Stampede Gold: Finals Night

The gal in the Rumpelstiltskin story spun straw into gold. That would be hard to do.

Here I sit at my computer for one of the last blogs this year for the Snake River Stampede, trying to spin gold into words. Because what I've seen, what I've felt, and what I've experienced was pure gold. I wish that spinner girl was here by my desk right now to give me just a few pointers.

We have the Snake River Stampede website and Facebook pages to bring you all of the stats; that hasn't really been my role. What I had hoped to do was to bring some of the overall experience to the eyes and minds of others, maybe those who couldn't be with us, or who've never been to a rodeo. Everyone's memories will be different; but I wanted to share mine with you...then it can be 'our's'. Possibly this will help to bring our big world just a little closer together.

On the fifth night, I understood what my friend Katie had told me about the 'electricity' in the air. I could feel it from the moment I parked my car in the lot and began the climb up the now-familiar sloping sidewalk to the entrance of my old friend, the Idaho Center. There were more people than there had been before, and they seemed to be more dressy tonight. It was, after all, Finals Night. They were pulling out the stops for this one. I saw boots and hats galore.

The shiny new Ford was out front; they'd been advertising in front of the Center all week. One of those gorgeous trucks always distributed and picked up the barrels for the racing in the arena. And it's been mentioned frequently that they didn't take any bail out money. Go Ford.

The program passer-outers were there in full force. I asked if I could just have a day sheet, I already had four programs...but they ran a tight ship and told me if I took one I had to take all. Thus, my fifth program was acquired. I tried.

I knew right where my spot was, even though the Idaho Center is huge. I'd been there four other times. There were the others girls in the media at their posts. Heather, Nina and Carole had breathed life into the Snake River Stampede website and Facebook pages, not to mention Twitter and a whole host of other things I probably didn't know about (or even understand, let's be honest). Heather's consulting business was in existence for a reason. They knew what they were doing.

Those girls were innovative in other ways. From the first night on, it was apparent that even though we had great seats, there was a little...problem. An open beverage cup would never survive in this dirt-clod laden environment. They took pieces of their programs, tore off a tidy square, and used it as a lid, sticking the straw through a hole in the center. Genius. When I'd first spotted the 'special lid', I'd thought they were worried about some spilling out, and were trying to be very careful; you know, out of respect for the Idaho Center, keeping it clean and all. Eventually I learned that it wasn't what got out, but what got in that was the concern. Don't blame them.

The drinks with the famous lids were in place again on Saturday.

We started off again with the mutton-busting. One kid had such a long ride, he ran right into the wall. The clowns ran to set him upright, and when they held him high above their heads, he put his little fist in the air.

I had a singular experience during the national anthem. As the Stampeder with the flag ran around the outer ring of the arena, I have learned that it is not a great idea to stick your face out slightly and try to greet her, even if she is indeed a friend or partial friend. Because you can get attacked by the flag. In a moment of what should have been extreme reverence, while everyone else had their hands on their hearts, I was making a sound similar to "Aaaaaaccckkkk!" as the flag caught me in the face and whipped around my head and hair, threatening to take me with it. The speed, the horse, and the momentum would've been a tough match. Luckily, the flag mercifully released, flipping around my face and giving me a final warning 'smack' right across the lips. I was glad I got off easy. That might have been bad, and very hard to explain. The flag, in essence, kicked my derriere. I won't be soon forgetting that. Not everyone gets beat up by the flag.

When the Stampeders did their final performance, a dirt clod flew my way. I'd been waiting for this moment. I carefully preserved it in a plastic cup, intending to smuggle it out of the arena. The lady sitting next to me seemed like she might need an explanation, judging from her look.

"It's special dirt!" I stated. "It came from the Oregon Trail!"

She told me that years ago they'd been told that they took some of the dirt from the old green arena, and that's what dirt it was. I was hoping we were both right; if that were the case, you couldn't find much more special dirt anywhere around. I guarded my plastic cup all through the night, making sure it wouldn't tip. It even had a piece of horse, bull, calf, or mutton hair protruding from it. A more perfect specimen, I was sure, did not exist. I had me a little piece of the Stampede. Throughout the performance I amused myself with inward phrases like, "Got DIRT?"

I did.

I noticed something new every night. What were called the 'pickup' men take the flank straps off as soon as the rider is done with his ride. They're in a hurry to do this, to get the horse calm enough to get back to the gate. The flank straps are the thing that annoys the horse enough to buck...it doesn't hurt them, just annoys them...like a blouse that doesn't fit right and rubs under your armpits.

A memorable moment was when Clint Cannon walked right past us. He'd dismounted at the far end of the arena, near where we were sitting. We could see his chest rising and falling, and when he turned his head to look up at the scoreboard...and when that scoreboard said "89"...to watch his face break out into a grin was something else. The ultimate in cowboy joy.

The crowd was rowdier than any other night, very worked up. I realized that this was a place I could hoop and holler, and I wouldn't ever be shushed. I think everyone should have an event that they attend at least once a year where they can cheer and shout and say 'yee-haw', if the mood strikes them. I never 'yee-hawed'...but I probably thought it a time or two. This rodeo-ing, I realized, just might be very mentally healthy. A pressure release.

When bareback rider Heath Ford was up, the announcers lavished on the praise. They told us how he writes gospel music, and what a God-fearing person he was. Summing it all up, one of them said of him (both as a person and as a cowboy, no doubt), "This kid just lands RIGHT."

I for one, appreciated the fact that he's not only religious, but he's fashionable. Those orange chaps of his were a fashion statement if I'd ever seen one. I respected that. Dave Tester had asked me on-air who my favorite cowboy was.At the time, I'd responded that they were all my favorites, but I've come to a decision on that; I would have to answer that I have two. I like Heath Ford. He prays AND he's fashionable. And I like whoever that cowboy was that took the time to chat with that little boy on Friday evening, the one I got a picture of. I want to know who he is very badly, because that man's a real hero and a real cowboy in my book.

When a steer suddenly stopped short and ruined the cowboy's chances at good scoring, the announcers immediately said, "BEEF. It's what's for dinner." Which led them into a whole spiel about beef.

"I guarantee I'll last longer 'n you, you non-beef eaters... and you'll die skinny, pale, and desperate."

I especially appreciated this, and gave a not-so-silent amen. I don't fully trust people who don't have enough iron in their system.

Sometime during the performance, several of my new-found 'cowfriends' surrounded me, taking over some empty seats in the booth. They were party-crashers! That amused me to no end, that they'd risk it for me. The good seats might have had something to do with that, but I'd like to think it was their undying devotion for their new friend...or something. Nevertheless, I sat there amongst them, with a smile from ear-to-ear. Here was the former rodeo queen from the one and only year I'd been to the Stampede before. (There is a long story that accompanies this statement, but that's another blog). And the other lady was one I'd interviewed, and our interview got printed up in the paper, over which we both rejoiced. Her daughter was there, (who has a fabulous cowgirl purse that I've been coveting and teasing her that I was going to snatch), and my fellow blogger and her husband. Down the row were the media friends I'd made, including Dave Tester and his Production Manager Mike. These people had all added to my rodeo experience...and made it for me. I understood that the rodeo couldn't go on indefinitely, and why. But the human part of it, I hoped would continue for years to come. I'd met such really, really great people.

One cowboy lost his time during the steer wrestling. But then he looked up at the audience, made a decision, and wrestled that steer down anyway. Afterward, he let the steer up and patted the critter on the head. These guys were tough, but they were also tender.

The announcers were in full swing, with gems such as:

"Do you know how to tell if a cowboy's married? There's tobacco juice on BOTH sides of the truck..."

The cowgirls around me burst out laughing; so much so that I knew there must be a lot of truth in it. Barely had I had the thought, when my friend Katie leaned over and said to me, "That's true, you know!" A testimonial.

When a cowboy messed up, the announcers told him, "I know you're mad, but you can do it again in Salt Lake tomorrow." This reminded me once again that their schedules are full during the month of July. If they didn't win at the Stampede, there was always several rodeos coming up. What a lifestyle.

The clowns were being their usual courageous selves. One bucking horse was just inches from Cory Wall's backside. He was near us, and in one deft movement stepped right up onto the railing, with a big boyish smile on his face. He was far from concerned.

Every now and then, the announcers had to remind us to clap. I was told by one of the cowgirls that it's a shame that we need to be told; if the audience only knew what went on behind the scenes, we'd be standing on our feet applauding like crazy.

"This audience doesn't understand the lifestyle and the things they go through," I was told.

The cowboys work very hard, and they have it pretty tough sometimes, what with their crazy schedules and the traveling and not being able to attend their church services; a strain on the deeply religious. Many of them were raised up to be very Christian. I understood that a lot of them were ordained ministers, one of the reasons being so that they'd be able to worship together, within their time frames.

One of the bucking horses, named 'Holy Hoppin' Hell', bucked right into the railings when Jesse Wright, one of the 'stars' of this year's Stampede, was riding. When the crowd over on that side ducked, the announcer told them not to worry about that 'green stuff', that it was good for them.

Radical Rudy Rodriguez had some new ones tonight. He followed the Queen around, and at one point got under her horse's tail, using the tail as a wig for his bald head, and walking behind in a swaggering way, claiming, "Look, I'm from the ghet-to!"

When the crowd cheered for Rudy, the announcers quickly said, "Whoever's cheering for that needs to get out of Star, Idaho, more often!"

When that Ford pickup went around to place the barrels in the arena, I was feeling a little sad. Barrel racing led to bull riding, which led to the end of the rodeo. I knew the pattern by now. I didn't want it to end yet.

When watching the barrel racers, I remembered something that was shared with me from a cowgirl earlier: "It's unnatural for a horse to go running full speed, slow down to maybe ten miles per hour, and then run at full speed again."

After the barrel racing, they played a commercial from D and B Supply Stores, up on the big screen. It had the familiar D and B theme music, and showed some touching footage of the western homes and families it carries supplies for. I thought of my first 'field trip', my introduction to the country-western life. I'd gone to D and B for 'research'. They'd treated me royally. I started to do that little deep-breathing/ sniffing thing that I did when I got choked up. I have had one heck of a ride.

As if reading my mind, Katie leaned up with eyes glistening and said, "We really are such a blessed people. I hope you appreciate what you've experienced."

I assured her that I did.

Next, the thing that made my palms sweat, even worse than being on the radio: The bull riding. When a rider got an "85", we all said, "WOW!"

--At least I wasn't the only one this time around saying, "Wow. Wow. Wow." Nice to have the company. I was having so much fun.

The announcers got right to it: "A little inside tip for y'all? This bull ridin' thing....it's not very easy!"

When Katie saw me with my hands over my eyes, she commented, "They choose this. It's the life they love."

I knew she was right. I had been close enough this week to see the expressions on the rider's faces. They were both respectfully scared and having the time of their lives; a strange mix.

When Paul Coppini's bull did an intentional face plant, just to throw him off....and he stayed on, we clapped like crazy.

Then, the bull riding ended. The Cervi mares and their colts rushed out, into a darkened arena. The spotlight was on them, a physical reminder of who the real stars really were. These were, we were told, the promise of generations to come, doing what God made them to do. We were told that we might think we've come just to watch the cowboys, but we've come to watch the animals. They are God's gift to us.

And then the usual send off:

"What we are is God's gift to us...and what we become is our gift to God."

Suddenly the Stampeders were riding out, each with a flag, and that famous 'Snake River Stampede' theme song began to play. I steered way clear of the railing this time, I didn't want to chance it on a rematch with another flag and get dragged off the stands. But I always wait and watch while the girls are riding, because I have a friend, Kat, that makes faces at me as she goes by. At first I thought it was just my imagination, but no. Sometimes she opened her mouth really wide in a perfect "O", sometimes she smiled really crazy, and sometimes she would make a funny noise. On all of those times, I cracked up laughing so hard it made my sides hurt. I don't dare leave before the last time they circle the arena, because I might miss her theatrics. It's just one of the many things that have made my Stampede....gold.

Pure gold.