couldn't drag me away

I had high hopes for the wild ponies of Assateague—I imagined their majestic manes streaming in the tempestuous Atlantic winds, sinews straining as they raced across the rolling dunes. I saw them rearing fiercely in the sunset, whinnies echoing above the roar of the waves. (And yes, I maybe envisaged myself clasping my arms around their necks, swinging up upon their sturdy backs, yelling like a banshee and riding like hell.)

Perhaps it was my former dealings with the bears in Yosemite, the moose in the Maine, or the stampeding elephants in South Africa that filled me with romantic expectations. But the wild ponies of Assateague were anything but—it turns out that they’re not even ponies. And they certainly are feral: they show little regard for the beachgoer who may not wish to sunbath in their excrement. The small herd near my campsite did maintain a frighteningly obsessive habit of relieving themselves directly outside the entrance to the chemical toilets—although every day the placement varied every so slightly, a strategic deviation that kept campers on their toes and confirmed certain suspicions about the neuroses that develop during decades of in-breeding.

What the eager visitors do not yet realize, as they pay their $15 entrance fee, a fee that will permit them to scout out a towel-sized claim of feces-and-cigarette-butt-strewn beach front; as they toss their park pass in the windshield and excitedly tamp on the brake—it is their first wild pony and the thrill of the spotting makes them forget the vehicles that pause politely behind them while they click their cameras with frenetic abandon—what these eager visitors do not yet realize is that these wild ponies, descendants of the noble Misty of Chincoteague, descendant of the fierce Phantom, descendant of the shipwrecked ponies who swam to the island years ago (or, the Park Service gently apprises us, more likely the descendant of horses brought to the islands by 17th century agrarians who wanted to avoid fencing laws and livestock taxes): yes, these ponies of ponies are actually the squirrels of Assateague.

Do not feed the ponies. Do not touch the ponies. Shoo them away when they come near—clap and shout if you must. They may look docile, but they are prone to wild and unpredictable behavior. And while they might relieve themselves outside the chemical toilets with predictable alacrity, they certainly do engage in wild and unpredictable activities: nuzzling scantily-clad young ladies on the beach, rustling through the recycling in the middle of the night, standing stoically near one’s campsite for mysteriously long periods of time. (The gentlemen, I must note, also wantonly exhibit that which makes them men—I can say nothing of the gentle, as one of my companions recalls an earlier visit to the island, where she and her busload of classmates witnessed a very graphic rendition of the procreatory act.)

The ever-amiable Park Service does its best to defend the dear ponies: they remind visitors that the horses are “tough enough to survive the scorching heat, abundant mosquitoes, stormy weather and poor quality food found on this remote, windswept barrier island.” I will concur that unless one plans appropriately, food and drink is scant on the island, and that heat, mosquitoes and stormy weather appear in abundance. But the ponies' curriculum vitae fails to impress. For once upon a time I harbored childish ambitions to be a horse (don't ask), but alas, I am not, and despite domestication and a lack of equestrian attributes, I too survived life on the island and all the rigors and dilemmas of a holiday at the beach.

Misty of Chincoteague, it turns out, has not. I am sad to report that she, the equine heroine of the children’s classic (a surprising number of people I’ve spoken with are familiar with this book), passed in 1972. But never fear: if you wish to brave the mosquitoes, ultraviolet rays and horse-awn tourists, you can go see Misty, glassy-eyed and stuffed, in full taxidermic glory.

But please don’t touch.