The Stampeders and A Dream

This post did not originally come with pictures. Let me explain why.

I spent approximately one and a half hours with my mouth somewhat agape, eyes widened, absorbing each and every word my hostess with the Stampeders, Jimmie Hurley, spoke to me as I watched some of the best horse riding I've ever seen. Granted, I am not an experienced horse-riding spectator, but even a townie-type girl that was born in New York would know that what she was seeing was superb. I did, and it was.

Before I located Jimmie, my favorite loyal assistant (my daughter) and I made our way into the arena. We were nervous about entering, because at the other arenas we'd been to, there were obviously different entrances for the horses, and for people minus horses. I'm not sure if we were expecting an alarm or something to go off, but we were timid about it. Finally a passerby named Lori told us to just 'go on in'. We followed her.

We found our way to some stadium seats, where there were several family members watching their riders. 'Lori' happened to be a trainer for one of the girl's horses, so I asked her several questions. Overhearing two other women sitting nearby that mentioned that the lights the horses wore weren't placed on them for the first time until the night before the performance, I became very curious. I couldn't imagine putting bright lights on an animal for the first time (in the dark, no less, that's what they perform in!)...and having it come out all right, injury-free. Did the horse...freak out? What happened? I leaned over to the women and called out over the noise of the galloping horses, "How do the horses do with the lights?" And they answered in a good-humored way, "We'll see!"

Later on I heard repeatedly from those around me was that there was generally not an issue with the lights... These horses, I assumed, were so well-trained (desensitized, they called it) that they did not have a violent reaction to the multitude of lights that were attached to both the horse and its rider. Bright lights right near the eyeballs seemed so unnatural to me, but the horses, from recent reports, didn't seem to mind much.

Getting settled in a bit more, we watched as the music began to play. It appeared that the horses were galloping to the actual beat of the song.Whether this was planned or not, I did not know but.... Wow.

It didn't take long for Jimmie Hurley to spot us from her platform, where she watched the rehearsals. She was off her stand and walking toward us before we knew it. We were about to be escorted to the best seats in the house...thrilling. Jimmie grinned and held out her hand as we approached. A slight woman with a warm smile, I liked her right away. This was the mastermind behind the first lighted horse drill team. I couldn't wait to ask her a whole lot of questions. I didn't have to wait long; but I also didn't have to do much asking. She offered a multitude of information without my prompting. She seemed anxious to share the origins of her brain-child, the Stampeders.

"How's this for a good seat?" Jimmie asked us as we got situated on the stand, next to her chair of honor. We were right near the coach, who was calling out over the PA system to the riders, and it was all so very... electric. I watched as riders criss-crossed right in front of each other with what I was sure would end in collision.I was temped to hide my eyes, not wanting to watch an accident. But there weren't any; not once. It was both worrisome and exciting to view, all at the same time. I found that although I was tense, I couldn't take my eyes off the horses and riders. I looked at my daughter to gauge her reaction. She said in a trance-like way, "I want to do that." I felt the same way, as if I were in a trance, watching this....horse ballet.

Then Jimmie began: "The Stampeders were created in 1997; the same year that the Snake River Stampede moved from the old green arena outside to the indoor Idaho Center. Because the Stampeders were something that had never been done before, we had to 'invent' ourselves. There were no other lighted horse drill teams to draw information from; this was un-chartered territory. She seemed to sigh as she looked at me and said, "I still can't believe it, even after all these years...that something I dreamed up has materialized in such a way, and has been going strong for fourteen years, now....to see my 'dream'...HAPPEN...is so neat...the places we've gone, the things we've accomplished..." She looked out fondly over the eighteen riders; sixteen team members and two alternates.

"These are my girls."

I had heard from one of the riders that the feeling was mutual; they all called her 'Mama Jimmie'. She told me that she is so proud of 'her girls'. So many of them have been rodeo queens, and have won awards. She said that just goes to prove that they have picked the 'cream of the crop' to join the Stampeders, year after year. When I asked how many practices she attends, Jimmie firmly stated, "All of them."

Jimmie explained that we were seeing working girls, college students, young mothers. Two of the riders were a mother-daughter set. I was wondering how soon, in her opinion, a woman could get back on a horse after giving birth. Jimmie laughed and said, "Pretty soon!" I wasn't sure if this was with or without a doctor's okay, but got the impression that a girl that loves to ride a horse that much will get back in the saddle just as soon as she can, childbirth or not. I wondered what the shortest break was for this that Jimmie knew of; but I didn't dare ask.I wondered if the answer would shock me.

I caught myself openly gawking at the choreographed formations. Snake-like lines in perfect curving motion. Solid lines suddenly splitting off, then re-joining just as suddenly. And they weren't just prancing around, these horses...they were galloping at moderate speeds, aimed right towards each other. It was right about then that Jimmie mentioned that the Stampeders had performed at the 2002 Olympics. I was not at all surprised.

I listened to the coach, Leslie Todd, calling out to the girls. Phrases whose meanings I could only guess at: "Knee-to-knee!" "Two-horse spaces!" "Keep your lines straighter!" "Push in, girls! Push, push, push!" "Remember your straight lines, right towards the center cones!"

I couldn't stand it; I had to know if there had ever been a collision. Jimmie answered in her gentle way, "Well...there have been horses that have slipped down. There have been lights that have gone out. But no collisions." I was amazed.

Over the coach's voice, Jimmie continued her tale. The first year, Jimmie told me, they used Christmas lights; and it was tough, with lots of wires breaking, and the dangerous 'black-outs' of both horse and rider while performing. Dangerous because the team performs in virtual darkness, and a blacked-out horse and rider were invisible to the others, up until they got close. Yikes.

Eventually, sturdier lights were found, and they developed a custom-made saddle bag to hold the battery packs. The light system, nowadays, is overseen by Tony Bussert, who the Stampeders call their 'Light Man'. He's been with them a long time; they depend on him. He's worked miracles for them over the years, troubleshooting and designing whatever Jimmie could come up with, and going with the Stampeders on all of their trips. He is, they say, the reason that they can just flip a switch, instead of the burdensome 'plugging in' of yesteryear. The way their lighting has evolved is the work of a keen engineering mind.

I asked Jimmie if she had been a former rodeo queen, like so many of her girls. She said no. I asked her if she rode. She laughed and said no. Perplexed, I asked her if she's EVER ridden.

"Oh, I've ridden a horse before, " she said humbly. I was still trying to understand how she got involved with something so....equestrian...if she really...wasn't. She looked at me with that humble grin and said, "I don't ride at all....I just dream." (I found out later that she'd written for some Western magazines, and had been asked to be the Snake River Stampede's publicist in 1977. She was now their Executive Secretary year-round, keeping things organized, paying bills, and doing some accounting.)

I was curious as to what Jimmie meant about the 'dreaming'....

She then gave me some examples.

It was the year of 9/11. Patriotism was running much higher than in years past. Jimmie, who had pulled several strings in recent years with a manager she knew to make sure her girls performed at the National Finals Rodeo, had them riding there again that year; something she was very proud of. (Truth be told, she had initially told that manager, Shawn Davis: "If you don't take them to the NFR, it's YOUR loss!")

He took them.

She'd wanted the event that year to be extremely memorable, a theme that would match the mood of a people that were newly re-examining the love and loyalty of their country..and licking their wounds from the unexpected and unprovoked attack of September eleventh on their homeland. We'd lost loved ones. Heroes had been made overnight. Now their sons, husbands, wives and daughters were donning military uniforms to protect and defend those they loved. This could be no ordinary year. This could be no ordinary performance.

"I could envision an American flag, waving in the wind, " she recalled, "and I could just picture it in my mind that way. So I called up Tony the Light Man, and I told him I wanted an American flag. He said that he could construct a solid rectangular frame, and attach some lighting to it, that shouldn't be too hard. But then I explained to him that this wouldn't do; I wanted it to....furl."

"---You want it to.....FURL?" Tony had repeated, as if he couldn't quite believe the latest request. No doubt he was already shaking his head at the engineering that this would require.

"Yes," said Jimmie, "...Like it's waving in the wind..."

I can only imagine the expression on Tony Bussert's face. But weeks later, a lone Stampeder, dressed in white and carrying that 'furling' American flag full of brilliant lights, rode into the arena of the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas. She had more lights on her than any other rider; the spotlight was right where it should be; on our nation's emblem, the American flag.

The music began. It was, of course, our 'other' unofficial National Anthem; Lee Greenwood's 'God Bless The U.S.A.'

More horses and riders followed, bathed in red lights, white lights, or blue lights. The girl carrying the furling flag was in a conspicuous corner, with the spotlight kept on her the entire time, as the riders did their galloping routines in the virtual darkness. I could practically hear the words, and see our country's proud colors in my mind: "And I'll gladly stand up....next to you and defend Her still, today. Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land.....GOD BLESS THE U.S.A."

Jimmie was looking at me intently, with that steady gaze of hers.

"People were crying," Jimmie said, and then: "They were given a standing ovation." She paused for a moment, probably re-living it in her mind once more. And then she grinned again and said simply, "That's what I do... I dream."

I was still in a trance-like state as my daughter and I shook hands heartily with Jimmie for sharing her story with us, thanking her for the generosity of her time. I was still thinking about twinkling lights and patriotism and the excitement of the horses running towards each other and....all of it. By the time the 'trance' started to wear off, and I began to come to my senses, I was pulling into my driveway at home. It was then that I realized I had not taken one single picture.

The reason? Pure and simple; I was in a trance...the one that all the spectators that have ever watched the Stampeders have fallen under. You must see this one for yourself.

The Stampede is calling you.

Visit http://www.snakeriverstampede.com/ to see pictures of this incredible, lighted, equestrian drill team.

Copyright (c) Amy Larson 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Let The Horse Have the reins.

Subject: let the horse have the reins..
"Your latest story reminded me of a story my dad told me of when he was about 8 or so, in a blizzard in eastern Idaho, on his horse, he was lost, and he remembered his dad had told him let the horse have his rein and he will go home... but dad also knew that as long as the horse had the bridle on, he was going to do what the reins told him to do
So dad had to lean forward, slip the bridle off, and meanwhile realize the horse was about to take off like a scalded ape for home, and he had to stay on for the ride or end up dead in the blizzard.He said he remembered thinking 'this horse is going to head for the barn as soon as the bridle clears the ears...and that he'd better hang on for dear life. He did, he rode, and I'm here."

K. Hatch

Ride For Joy

"I guess it all started when I began communicating on the internet with a guy named 'Cowboy'."



---It's not what you might think, although I'm sure there are some very interesting stories that begin with that exact phrase. This is one of them; but in a different way.

Cowboy is a very good-looking, big, strong....horse. He is one of the therapeutic horses with Ride for Joy, a program that teaches special needs kids to ride.

The afternoon found my daughter, her sidekick friend, and myself cruising up Pierce Park in Boise towards the Pierce Park Stables, about ten minutes out of town. After passing the elementary school and the golf course, older neighborhoods gave way to wide open spaces with rolling hills and lots of sagebrush. Up and down the hills we rolled, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the beauty of the area. I thought to myself that this would be a great place to go hiking. Just then I spotted a trail head with a parking lot. My next thought was that this would be a good road to ride a bike on. Two seconds later we saw a herd of cyclists. I wasn't going to chance it by thinking that this would be a good place for a parade...

The pavement ended and turned to gravel and I knew that we must be getting close.

The stables weren't hard to find; the arena is huge, with the surrounding grounds nestled into some high Idaho hills, bumpy with the desert grass and sagebrush. The backdrop of the sky was a cornflower blue. There were clusters of mature trees lining the driveway, giving the entrance a welcoming feel. This is where I would want to live, if I were a horse.

The moment we got out of the car, a pretty blond cowgirl approached us. She held out her hand and said, "Are you the 'blogger'?" (Wow, a title!) Valerie James (the Executive Director) had been expecting me, and was ready to play the tour guide.

One of the first things she was sure to show me, was the Hansen-Rice work trailer. Ride For Joy was in need of on-site office space, and a place for their staff and volunteers to take breaks. Since construction was slow, and a friend of theirs had a connection to the contractor, one thing led to another and they had the use of the trailer, which not only housed their office, but the tack supplies, too. She wanted me to take a picture and to spread the word that they were very, very grateful. Interestingly enough, Hansen-Rice helped to build the Idaho Center, where the Snake River Stampede will be held again this year.

Another trailer was filled with 'toys'. I didn't understand; were these toys for the... horses? What did that have to do with riding? No, they were toys for the kids. Therapeutic toys that assisted in their learning while learning to ride. There were boxes and boxes of them, brightly colored with interesting shapes. The type of toys you'd see at the best grandma's house, a grandma that cares enough to get things that will help you to learn, as well as have fun.

We entered the arena and I noticed something right away. This place was extremely organized and meticulously maintained. In one corner were the mommies of the kids, with chairs and tables for their comfort as they watched their riders at their lessons. Each one of them had a calm, relaxed smile. Valerie mentioned that some of these mothers don't often get a break from their caregiving; and that this is a nice respite for them. The know that their children are having fun, and they can take it easy for up to forty-five minutes, the length of the session.

I looked around and spotted 'Cowboy'. He is, I am learning (and let me just see if I can say this correctly): a sixteen-hand-red-dun-quarter-horse-gelding. (Phwew!) In other words, one heck of a good-looking horse. I admitted to Valerie that I had a thing for Cowboy. She grinned and said, "We all do." That's when I knew that Cowboy had many women in his life...I wasn't the only one. And good for him. Every soul that crosses Cowboy's path benefits greatly from knowing him...he is, after all, a therapy horse.

Ride For Joy is very careful with its horses. Usually only staff or well-trained volunteers are allowed to handle them. They want to limit how many people are interacting with them, because these animals are easily burnt out, being 'caregiver' horses. Think of the people you know that are in any sort of a caregiver role, and you will understand. There has to be a certain amount of pampering that is accompanied with the caregiving, or there will be a high turnover. Hence, the horses are given a good trail ride once a week for their own mental well-being and recreation, and are exercised six days a week in some way. They were well-groomed and shiny; the sign of a steadfastly maintained animal. Valerie said that they could be 'show' ready at any time; however, they were trained for the job of a therapeutic riding horse, not to be shown. This was their quality, nevertheless. She laughed and said that most people expected to see some old, retired horse when they first visited the volunteer program's facility and were very surprised. These horses have all had prior careers in their other lives.

I was shown the special helmets that were custom fitted for each child. I was told that it was taking a large chunk out of the lesson time each week to have to readjust the community-property helmets to properly fit each rider. Donors got wind that there was a need for individual helmets, and stepped up to the plate. The table-full of helmets with child's names printed on them were proof of that. As I looked at each helmet, it made what Ride For Joy was doing even more real to me. There was a story behind each helmet. A success story, if I were to guess. One never knows just what it took to get that special needs child to this point, where they were riding a big strong horse on the beautiful grounds of the private stables. I couldn't take my eyes off those little helmets, thinking about that.

But it went far beyond helmets. The staff at Ride For Joy were picky about the all-round 'fit'. A child that was of a smaller build might need to ride on 'Buttons', because she is a slimmer, more petite horse. A tinier child might also benefit from an english saddle, because that is thinner, as well. The temperament of the horse and child are considered. If these don't flow, they can be switched out. Nor are they afraid to switch out instructors, if a child would benefit more from a firmer style, or a more soft-spoken style, depending on the rider. The horses themselves have learned to be sensitive to their riders; they know each child well and might know that, for example, 'Sally' is one that is prone to leaning to her left a lot, because she favors that side for whatever reason. The instructors also communicate very well with each other, often brainstorming about how to help the child progress faster, and what needs to be tweaked, and commenting on their observances during any given session. It's a custom fit, all the way around, in every aspect imaginable.

As we were talking, Valerie was suddenly told to turn on the music by an instructor calling out to her from the middle of the arena. She smiled and quickly switched it on. "Boot Scoot Boogie" was the selection. We watched the riders go around to the railings where there were boots waiting for them. The riders scooped them up with their hands, then rode toward a boot repository, where they plunked them in. This was just one of the games they played to build their skills; and the kids were loving it.

After the session, I had time to talk with both Teri Argo and Valerie James. Teri is the Program Manager/Head Instructor, and the one who told me all about the program in the first place.

I couldn't help but think that they looked like two girls at play. This was clearly their passion. In talking with Teri, I learned that she'd been an Occupational Therapist, which is how she firat learned about therapeutic riding for children. It began to dawn on me that she'd given up a much more lucrative career to be able to do this. I asked her about this. She assured me that she'd loved being an Occupational Therapist; but that this was her 'niche'. Looking at the smile on her face, I was not about to question that. Valerie had the same look, and was probably thinking the same thing. If I were to only have one word to describe these women, that word would be 'gratitude'. They quickly mentioned that they had 'married well', expressing a deep appreciation for their husbands that supported them in having this type of career.

When I asked them about the changes they've seen in the children they assist, I couldn't write it all down fast enough. Core strength. Social interaction. Empathy. Speech improvement. They called these 'spillovers'...when one facet of life is improved upon, they all are. They told me of the mother of an autistic child that has one 'precious' hour after each session, where her child will interact with her and be able to have a conversation. That mother seizes that opportunity, taking the child out to eat, and other activities after having ridden the horse, where they can communicate. This is a window she might not have had otherwise. The parents are charged thirty-dollars per session, about a fifth of the actual cost. What a bargain. What would one pay to be able to get through to their autistic child? Thirty dollars seemed like an incredible deal.

They can never get enough donations. Were it not for the donors, there would be no program. Valerie told me of an anonymous donor that gave three-thousand-dollars last year, and how helpful that had been. She was so thankful, she called the I.C.F., which was the organization that the donor had contributed through, to see if she could contact that person to tell them how grateful they were. But it was to be kept anonymous, that was the deal. This year, facing severe financial difficulty, Valerie picked up the phone and once again called the I.C.F. She asked them if that same donor would be willing to once again donate money, this time to the amount of two-thousand dollars.

I stood there with my mouth open, thinking how hard it would be to make a call like that. I mentioned this. Valerie shrugged, "We're a non-profit. You get used to doing that."

And I was introduced to the world of non-profits. They wouldn't even be in existence, if not for the generosity of others. This is what Ride For Joy lives and breathes on. Valerie was trying to save something good; and something like her pride wasn't going to stand in the way of asking for help for a very worthy cause. People that love riding believe in what they do; and these women and volunteers are sharing that with others, for the greater good....and giving others the opportunity to assist in this, whether it be financially or through volunteering.

A touching ending to the 'donor' story. They found out, after the second donation, the name of that donor. This woman was invited to visit the Stables, and see for herself how her money had been put to good use. After being given the same tour that I'd received (complete with Hansen-Rice trailer!), and observing a session with the children, this donor proclaimed that it was 'money well spent.'

'Riding For Joy.' ...it is unclear just who is getting the most benefit, here. The children? The instructors? The parents? The donors?

We may never know for sure. But one thing is certain: they need to just keep right on riding.



Copyright (c) Amy Larson 2010. All Rights Reserved.



Visit Ride for Joy at http://www.rideforjoy.org/index.html

--And visit the Snake River Stampede on Facebook. The rodeo's calling your name....and it's getting louder.

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/SnakeRiverStampede?ref=ts

The F Bar Arena

Years ago, I might have written it up like this:

"We went to the F Bar Arena. It was fun. The horses and riders did well. The food was good. There was dirt there. The End."

While all of those things are true, there are stories to be told between the lines. Things that I am anxious to share.

The F Bar Arena is near Kuna. For those of you that are thinking 'Koona' when you read that word, the town of Kuna would thank me for informing you that this would be wrong; it's the battle they've been fighting since the town was named, I'm sure. It's "Que-na"...as in bar-be-"que". In the beginning, I was less than gently reminded. These people take their town's pronunciation seriously. And their wrestling...but that's another story entirely.

It was easy to find; we just looked for all of the horse trailers and pickup trucks. And you can't miss the actual Arena...it's humongous. I was told that it used to be an airplane hangar, which doesn't surprise me. It's well over an acre of covered ground.

The signs on the outside of the building were very plain in telling us where we needed to go. The signs must feel a certain satisfaction in that. (!)

I have to tell you that I didn't know what to expect. I'd worn what I thought was neutral clothing; some denim and a t-shirt. I have this thing about having incorrect wardrobe choices for the situation...I don't enjoy that. But it was no big deal. I don't think anyone really paid much attention; they were too busy watching the horses and riders. But jeans and a t-shirt were a pretty safe bet; that was the standard uniform, from what I could tell. There were a few hard-core western shirts on both guys and girls, here and there. I thought they looked swell.

We found our way to the bleachers; a wooden and metal structure. The benches were painted white; but they were more dirt colored, because all of us were walking in dirt, and then stepping on the bleachers to climb them to our desired location. I had to make a mental shift for this; normally when I go to a public event, I try to stay as clean and presentable as possible. But that night, I had to let go and go with it. If I were to brush off the bench, it would make a scene. So I sat. Right in the dirt...mixed with a little dried bird dropping, because there were birds in there, too. I have to tell you, it was strangely liberating in this world that's all about looks. I just plain needed to not care. And eventually...I didn't. This was, after all, not a sport for sissies. It all added to the experience.

Right away we could hear the sounds of laughter (and probably bragging) from the bar upstairs. My husband joked that the bar was probably named the 'F Bar', but we were later told that the regulars just called it 'upstairs'. We knew that we were headed there because our hostess, May Yates, who had invited us to the barrel races that night, had told us that the 'bowl o' meat' that they serve was really good. We were going to have our dinner at a horse arena; a first for me.

There was something to watch right away, other than the people. The horses were flying past us in the arena, sending dirt clods everywhere. I could smell the earthiness and it smelled...good. It reminded me of summers as a kid, making mud pies with my sisters.

My husband, who had grown up around horses, was a helpful commentator. Paint horse. Quarter horse. Thoroughbred. I had no idea there were so many different kinds. I got to the point where I could tell which was which.

Horses and riders ran into the arena, passing the laser beam that began to time them. Three barrels were placed about halfway in, in triangular form. The horses were to run towards the barrel, circle it, then run to the next one. When the last barrel had been circled, the horse and rider booked it back to that all-important laser, in order to make the best time possible. There was a digital clock just near the exit, and you could hear the fast riders say, "Whoo- HOO!" if their time was good.

A lady with a young baby girl stood near us and made friendly conversation. I could tell she was a cowgirl, not necessarily by the way she was dressed; I'm not sure if it was even something I could pin down. Perhaps....attitude? Her skin looked like she was no stranger to outdoors, and there was this...relaxed...demeanor. It must be what living in the country does for a person. Country folk share a similar look, and it has nothing to do with what they wear.

When she went away, another lady approached us and asked if we'd be 'video volunteers'. I was busy taking notes, so my husband took the camera. He took his newfound responsibility very seriously, taping both the lady and her daughter as they rode. Both mother and daughter were very, very fast. I looked at the mom; she was middle-aged..and still barrel racing. Lots of my prejudices that night were being dissolved. For love of the sport, a person could do anything...and, if they wanted to, they could ride till they die.

In between riders, we could hear the announcer telling the riders the order in which they would race. They also had a sound system there that pumped out music. I heard the words twanging out, "Just another one-night stand" and laughed to myself. Some things, after all, were still what I expected. When the music switched over to the song "Car Wash" from the seventies, I had to laugh, too. There was something funny about watching barrel racing and listening to that. They even played some rap. So much for my stereotyping, I thought. But then I turned towards the horse entrance, just in time to see a little girl standing there, silhouetted against the setting sun, with her western shirt and jeans. The sunlight was hitting her spurs, making them sparkle. Nope, it was country all right. As country as it gets.

Suddenly it was time for 'open' arena, and all of the horses crowded in, going around the barrels and riding around. I understood this to be like 'all skate' when you're roller-skating at the rink. It seemed like a good intermission, so we climbed the metal stairs to the 'upstairs', where we'd get dinner that night. It was an oversized living room up there, with balcony seats overlooking the arena. Big screen tv. Posters of upcoming events on the walls. Pepsi logos here and there. We got our 'bowl o' meat' and a soda and made our way back down to the bleachers.

My date and I both said the same thing at our first bite: Mmmmm! They'd marinated or perfectly seasoned the tri-tip beef, then cut it into cubes and stuck it in a bowl. Hence the name. I was in heaven. I could feel the iron permeating my bloodstream. I could smell the dirt and the fresh air and the horses nearby, I had some savory beef to munch on, and all around were smiles and happy-looking cowpeople. This was nice.

I hadn't seen May yet, but I knew that her daughter, Lillie, would be barrel racing. Lillie is under six years old. I didn't have to wait long before I saw a cute little girl with sandy hair, atop a miniature horse. Her horse was being led by an older cousin, who ran out ahead and led Lillie and horse around each barrel. It was one of the most endearing things I'd seen; an older girl running around the barrels, leading a horse with her young cousin on it. Lillie looked like she was having the time of her life.

When the older girls came out, you could feel the difference in the air. This was not just timed practicing anymore; now it was for real...and competitive. The real barrel racing had begun. As racers went around the barrels, I realized that this was not a 'shhh' sport, like golf or tennis. People were calling out from the bleachers, "Inside! Inside!" or, "Talk to him! Talk to him!" (referring to their horse). One dad, up in the 'upstairs' bar, yelled out so loudly I was certain his daughter could hear, way across the arena on her horse. And it messed both horse and rider up, distracting them. I thought to myself that there were over-zealous 'sideline coaches' in every sport, thinking back to my daughter's soccer days and some of the more excitable parents.

Some of the riders were pretty strict with their horses. If the horse did not run around the barrel correctly, and their time was shot anyway, the rider would salvage the ride by making the horse re-do it, in an effort to further train them. Or, if the horse didn't stop where the rider said 'whoa'...the horse would have to back up to that point, and stop there for a moment, then could exit the arena. I saw a lot of riders making their horses have a re-do like that.

I realized that these horses must practice running barrels again and again and again. Surely they'd know what they were doing, after they got the idea. My husband commented that the more a rider allows a trained horse to have its way, the better it does. That reminded me of a phrase I once heard: "Let your horse have the reins, and it will lead you to camp."

The riders trained them well, then they trusted their horses. There is a child-rearing lesson to be had in there, somewhere.

I finally spotted my friend May, and went down to talk to her. She'd introduced herself through the Snake River Stampede website, and had been very informative to me, a non-cowgirl, through her comments. Now I was meeting her and her daughter, Lillie for the first time. May was surrounded by lots of extended family; this was something, she explained, that was a huge part of their lives. This was where they met, often spending entire weekends together at an arena somewhere. They'd just finished competing in Nyssa, Oregon earlier in the week. The love of the sport allowed them to see each other often. I thought again of soccer and the people I came to know well because of the endless games and practices.

May told me that Lillie was born with some serious health issues, and that even though some may lift an eyebrow to her riding a horse, it had been the very best thing for her, raising her spirits and giving her something to look forward to. Her doctors and therapists were all aware that Lillie rode...it was what she loved to do. May had been a barrel racer; and Lillie wanted to be like her momma. Lined up in canvas chairs in a row were her family members, there in support of Lillie and her chosen activity. Now that was inspiring.

May mentioned that there isn't a lot of money in it, at this level. Quite the contrary....they often went in the hole, just to have their daughter ride. Each older barrel racer had paid sixty-plus bucks to be able to compete that evening. That explained the frustrated looks on the riders whose horses knocked over barrels, which automatically disqualified them. Someone later joked that the 'bowl o' meat' is where the bad horses go. Completely untrue, but humorous.

I commented to May about the girls wearing enormous earrings that were barrel racing...weren't they worried about the dreaded 'ear-rip'? She laughed and said that a lot of the people call some of those girls 'Paris Hilton on a Horse'. Another commonality, I thought, thinking back to the soccer girls that wore their hair perfectly curled with ribbons galore. These people weren't so different, after all.

Too soon it was time to leave; the sun was setting in the Kuna sky. As we were walking out, I heard one rider say to the other: "Hey, where ya been? I haven't seen ya for a while..." and the reply, "I took a break to have a baby..."

Sturdy folk. Good people. Great time.

The end.



Visit Snake River Stampede on Facebook and get your tickets! Rodeo Fever is very real...and it's incurable.



Copyright (c) Amy Larson 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Country 101: First Day of Class

How does one go about immersing one's self in the Western culture? I've been pondering on this for about a week, now. Then it dawned on me; that store I've driven by a bunch of times, the one where I go when I need a shovel or some good lettuce for the garden because no one else carries good lettuce OR decorative kale, for that matter. D and B Supply.

I pictured myself walking down the 'horse' aisle (they call it the 'tack' aisle), looking like that guy in the Carl's Jr.'s commercials that knows nothing about cooking and poking the beef in its package, timidly and with a small amount of awe. I could see myself looking at gear that I had no idea of where, exactly, it would go on a horse...and feeling kinda silly.

But this is how it really went. First, I took a picture of the outside of the store, where it said in bold letters, "TACK" and "PLUMBING" and "BOOTS"...because I thought that it was getting to be a rarity nowadays to see such a thing. I walked in, just as I had many times before (because I've bought a lot of shovels...don't ask...) and was met by a girl up front named Kim. Since I had a digital camera in one hand, and my notebook in the other, I thought I'd explain to her why I was there. I told her that I was trying to absorb some Western culture. She didn't laugh. Instead, she advised me on what she would wear to the Rodeo, if she were me,(some nice jeans, boots, maybe a belt, and just any good shirt; it didn't have to be Western to fit in) and we took a walk back to the boot section, where she showed me the boots she would buy if she could have any boots there. She showed me what boots would be the most 'in', country-speaking. Not once did I feel as though she were mocking me...rather, she seemed happy to educate me on all things Western. She told me that she used to ride horses all the time, and grew up in a small town just west of here. But her schedule nowadays didn't allow for much riding; she sounded like she missed it.

Karen came around the corner, another friendly face and a girl that I'd seen at D and B for years. As I looked at the women's clothing, which I was impressed with, I chatted with her a bit and learned that she and I were neighbors. I'd had no idea. She smiled that bright smile of hers, and upon learning what I was doing there, said, "We'll dress you up Western and take pictures!" She was sure to introduce me to the manager, Brad, who she called over to our end of the store on her walkie-talkie deal. He was very nice and told me that I was welcome to linger and take pictures for as long as I'd like.

Looking at the racks of clothing, I was amazed. This wasn't the striped, plaid Western that I remembered. Where were the thick, unflattering dungarees, built for the ranch? They had white frilly sundresses, great looking, modern-style blouses and shirts, and some of the cutest jeans ever. This was....Western? Seriously? I guess it was time I re-thought it. I put together a whole Western outfit; a lime-green straw hat with white daisies above the brim, the white frilly sundress, some white sandals with one big daisy near the toes, and some brass and silver Western earrings and necklace. I walked past the perfume section and discovered that my favorite was "Sunset", so I added that to the ensemble, just to make it look like a magazine staging. I think that Karen was amused. Every now and then she would call out, "Are you doing all right?" and I would call back, "Yep! I'm having a lot of FUN!"....only for me to realize that she was talking to another customer who'd gone to try on something in the dressing room. I remembered, too late, that she told me she'd leave me alone to do my 'absorbing', unless I had any questions. Oops. She didn't seem too bothered by my chiming in, though. She just kept smiling.

I got stuck in the shoe section, where I actually found some Sketcher's Shape-Up's! (A Western store has Shape-Up's?) Not to mention many other pairs of nice looking sandals that I immediately began to covet. Oh, great, now this store was making me break one of the Top Ten Commandments. Thanks, D and B. Lucky for you I like warm weather.

On to the men's section, where I saw paisley button-up shirts, and a whole lot of pink. I was surprised at this until I remembered the Tough Enough For Pink night at the Rodeo, in support of a cure for breast cancer. Wrangler makes a lot of those shirts; they are a sponsor of the Rodeo, so it all started to make sense. A lot of the clothing I would love to see my husband in...and he's a very picky dresser, so that's saying something. One of the girls told me that they'd seen an increase in the pink, after an episode of the Bachelor (or was it the Bachelorette?) where there was the big wedding, and it was pink and that's what the guys were wearing. Hey, whatever works.

I wandered every aisle, soaking in the country-ness. Every D and B employee that saw me asked me if they could help me. I felt almost sheepish explaining what I was doing, but thought that I should since I was taking so many pictures. I got a kick out of the doggie outfits; they had pink cheerleading uniforms with hoodies for your pooch. And one cape-like getup that said, "Talk to the Paw".

I took pictures of everything, and wandered everywhere, but saved the horse aisle for last. Probably because it intimidated me. All of the other employees had told me to talk to 'the other Kim', who was in charge of the horse department. I put off the equine aisle, though. I wandered the nursery outdoors for a good long time before I worked up the nerve to walk back there and ask the associate if she would 'tell me all about horse gear'. Nervously, I scoped out the area. I walked the adjoining aisles. I even went clear to the back of the store, where I'd never been before. Right there in plain sight was a hay bale. Just sitting there. You don't see stuff like that at the grocery store. I even took a picture of it.

I finally spotted the horse department lady. Then I instantly realized that I knew her from....somewhere. Yes! It was at our friend Sherry's house! I'd been to several barbeques with her, up at Sherry's! She was THAT Kim, the one that I used to be neighbors with, when I lived out in the country! I knew then that it all would be just fine.

Kim was as friendly as I remembered, still with that kind look in her eye that she'd always had. She very patiently walked me down the horse aisle, acting as if we were going to gear up a horse for me. She showed me the halters. She showed me the bridles. Then the cinches, snaffle bits, and spurs. She told me that the larger and more jingly the spurs were, the 'showier' they were, but hurriedly said that some cowboys might not agree with that statement. We both laughed.

She showed me the multiple rows of hygiene and maintenance product for the horses. They have a sheen/shine product that I'm curious about...would it work on humans, I asked? She said that the Mane and Tail formulas get used all the time by people. She did say to keep the shiner stuff away from a horse's saddle and gear; it tended to make it slippery, and if you were riding this could make things kind of interesting; and not in a good way.

On to the health aisle; horse owners need to prevent worms in the horses, at all costs. You could lose a horse to worms. Worms lead to colic, which lead to nothing good. I asked about skin issues; Kim said those should be minimal, if the horse maintains a proper diet. She took a lot of time with me and explained everything very well, but I never had the sense that she was talking down to me. She was simply sharing what she knew.

When I went to leave, she gave me a hug.

I went back to the front of the store; it was time to go. I had spent two hours at D and B Supply! I went to find Karen in the clothing department, telling her that I was out of time for the day, but that I would return next week, and she could dress me up Western. She made sure to tell me not to come in on her day off, and gave me her schedule for next week so that we could plan it all out. When I went to leave, Karen gave me a hug, too.

At the door, I said a thank you to Kim, the one who'd greeted me when I'd first walked in, two hours ago. Very gracious and friendly, she wished me well with my 'research'. I practically skipped out of there, feeling like I'd just made some new friends.

I think my initial theory on the whole Western culture was right: Welcoming. Warm. Anxious to teach their lifestyle to others. And passionate about preserving that lifestyle. I'm beginning to understand why.



Copyright (c) Amy Larson 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Trick Rider

Knowing that my husband grew up in a rural area and that he grew up with horses, I asked him if he ever did any 'trick' riding. He grinned and said, "Not intentionally!"

No Cure For It

No Cure For It

One of the commentators on the Stampede wrote me this:

A wise cowboy once said, "What do I like about this way of life? Why, every darn thing." That was Chris LeDoux and he was a bareback rider and also a darn good singer. Our accents change depending on where we come from and our clothes are basically the same but we are what we are and what you see is what you get.

And then she added: "Be careful....our lifestyle is addictive and I don't know a cure for it."

MindVenturer

To say that moving to Idaho at age ten was a culture shock would be an understatement.

Viewing our new small town for the first time (population 6,000) through the windows of our station wagon, my sisters and I scanned the streets for a McDonald's. We found one, and got excited. Never mind that there weren't any golden arches; maybe it was just an old-fashoned sign. The ignorance of youth; it turned out to be a family-owned clothing store named 'McDonald's'. We had to wait five more years for the real thing to come to town.

Our grade school back East had been what you might call forward-thinking. In P.E. we learned choreographed routines to music with red bouncy balls. Bounce the ball, spin around twice, then catch it in perfect timing to the music. We were taught to waltz. We never did anything that might be viewed as aggressive or competitive, like sports. After all, that could harm our delicate psyches. No one wanted to be the one responsible for doing that.

The first day in sixth grade at my new school in Idaho was an eye-opener. For P.E. we went out into a field to play softball. I'd never played the sport in my life. For starters, I found out very quickly when trying to catch one of those 'soft' balls without a mitt that the name was a lie.

How a girl raised by a college professor from a very New England family bloodline would end up writing to promote one of the top ten rodeos in the nation, the Snake River Stampede is a long story. Sufficeth it to say that I have an open mind. Adventures of the mind, the greatest mountain to conquer, are my specialty. I'm a 'mind-venturer', if you will.

One need only look at my resume to see that this is true. Professional Cake Decorator. Preschool Teacher. Electrical Contractor. Daycare Owner. Home Health Care Provider. General Contractor. Cleaning Business Owner. Student. Property Manager. Writer.

No small wonder that my career counselor in High School basically threw up his hands and quit working with me; he didn't know what to make of me, and at the time neither did I.

One thing has become abundantly clear since High School, though. I like to try new things. Eat eel? No problem. Climb Mount Borah? Sure, but I won't make it to the top the first time. (Snow and ice and let's get real; I was exhausted.) Guide an eight man raft down the river in whitewater? Sure, why not. Be the general contractor to get a home built? Okay!



Why then, did reporting on a rodeo seem like such a daunting task? Probably because I knew next to nothing of that culture. I've had plenty of opportunity to be exposed to it; cattle drives in Nevada that I took a minor part in. Castration time at the ranch. To tell the truth, not much of it got absorbed. I never dreamed I'd need any knowledge of this kind. Sort of like in algebra class, where you tell yourself, "I know in my bones that I will never use this stuff in real life."

But absorb it I have. I won't bore you with the details, but I can sum it up like this; I like what I'm seeing.

The part of it I like the most? It's the people. Everyone I've come in contact with so far is so very real. Friendly. Genuine.

Former rodeo queens were happy to talk, share pictures. Cowboys opened up about why they do what they do. Good old boys who've worked the farm for decades told a story or two, or ten, with some encouragement.

The 'Ride for Joy's' director, Teri Argo, had me out to view horse riding sessions for children with special needs. She explained to me that horses are magic, creating a bond with people that's hard to put into words.

A lady that has done some traveling with the rodeo crowd, Lisa Jones, responded to my request for her rodeo memories within twenty-four hours, sending a letter absolutely packed with sentences that could in themselves become short stories. The efficiency of the crews at the Stampede. The professionalism of those on the committee, and how they always greeted her whenever they saw her around the grounds with a friendly hello. The two well-known announcers that were top-notch at what they do. The ceremony for retiring an old rodeo horse, with that mare's children and grandchildren present; the humane and dignified way that the Stampede did that presentation. She wrote of the time the announcer asked all that were present to pray for a fallen rider. She wrote in an amazed way of a man with no arms that performed. This I am more than curious about.

I contacted a few officials of the Stampede (Jimmie Hurley was one of them) to see if they might be willing to meet with me to share their thoughts. They immediately responded that they would be happy to do this.

The responses I am getting so far have the same theme: "I want to share what I've experienced/seen/done with others." "You are welcome to visit." " Let me tell you all about it." " Come on over."

Is....this...the 'culture' that I've been resisting? If so, what on earth was I thinking? I have the feeling I am about to meet some of the West's friendliest folk.

I think it's high time I became a Western girl.



Copyright (c) Amy Larson 2010. All Rights Reserved.

Are You A Cowboy?

Are You A Cowboy?

I wasn't born in the West. Quite the contrary. A large, very Eastern city is what it says on my birth certificate. I'm what you would call a transplant.

When my parents told me we'd be moving out West, the summer that I turned eleven, I was at first rather...stricken. They might as well have announced that we were going to live on Mars. I envisioned everyone living on a farm and having at least one horse. I thought all of the girls my age would be wearing pony tails, blue jeans and boots.

We did move, and found out that it wasn't exactly like that. However, in the small Western town where we lived for a time, I had many opportunities to become immersed in the ways of the West. I have to admit that being a somewhat genteel type from back East, I only took advantage of a few of them. As a twelve-year-old watching my first rodeo, I was horrified. I worried over every single participant... so much dust and dirt and blood. It was obvious that I'd led a sheltered life, up to that point.

Against all odds, I stayed out West long after I was old enough to choose to leave. I learned by observation that a native will think nothing of damaging their pickup truck while they're intent on bucking a new snow drift, or a really tall sand dune. I learned that even if a seventy-year-old broken down man with arthritis shouldn't be riding his horse anymore...he still will. And if he can't climb up on that horse, he'll take it over next to his farm truck where he can scoot from the bed to the saddle without so much as a cuss word. I saw folks riding up and down Main Street on their four-wheelers with their three-year-olds on their laps, not really caring whether or not it was legal; in their eyes, it was all about spending time with their child. I got hauled home one unfortunate day by a farmer in a Toyota pickup truck...when I was driving a Ford F-250 that wouldn't run... I'd had melting groceries and three restless children in the vehicle with me, and along came my hero....this man of Western Cowboy lineage. He didn't care if he ruined his transmission; he only wanted to help a damsel in distress.

Lately I've been thinking about the whole 'cowboy' idea. Maybe it was because a politician from Washington DC visited here recently in cowboy boots and blue jeans, thinking that his attire would impress us. Maybe it's because where I live, every now and then, I see one....a real one, weathered skin with a face etched in character...and...I'm fascinated.

Maybe it's the idea of someone who has 'true grit'...one who won't be thrown. How the general public yearns for that sort of a leader nowadays, someone who takes the frustrations of life out on the hard work of roping a calf or breaking a wild bronco, instead of another human being. Picturing a cowboy with road rage makes me grin at the absurdity.

Cowboys signify dreams. Wide open spaces. The Old West, and its endless possibilities, with the promise of things far more precious than gold. Being your own person. The reckless rebel that doesn't have to play by anyone's rules, and Heaven help the man that questions their personal choices. These types aren't 'fair weathered' folk...the irrigation pipes have to get moved no matter if it's rain or shine. They intimately know blood, sweat and tears...and don't sit around griping about their aches and pains. They simply accept them as a part of life. We would do well to do the same.

Then there is the beauty of the relationship between horse and rider. Here is an individual that is mastering or has mastered the fine art of understanding another living creature. What sacred trust must exist amongst the two. Most of us struggle just to get along with one another, yet here is an example of untold amounts of time and patience to make such a relationship work, without even the commonality of belonging to the same species. With just a nudge or the controlled use of voice, human and horse are on the same frequency. Amazing.

I haven't been to a rodeo in years. This year, I am going. Why? Because I need a few good examples in my life. In times like these, I dare say we all do. Examples of sticking with something, no matter how hard. Examples of unflinching courage, even in the face of danger. Examples of a horse and its rider in perfect sync; like the rest of us could be, if we'd only get over our stubborn-ness. Seeing a good old boy that's going to get the job done, no matter what. That's what I need.

And you know what? I'm going to experience it ALL. The Steak Fry at the Park. The premiere country band called 'Redstone' downtown. I'll probably skip the golf tournament because the last time I went to the driving range I almost took someone's nose off...but the Hot Chili Nite and the street dance, are you kidding me? I can't wait to taste a bowl-full, and dance with my husband. And in the morning I'm going to the "All-American" Pancake breakfast, then the parade downtown to swipe as much candy as I can from the candy-throwers.

If I can only afford to go for one night of the Rodeo, I will go on the Tough Enough For Pink night. A portion of this night's ticket sales goes to the Foundation to cover the cost of a mammogram for women who can't afford to get one. My husband's mother died over twenty years ago from breast cancer, at age 54. She was a dynamo....and a cowgirl. She met her husband while she was barrel racing; he was a rodeo clown. Although I've never met her, her vitality is evident in the vibrant personalities of her six children. The arena will be flooded with pink, in honor of those who have struggled and lost, struggled and won, and are currently struggling with the disease. I'll have my pink on, you'd better believe it.

I've been in the area for years and have not chosen to experience these events, specifically designed to generate enthusiasm and a sense of community, come Rodeo time. I've always thought that I was too busy for that sort of thing; and really, let's face it...I'm not a cowgirl. Or...am I?

I try to speak up when I see something amiss. I try to stop to help people, without worrying if they'll think I'm weird. I fix what is broken. I'd fight to the death for my loved ones. I do my own thing, after too many years of trying to please other people. I do the job; even if it's difficult...even if it's raining, whether that rain be outside or inside of my heart.

Yeah, I think there's a little of that in all of us.

I would say in retrospect...that these Idaho cowboys have had a profound effect on me. I am learning to be one who is determined not to be thrown...and if I am, I'll get up, dust myself off...and get right back on my horse.

Visit @SnakeRiverStmpd or info@snakeriverstampede.com .

Hope to see you there.

Copyright (c) 2010 Amy Larson. All Rights Reserved.