Why Was 2016 Successful and 2026 Wasn’t?

Ten years ago, people from very different backgrounds came together around a simple goal: protect the Salt River horses.

In 2016, that movement achieved something remarkable. The Legislature acted. Public support was broad. People who disagreed about many things found common ground in protecting the horses.

Today, it may be worth asking a difficult question: What has changed?

The facts are sobering.

• The horses have lost significant portions of the territory they once occupied.
• Herd numbers have been reduced.
• Removals will occur this September.
• Current management plans project a population in 2030 that will be only a fraction of what existed in 2016.
• And while the Legislature acted decisively in 2016, in 2026 — despite years of advocacy — it ultimately did not.

When a critical piece of legislation fails, successful organizations and movements do not simply move on as if nothing happened. They conduct a post-mortem—not to blame individuals, but to understand what went wrong, what assumptions proved incorrect, and what changes are needed to improve the chances of success in the future. Honest reflection is not a sign of weakness; it is how effective movements learn, adapt, and grow.

My Assessment

Before offering my thoughts, I want to be clear about the scope of this discussion. This is not an external analysis of broader political, social, demographic, or environmental changes that may have influenced outcomes over the past decade. Those factors certainly matter and deserve discussion of their own.

Instead, I am attempting something more akin to an internal audit.

The question I am asking is not “What changed in Arizona?” or “What changed in society?” The question I am asking is: What changed within the movement itself? If we hold external conditions constant for a moment and look inward, what decisions, strategies, assumptions, and dynamics may have contributed to where we are today?

My own view is that five things happened.

1. Opposition to disagreement prevented a broad coalition from forming

Healthy debate is essential in any long-term successful effort. Over time, however, in the Salt River horse movement disagreement came to be treated as disloyalty.

The long‑term effect was predictable: a broad coalition never formed.

Legislation in Arizona only succeeds when multiple groups — environmental organizations, recreation groups, tribal partners, scientists, local communities, and policymakers — come together.

In 2016, that happened. In 2026, it did not.

Many people with skills, expertise, and institutional relationships that could have strengthened the movement were pushed away, isolated, or never engaged at all. Without a large, diverse coalition, the movement lacked the political reach and credibility needed to secure legislative success.

2. Expanding into outside issues fractured the movement and diluted the uniqueness of the Salt River herd

Many issues outside the Salt River — the Alpine horses, helicopter roundups in other parts of the country, federal gathers, and broader national debates about wild horse policy — are meaningful in their own right. I am not taking a position on any of them here.

But there is a difference between moral solidarity (caring about horses everywhere) and strategic focus (needing a tightly scoped, place‑specific narrative to succeed at the Arizona statehouse). As the movement increasingly engaged with outside issues, it often risked creating new fractures.

Supporters began asking themselves:

• Can I disagree about the Alpine removals and still support the Salt River horses?
• Can I have a different view about helicopter roundups in Wyoming and still be part of this movement?
• If I don’t support every horse‑related cause everywhere, am I no longer welcome?

These are not hypothetical questions — they are the exact dilemmas people have expressed to me in conversations across the state.

As the movement expanded its focus, the uniqueness of the Salt River horses — their legal status, their cultural importance, their specific history, and the reasons the Legislature acted in 2016 — became harder to communicate. I have said from the beginning that the Salt River herd is unique and must be viewed as such. When that uniqueness is lost in a broader national narrative, the case for their protection becomes weaker, not stronger.

This broadening of focus also had a direct political consequence.

Legislators need a clear, tightly scoped narrative when they champion a bill — especially one involving land use, wildlife management, or interagency coordination. When the public face of the movement shifted from a focused effort to protect a unique, place‑specific herd to a broader engagement with horse issues across Arizona and the West, it blurred the message. Lawmakers who might have been willing to support a narrowly tailored Salt River bill hesitated because they were unsure whether doing so would be interpreted as endorsing positions on unrelated controversies elsewhere. In that sense, the widening of the movement’s agenda unintentionally narrowed its political viability.

A movement that tries to fight every battle eventually loses the ability to win the one battle that matters most.

3. The movement became defined by a personal conflict, making coalition‑building nearly impossible

In my many conversations with people across the state — supporters, policymakers, agency staff, and community members — I have been struck by how often the mention of one individual’s name triggers strong emotional reactions. For some, it brings frustration; for others, anger or even hostility. I am not taking a position on whether those reactions are fair or unfair — only noting that they are widespread.

Over time, this dynamic deepened when that individual publicly positioned herself in opposition to another specific person. Each of those individuals has supporters. Each has critics. But the effect has been the same: the conversation about the Salt River horses has increasingly been framed as Person A versus Person B rather than How do we protect the horses?

In a media environment — especially on social media — where narratives are simplified into person‑versus‑person conflict, it became even easier for coverage and conversation to center on personalities rather than policy. We have seen in many movements that once an issue is framed as a rivalry between two figures, coalition‑building stalls.

My concern is not with either individual personally, but with the structural effect that such a binary has on the movement’s capacity.

Once a movement becomes defined by a personal rivalry, it becomes almost impossible to build the broad coalitions that successful legislation requires. Potential partners hesitate to engage because they do not want to be seen as “choosing sides.” Legislators become wary of being pulled into interpersonal disputes. And supporters who care deeply about the horses — but do not want to align themselves with either individual — often withdraw entirely.

Successful long‑term movements are larger than any one person, and certainly larger than any personal rivalry. When the public conversation becomes personalized and polarized, the movement loses resilience — and opportunities for progress are lost.

4. The 2019 removal from Saguaro Lake reduced territory and reshaped the ecological and political landscape

The decision in 2019 to round up and remove the horses from the Saguaro Lake area — and thereby drastically reduce their territory — fundamentally changed the long‑term trajectory of the herd.

Prior to 2019, the herd had access to a broader mosaic of riparian and upland habitat extending through the Saguaro Lake area. That area provided not only space but ecological diversity, seasonal refuge, and access to water. Once the horses were excluded from that part of their historic range, their footprint on the remaining land became more concentrated.

As our climate has worsened — with hotter summers, reduced river flows, and more fragile riparian vegetation — opponents of the horses have increasingly pointed to ecological impacts in the remaining, much smaller territory. Whether those claims are overstated or not, the political reality is that the 2019 removal made those arguments easier to advance.

Current management documents now justify reductions to approximately 120 horses by citing “limited range resources” and “ecological carrying capacity” — arguments that gained traction precisely because the herd’s territory had been reduced.

By shrinking the horses’ territory, the movement strengthened the hand of those who argue for further removals. It created a situation in which the herd could be portrayed as causing damage simply because they were confined to a fraction of the space they once occupied.

In that sense, the 2019 decision did more than change the map — it changed the narrative. And once that narrative took hold, it became far more difficult politically to defend the long‑term viability of the herd.

5. Over time the movement became publicly associated with an emotional style of advocacy that unintentionally narrowed its reach.

There is nothing wrong with caring deeply — passion is often what motivates people to get involved in the first place. But in many conversations I’ve had with policymakers, community members, and potential allies, I’ve heard a recurring theme: the public face of the movement increasingly appeared driven by emotion rather than by data, policy analysis, or constructive engagement.

This perception — fair or unfair — made it harder to bring new partners into the coalition. People who might have been sympathetic to the horses hesitated to engage because they felt the conversation had become reactive, heated, or dominated by personal intensity rather than shared problem‑solving. In legislative settings especially, where decisions are shaped by evidence, negotiation, and institutional relationships, an emotionally charged public image can limit credibility and reduce influence.

To be clear, my point is not that emotion is bad or that people should not care. It is that successful long‑term movements balance passion with discipline, and they communicate in ways that invite broad participation rather than unintentionally signaling that only one style of engagement is welcome.

Where do we go from here?

These are my thoughts, but I may be wrong.

So, what has changed since 2016? What lessons should we learn from the past decade? And most importantly, what should a successful movement for the horses look like going forward?

For my part, I believe a successful movement would be broad‑based, fact‑driven, transparent, and welcoming of disagreement. It would stay focused on the horses rather than personalities, and it would work with institutions rather than against them — engaging critically but constructively with agencies and lawmakers. Most of all, it would rebuild the sense of shared purpose that made 2016 possible.

Let’s keep the discussion respectful, constructive, and focused on solutions rather than personalities.