The story of Harry deLeyer and his horse Snowman reads like a Disney classic. DeLeyer was a Dutch immigrant farmer who bought Snowman at auction with his last $80 in the 1950s . Snowman was an unpedigreed plowhorse, already old by competitive riding standards, and likely headed for the glue factory when deLeyer saw promise in his strength and spirit. They went on to become one of the most successful pairings in the history of showriding, taking home the Triple Crown of national titles in 1958.
The horse world has changed a lot since then. Both training and breeding are highly scientific across all pursuits, from showriding to racing. The barriers to entry are so much higher, both professionally and financially, and the idea of a pair like Snowman and deLeyer casually riding to national titles is almost unthinkable. But you still can’t beat the rush of finding a gem at auction.
Know this: everyone willing to spend will just as easily stab you in the back
Attending the Christmas auction held by a neighboring farm has become something of a tradition for my family. The barn is set up with lights, trees and Christmas decor, and it’s a chance to mingle professionally as much as to see old friends. Although I’ve found some good deals over the years, I rarely buy anything. I’ve landed some young green horses, trained them on basic flatwork and beginner jumping and made solid returns in just a few months. But the risks of buying at auction typically outweigh the reward, even at the most prestigious houses.
Horse auctions range from the ultra-high-end, where pedigreed thoroughbreds from top breeders can easily fetch seven figures, to the lowest-end “loose” auctions of misfits for whom the specter of a slaughterhouse is, unfortunately, very much a reality. Having attended both over the years, the chaotic, competitive, emotionally charged energy is not so different.
At the higher end, you’ll have premier catering, top-shelf liquor and high-tech, luxurious facilities. These feel polished and professional because they are: indoor arenas display detailed catalogs, videos, pedigrees and sometimes vet records, with a whole team dedicated to elite customer service. Both consignors and buyers get wined and dined. Arrive early to see horses in pens or being test-ridden as you mingle and strategize but know this: everyone willing to spend will just as easily stab you in the back.
The bidding moves as quickly as the auctioneer’s chant. It’s lively and tense, but not frantic – and while the attendees are better dressed and more knowledgeable, they’re often no less crass than those who lose out in a lower-end auction.
Here, the pace is equally fast, but there’s more desperation. Little planning goes into loose auctions; they’re less events and more weekly occurrences featuring any surplus livestock. Trucks and trailers pack the parking lot, horses are thrown wherever they fit and there’s an overall air of unpredictability. In place of vendor-packed arenas, expect a backyard farm as it is on any other day: scattered hay, manure, lots of mud. Show up early to inspect horses if you can, but don’t expect to be courted. In place of subdued panels, there’s often lots of yelling. And it’s easy to feel the emotional pull to save a horse from “kill buyers” bidding as middlemen for international slaughterhouses.
Beyond the energy on the ground, the one guarantee at any tier of auction is the fact that there are no guarantees. It’s a case of buyer beware: no guarantees, no disclosures. Most horse dealers are unscrupulous, to put it mildly, and take advantage of their asymmetrical advantage. There are many forms of trickery, the classic being drugging a lame horse to ensure it walks normally across the auction floor.
Lost principal is only the beginning; feeding, stabling and vet bills pile up quickly, and it’s not so easy to unload a dud in the private market. I find that auctions are best avoided. My mother once purchased a stunning Appaloosa at auction, but the unexpected trauma of his degenerative kidney disease came to define my childhood.
Our friends are about as trustworthy as auctioneers can be, even offering early tips about the horses up for sale. They run somewhere in the middle-market: you won’t find pedigreed champions, but nothing is going to the slaughterhouse, either. I’ve certainly landed some gems from them over the years. And while I haven’t found my Snowman, I’m always holding out hope.
This article was originally published in The Spectator’s February 2, 2026 World edition.
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