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.



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