Talking Story with Arlo: ethical food sourcing

Talking Story with Arlo

Blue Eyed Wild Mustangs

By Arlo Agogo

The sun was dipping low over the Arizona desert like a molten coin tossed by the gods, painting everything in that magical golden hour light that makes even ordinary things look legendary.

And there I was, Arlo Agogo, perched on a ridgetop miles from anywhere, binoculars glued to my face, heart pounding like a drum solo.

My dune buggy, sweet Daisy, sat parked behind me, dusty but faithful. Beside me, two extraordinary women were about to capture something rare—maybe once-in-a-lifetime rare.

It all started with a late-Friday-night call from my British gal pal, Doris Day (yes, that's her real name, and no, she's not that Doris Day, but she could be). Retired banker, sharp as a tack, with a laugh that could charm rattlesnakes. "Arlo, Love" she said, voice crackling over the line,

"I need you as my wingman".

My friend Roxanne from England is flying in. She's a pro photographer—National Geographic-level stuff—and she's obsessed with blue-eyed wild Mustangs.

We're heading to Las Vegas then the Nevada Desert. You in? "Blue-eyed wild Mustangs? In the Nevada desert? These weren't your average mustangs.

Roxanne had researched for years: a small, isolated herd carrying ancient genetics, tracing back centuries to Spanish explorers' stock, maybe even further.

Blue eyes in horses are freakishly rare—almost mythical. This herd somehow kept the trait pure, generation after generation, like a living time capsule in the sand. I didn't hesitate.

Vegas hotel rooms, dune buggy runs through the desert, two stunning women, and horses with eyes like sapphires?

Count me in.

Two weeks later, we rendezvoused at our usual spot, the Avi Casino Parking structure in Laughlin Nevada.

Doris rolled up in her beast, she calls "Double D", (Doris Day) a growling yellow monster with an engine that roared like it was personally offended by silence. We both have yellow 1968 VW dune buggies but her buggy has a 2000 cc engine that she has serviced at the Porche dealership in Las Vegas.

I followed in Daisy, my trusty yellow companion, that I service in my driveway.

Starlink Mobile tucked in my backpack like a desert guardian angel. We hit Vegas, checked into the Wynn Hotel—Roxanne insisted on splurging, courtesy of the well-funded Nat Geo project.

Roxanne was everything Doris had promised: tall, poised, with that crisp British accent and eyes that sparkled like she'd seen a thousand sunrises and still got excited about the next one.

Doris, with her sun-kissed skin, silver-streaked hair, and that mischievous grin, looked like she could run a boardroom or a dune buggy race with equal flair. Me? I was the lucky third wheel, eyes spinning in cartoon circles every time one of them laughed or said something British.

Two pros—one retired finance queen, one world-class photographer—and little old me, the desert beatnik guide with a knack for fixing engines and making killer scones.

We spent the first couple of days doing legwork. Chatted with casino management (who knew everyone), then tribal leaders who wondered where are these girls from who speak like they have traveled far, held real sway over water rights and land lore.

Doris and Roxann had their British charm on full power looking for answers.

They spoke of the herd with quiet reverence—ancient spirits of the desert, keepers of secrets. "You don't chase them," one elder said, eyes twinkling. "You wait. They come to the water when they're ready.

You must not publish the location the world does not need to know where these blue eyed horses live. It will only invite others, and this is not the way we do things here in the desert.

The Tribal Elders disclosed the Mustangs location ."So that's where we went. A 50-mile bone-rattling drive into the Mojave's heart. Two buggies, always—safety first. One breaks down, the other's your lifeline.

We arrived at dawn, dust settling like powdered sugar.

Roxanne unpacked her arsenal: telescopic lenses, remote Wi-Fi controllers, low-to-the-ground rigs for those intimate drinking shots. She was in full artist mode—focused, intense, beautiful in that driven way.

I played support: brewed coffee, slathered jelly on scones, hauled gear, kept the water bottles full. "Waterboy extraordinaire," Doris teased, patting my cheek. "Our can-do guy with the smile." I grinned like an idiot, happy to be useful amid all that talent.

Hours ticked by under a relentless sun. Then, as the afternoon softened into golden hour, it happened.

A distant thunder of hooves. Dust rose like smoke signals. Through the binoculars: there they were.

Ten or so, proud and wild, coats shimmering in the light. And the eyes—God, the eyes. Piercing blue, like pieces of sky stolen and set in equine faces. They approached the spring cautiously, heads low, drinking slow and deliberate, almost posing.

One stallion lifted his head, stared straight into Roxanne's low camera. Full face, blue eyes locked on lens. Roxanne gasped—actually gasped. "Bloody hell," she whispered, fingers flying over her laptop. "He's modeling."I sat frozen, barely breathing.

The desert held its breath too. No wind, no birds—just the soft slurps of wild horses and the quiet clicks of shutters. Doris squeezed my arm, eyes wide. "Look at them, Arlo. Ancient. Perfect."The horses lingered, unhurried. A mare nuzzled her foal.

A young one pranced, kicking up gold dust. Roxanne swung her telephoto remotely, capturing every angle—wide shots of the herd, close-ups of those hypnotic eyes. It was magic. Pure, heart-stopping magic. As the sun sank, painting the sky in fire and rose, the herd drifted away into the hills, silhouettes against the horizon.

Darkness rolled in fast. Time to bug out. The ride back was pure drama: treacherous trails lit by mega-lights, Daisy and Double D bouncing like jackrabbits.

Doris, of course, insisted on leading—her big engine eating the miles. "No way you're passing me, cowboy!" she yelled over the roar. I laughed, Starlink glowing reassuringly in my pack. No getting lost tonight.

The desert gods were smiling.

We rolled into Vegas after midnight, buggies secured in the Wynn's garage, gear hauled upstairs. Roxanne collapsed onto the couch, laptop open, replaying footage.

Tears in her eyes. "You two... you got me here."

Those shots—they're once-in-a-lifetime. The blue eyes, the golden light... it's everything."Doris hugged her, then me. "Team effort. And Arlo here? Desert Cowboy."I blushed, still buzzing.

Hanging with these two pros, driving Daisy through the wild, witnessing history through a lens—it felt like the desert had opened its heart just for us.

The blue-eyed Mustangs?

They're still out there, guardians of ancient bloodlines, waiting for the next patient soul. And me? I'll be ready, Daisy fueled, scones packed, eyes wide for whatever the desert gods throw next.

Doris and I headed back to Laughlin , Roxann back to England. Our ride was a easy 80 mile highway ride, with of course, Doris in the lead.

Back at the AVI Casino parking structure we separated our stuff when Doris collided with me and planted the longest, wettest, passion kiss a man could ever dream of.

True to form Doris jumped back into her buggie, did a 360 burnout with a farewell classic VW horn "Beep Beep" and disappered into the desert dust.

I have a good "hello" but Doris has a better "goodbye"

Groove is in the Heaart - Arlo

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