The closer I got to the Horse Arena, the more anticipatory I became. This was so different than last year. Then, as a rodeo greenhorn, I didn’t know what to expect. This year I could relax a little more, and look forward to seeing the kind-hearted folk I’d met during the last Stampede. I couldn’t wait.
I’m still learning the country ways, and while doing so, I’ve discovered there’s nothing more important than this: be humble and be observant. When in Rome, do what the Romans do. That doesn’t mean I have to develop any sort of a drawl or change my wardrobe, but to understand that I’m among a culture that appreciates the duplication of the courtesies that they extend to each other.
Case in point: the parking lot at the arena. I noticed, almost too late, that the kind thing to do when parking your car around so many trucks that had horse trailers attached is to simply leave a blank parking spot ahead of them, so they have room to pull forward without having to back up, or do any tricky maneuvering. I moved my car to be well out of the truck that was behind me.
I entered the arena and inhaled. I like the smell of the dirt and the horses. These smells are now associated with good memories; I was back amongst it, and was loving it. It struck me that I was going to get to experience the full force of the Stampede all over again, and my heart beat a little faster.
Perched on the bleachers, I saw that the ropers were doing their thing. There were so many of them, teams of two waiting to have their chance to show what they could do. It struck me how many variables there were to this roping thing: the skill of both the header and the heeler, their horses, the calf and it’s quirky, calf-like personality. All had to be aligned correctly to make for a successful roping and a decent time. Given that the heeler has to anticipate the perfect moment to cap off the roping seemed beyond difficult. Like anything, it’s all a matter of practice.
The bleachers were mostly filled with women and young children that night. Every now and then, they’d call out to whoever it was that they were there for. It struck me how supportive a cowboy’s significant other has to be; in many ways, she’s as tough as he is. The same moment I had this thought, I realized that a country song with the words, “She Loves Me,” was playing over the loudspeakers, and got a lump in my throat. It was the soundtrack to everything I was seeing around me. A blond stood near the gates holding a baby, calling and waving to whoever her favorite rider was. Another horseman rode as close as he could get to the stands and stayed there for a while, so that he could exchange looks with his wife that only they knew the meaning of. I could only guess.
‘You’ll do fine.’
‘Go get ‘em, honey.’
‘It’s all right. You’ll get it next time around.’
‘I think you can do this.’
A boy of about two years old saw the cowboy nearby and yelled at the top of his lungs, “HEY DAD! AFTER YOU’RE DONE ROPIN’, CAN I RIDE THE HORSE MYSELF?”
His dad broke out into a bright grin and he aimed all that warmth in his son’s direction.
Women played an integral part in this operation. While some were minding the calves, keeping them where they ought to be, others made up half of a roping duo. Whole rows of supportive women were leaning against the pole fence watching, waiting, and hoping the best for their cowboys or cowgirls. They were also enjoying each other’s company. This is a culture that treats each other like family, and for good reason. They spend an awful lot of time together at functions just like this.
It was fun to watch the riders. Most had deeply suntanned faces, evidence of a life spent out of doors. One cowboy had an unlit cigar clenched firmly between his teeth, and it stayed there for the hours I was watching, even when he roped.
A soccer-mom friend of mine walked in. She’d gotten remarried a few years back. I wondered what she was doing here; she wasn’t much of a cowgirl. She probably was thinking the same thing when it came to me. Turned out, she’d married into it. Her husband was a roper. I asked her and another friend she was with how many hours they spent waiting for their husbands to compete.
“Too many!” was the consensus.
“I was at a competition with him last weekend,” the friend said, “And I read two whole magazines and an entire book.”
Eventually, the men joined their women in the stands and gave them the report on how they were doing, what their chances were to rank where they needed to, and whatever else was on their minds. Toddlers ran to them and were easily swung up onto shoulders. It’s easy for anyone to see that a huge part of the country culture involves the family.
And the family? The family seems to feel that their riders are most definitely worth the wait.
The Snake River Stampede is coming.
This is your rodeo.
http://www.snakeriverstampede.com/
For pictures of the Rope and Run, see:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/amy_larson/
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