundational identity and its future in conservation.