The Five Roles of a Master Herder. Linda Kohanov
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oxytocin would have encouraged humans and other mammals to buffer the fight-or-flight response and take social risks, eventually boosting the impulse toward what Kropotkin called “mutual aid.” Quite possibly, this boosted something else: A relaxed, concentrated focus, combined with intense dedication to and/or adoration of the subject matter, is also characteristic of creativity, suggesting that the biology of the human-animal bond could very well have been a factor in inspiring the earliest, most impressively detailed Paleolithic paintings at the Chauvet and Lascaux caves in France, some of which are over thirty thousand years old.
As David S. Whitley marveled in his 2009 book Cave Paintings and the Human Spirit: The Origin of Creativity and Belief, “This first art consists of true aesthetic masterpieces — works of art that fully rival our greatest creative achievements, of any time and place.” At Chauvet, only one vaguely human figure can be discerned: the lower portion of a woman’s body. A nearby image depicts a human-bison hybrid. The vast majority of the paintings are highly realistic, artistically accomplished representations of animals. But it also appears that the artists were able to get closer to some species, both physically and, more importantly, emotionally. Horses are the fourth-most-frequently painted subjects, behind felines, mammoths, and rhinos. And yet, these early equines are among the most vividly portrayed animals in the cave, clearly showing individual characteristics in striking detail.
One of the most famous paintings, featuring four horses, captures facial expressions that an artist would only pick up from close, direct observation of individual living horses. The smallest, most youthful animal has bulges along the bottom of its jaw — a classic sign of a colt or filly whose adult teeth are coming in.
Many of the lions also show specific facial features capturing intricate moods and behaviors, leading Olmert to come to a startling conclusion in her book: The cave artists “knew these animals — not just as a species but as individuals. These were neighbors, close neighbors.” What’s more, she insists, the “impressive detail and graphic skill” of the paintings “tells us those animals were not terribly frightened of us.”
A New Story
Most people assume that our ancestors advanced from hunting and gathering to traveling with domesticated herds. As the story goes, Homo sapiens finally settled down and claimed the land through agricultural innovations that, in turn, led to the invention of cities. Archeological evidence, however, reveals a much more interesting progression. Nomadic pastoralism was a specialization that grew out of early farming communities. For thousands of years, up until this very day in fact, migratory animal-centered cultures evolved beside sedentary forms of civilization, with each developing a unique body of knowledge.
Before we move forward, let me be clear: I’m not promoting one lifestyle over the other. I’m instead outlining a theory on the evolution of power itself, one that has an optimistic outcome. If we adopt the social intelligence and leadership skills pioneered by our nomadic cousins, while still valuing the technological innovations that could only have been perfected in a sedentary context, we may very well experience a transformation of consciousness that nature seems to have been promoting all along. Our very survival may depend on it.
First we have to expand our minds and tell a new story, one in which humanity becomes a partner, rather than a conqueror or director, in the coevolution of several intelligent species. This epic, far-reaching tale is not based on fantasy. Rather, it weaves together the latest findings on oxytocin, mutual aid, and the ability of herbivores to assess the emotions and intentions of carnivores at a distance, among other relevant insights.
Origins
When people learned to till the soil, as any modern backyard farmer knows, they had to contend with all kinds of animals sneaking into those primal gardens. It wouldn’t have taken long for fleet-footed herbivores like cattle and horses to begin orbiting around the edges of human settlements that planted grains. Yes, of course, these animals were hunted as well, but they were used to living with predators. They knew how to assess the moods of lone hunters as well as those that prowled in groups. Herd members in their prime were also confident that, working together, they could sometimes drive the aggressors off. When faced with the choice of eating low-nutrition forage in lion territory or nibbling on fields of wheat and oats in human territory, well, you do the math.
Without sturdy fences, early farmers needed to guard their crops during the growing season, though luring large animals close to home was an added benefit. Still, settlers found themselves shooing off more individuals than they killed for meat, and a new pastime emerged. Farmers and herbivores were both benefiting from agricultural innovations that satisfied their basic needs. In times of plenty, people and animals became interested in one another for reasons beyond sustenance.
Somewhere between the safety of the village and the unknown reaches of pure wilderness, adventurous members of the two-legged and four-legged clans met on fertile ground. More confident and gregarious animals approached humans who had a similar orientation. As these early naturalists looked at their wary neighbors with calmness, curiosity, and wonder — rather than fear, desperation, and predatory intent — horses and other large herbivores sensed that subtle yet crucial difference, and they relaxed and lowered their heads to graze. Feelings of fascination and accomplishment motivated these people to sit quietly at the edges of fields and invite the braver animals to take a few steps closer still. Eventually, someone held out a handful of grain.
Once the increasingly trusting animals were amenable to touch, oxytocin would have flowed between everyone involved in much higher doses. The effect of this contact high would have kicked in as individuals amenable to being stroked and groomed by another species returned to the herd and interacted with their shier companions. This more subtle release of the hormone would have encouraged the larger population to buffer the fight-or-flight response and begin to take social risks as well.
There were at least two other significant benefits for the human contingent: a rise in self-esteem and increased admiration from the tribe. In Made for Each Other, Meg Daley Olmert cites a study on this effect by zoologist Dale Lott, who surveyed visitors to a national park where hand-feeding wild mountain sheep is “a favorite pastime”:
Lott was interested in discovering why so many tourists were drawn to engage in this close interaction with wildlife. Overwhelmingly, those who fed the animals told Lott that they wanted to see the animals up close and find out if the animals could trust them. When questioned further, they reported that they actually felt better about themselves when a wild animal would eat from their hand. They also said they thought more highly of other people who were trusted by the animals and that they felt their self-image was elevated in the eyes of others when a wild animal trusted them.
Here we begin to understand the simultaneous rush of connection and elation our ancestors would have felt under similar circumstances. But that was just the tip of the iceberg, as it turned out. Because those who were subsequently inspired to explore relationships with ancient horses and cattle would have found that they needed to move beyond the initial thrill of contact to become acutely aware, responsive, and powerful in ways that few people, even today, can fathom.
Riding a horse well is an art form; there’s no doubt. But when I stepped out of the saddle to help my horses give birth, live as a herd, and socialize their children to thrive in the interspecies culture we were creating together, I experienced an astonishing variety of relational, psychological, emotional, and hormonal factors acting on me from moment to moment. For over two decades, I reveled, daily, in the oxytocin flow of trust and affection, both with mares and newborn foals and during quiet moments with my stallion and his sons. In standing up to unruly adolescents and dominant males, I felt the vasopressin boost of confidence and assertiveness. On several occasions, a more dramatic surge of courage and concern motivated me to put my life at risk to protect the horses (such as incidents with a bear and a couple of rowdy bulls). Other times, I stood, dumbfounded, watching Rasa chase cattle and aggressive horses