How Lucky Are We?

When you think of the West, what comes to mind?

Sometimes I wonder if we know just how fortunate we are to live here.

We climbed Table Rock in Boise recently, and once at the top, found five teenagers. One of them was a foreigner; the accent gave him away. He told us he was from Korea. When we asked him what he loved about Idaho, he said, looking around, "This!"

He gestured upward at the sky, not downward at the incredible view below. We must have appeared confused.

"This!" he said again, waving his hand in an expansive motion, "We don't have this there."

We were all sort of quiet.

"The...sky?" someone asked.

"Exactly," he told us, "It's not wide open like this where I come from. There are tall buildings. You hardly see the sky or the sunshine at all."

We were quiet again as we were taking that in, trying to imagine a life without the huge blue Idaho sky above us. I personally couldn't do it. I'd been under the Idaho sky for almost as long as I could remember. How claustrophobic would I feel without it?

The teenage boy told us that it was going to be an adjustment when he got home, living once again without the sky.


I can't tell you how many times I've taken drives out into the country past pristine farms and ranches, with their interior lights glowing at dusk, and the scene of families gathering around the kitchen table, with multiple cars and pickup trucks parked in the driveway. Each time I've thought, "Do they know how lucky they are?"

--Do we?

We can drive thirty minutes and arrive at the lake or the stream of our choice. A ski resort is within two hours traveling time. We have Idaho City, Silver City, Banks, McCall, Garden Valley, Crouch, Cascade and places like New Meadows for our playgrounds.

I clearly understand what would have been my fate, had my parents not taken the pioneer-like risk of leaving the eastern state we came from, where most of our extended family lived. Having moved to Idaho so many years ago, living a life without wide-open spaces might have been my lot in life, too. I frankly can't imagine living that way. I'm so glad that I don't.

Our rugged mountains, unique features (like the freakish Craters of the Moon, various natural hot springs, random waterfalls, or the unexpected Bruno or St. Anthony Sand dunes)make this state like no other.

We've got something else that sets us apart. We've got a 96-year-old rodeo that's still alive and boy, is it kicking.

Celebrate the West. Celebrate Idaho.

The Snake River Stampede is on its way, July 19-23. Be a part of the West.
Know how lucky we are.

Looks like it's your year to go to the rodeo.

http://www.snakeriverstampede.com/

Why Do I Love The Rodeo?

I did a lot of research this morning on why people love the rodeo.

While much of the comments and answers inspired me, I couldn't make them my own, not having had those same experiences (yet).

Last year, when I was at age (?), I had my first true immersion in the rodeo. I'd been to one a time or two, but didn't understand what I was seeing. I didn't understand the skill that went into each event, the effort it took to provide the stock, or the training for the horses. I had no grasp of the money, the time, or the sheer determination of the people that were involved. At the end of a five-day stint, I was starting to get it. I'm still learning.


Two things I've read that I feel that I can absolutely agree with:

-It's a way of life.

-You can't be a cowboy without having lots of heart.



Hard to condense what I observed last year, but I'll have a go at it:

I saw the look of sheer joy on a Stampeder's face as she carried the American flag, circling the arena with her trusty horse and its thundering hooves galloping beneath her.

I saw the shining smile of the winner of the young rodeo clown contest, as he greeted his new adoring fans.

I saw majesty in motion as one of the largest bulls I've viewed in my lifetime kicked and snorted around in the dirt, making the rider appear as if he were a ragdoll, and throwing him as if he were a used paper tissue.

I saw triumph in the eyes of a roper that had just made the best time yet. I might have even seen relief; doing well means paying the bills.

I saw the enthusiasm of a people that live for this time of year; it being a social highlight for them, and with fond memories of rodeos long past. Stories of their first rodeo, their family traditions of the country life, and getting group tickets year after year were numerous and freely shared.

I saw mental toughness as a previously injured cowboy competed anyway, got re-injured, and limped off good-naturedly, waving to the crowd.

I saw the various local clubs serving and assisting those attending the rodeo with shuttle rides, coffee re-fills at the Buckaroo Breakfasts, and wheelchair access routes. I saw the Governor flipping pancakes for the hungry rodeo-goers. I sensed more than ever before, the feeling of belonging and community.

I saw a man singing the Star Spangled Banner with everything he had, and thousands of rodeo fans standing with their hands on their hearts, with their eyes on the Flag.

And I'll never forget this scene:
I saw a young boy of about six or seven, dressed country from head to toe, waiting and hoping by the rail closest to the dirt for a real live cowboy to come along that might just talk to him. One did. He stopped his horse near that little buckaroo and spent a long moment with him, giving him advice, and telling him never to give up. Like I read this morning, you can't be a cowboy without having lots of heart.


Why do I love the rodeo?
I think I just told you.

Challenges are what make life interesting; overcoming them is what makes life meaningful.-Joshua J. Marine

A True Wrangler

How Did My Dad Wear His Wranglers?

The question both takes me back, and makes me smile.

The man I called 'Dad' wore them pretty low. Not because he was into that sort of look, but because he worked so hard and so long each day, he couldn't keep the meat on him. Jim, or 'Dad' was a skinny guy.

He did everything his way, come to think of it.

I first met the man my kids knew as Grandpa Jim when I first met and later married his step-son. We were at Sunday dinner and my future mother-in-law had made quite a feast. I guess Grandpa Jim wanted to keep her humble, because he took one of her rolls and threw it on the floor. It landed with a thwunck. They had been actually sort of tough, but none of us were going to say anything.

"These rolls are as hard as my head!" he declared. We all shifted uncomfortably in our seats.

Once I was officially an in-law, the summer visits to the little town in Nevada where Dad was raised began for me. It also was the beginning of some of the most harrowing traveling methods I've ever witnessed. With my new father-in-law clearly oblivious to any form of speed limit, and weaving crazily in and out, my husband and I waxed religious. We prayed for the safety of Dad, Mom, the three horses they were towing, and we, the innocent soon-to-be victims driving behind them. Many a time we'd see Dad's truck cross that middle line and drift into the oncoming lane. He wasn't a drinker (that we knew of), and he didn't act tired. What on earth was the problem?

We asked Dad that question in no uncertain terms when we stopped for gas. My husband asked it while waving his arms wildly and running his fingers through his hair.

"I like to drive loose," Dad replied, then grinned to himself. He looked over and gave me a wink when he said that. I was more than a little amused. I think he just liked to mess with people's heads.

Everyday he wore those Wranglers low on his waist, like the cowboy he was. Tales of his bronc-riding days in Nevada were legendary. I knew very little about the country and the cowboy ways, being from back East. I often wondered if he was disappointed that his son hadn't married more of a country girl. If so, he never showed it. While Dad wasn't big on compliments, he still had his way of getting the job done.

He liked to trip me whenever he could, especially if I was dressed up and wearing high heels. He liked to spill water on me and make it look like an accident. He'd smack me on the arm over things I'd say, or throw his hand down in the air as if to say 'you're not worth bothering with today', accompanied with an 'ach!' kind of exclamation.

I loved it.

He once asked me if I'd ever played any sports in high school. I laughed at the question. Me, sports? He said he was asking because he thought I had an athletic frame. It was the nicest thing Dad had ever said to me, and I still take that shred of a compliment out today and examine it sometimes. My hard-as-nails, hanging siding on the shed the day after a heart attack, tough cowboy father-in-law thought I was athletic.

Dad lost more weight when he got sick. He was told he had two years to live. Over two years later, when the hospice nurse came for the first time to meet him, she was surprised to learn that he was out on the tractor. He didn't take completely to his bed until just a few weeks before he passed, and he was out supervising the burning of some branches and refuse just a week before, mad as all get out because we weren't doing it right.

My tough father-in-law wasn't very affectionate; that wasn't how he'd been raised. He'd been raised to work through stuff he didn't like, man up, and buck up. There in the end, though, he was a hugger. His last words to me were 'love ya.' They were my last words to him, too.

How did my father-in-law wear his Wranglers? The same way he did everything in his life.

However he darn well pleased.

Honor And Authentic Grit

A sport like rodeo, with its humble and honest beginnings, originated from something real; necessity.

The horse needs to be broken so that we can ride it. The calf needs to be roped and transported elsewhere, or given care. Bull riding? I haven't found an explanation for that one, and I'm not even going to try, other than its recreation for both man and beast.

As in every athletic event, there will always be a cheater or two. Some events seem to breed them, especially where money comes into play. We've seen a nauseating amount of this in the sports world in the past, and wherever cash is involved, you're going to find those here and there that try to pull a fast one. Some succeed, some don't, but they all get caught eventually.

The question of steroids was applied to the sport of rodeo, just like it's been looked into in every other sport. Cheating is against the cowboy way, but that doesn't prevent it from happening; anytime you put money into the mix, there's going to be a schmuck or two. Funny enough, this backfires with rodeo. Here's why:

There was an outbreak of steroid use in some of the rodeo bulls several years ago. It reached its peak, then quickly tapered off as those willing to stoop wizened up. While more than one owner admitted to using steroids on competitive bulls, they quickly realized that the losses far outweighed the gains. The detrimental side effects were vast and varied, doing to the valuable animals what steroids often did to humans: change in hair color and baldness, aggression, liver cancer, kidney failure, heart attacks, sterility, and the eventual shutting down of their system. In short; those that were willing to cheat found the short-cut to not be worth it. A bulking, massive bull is not much good to the owner when it's just had a very public heart attack. The experience of seeing a majestic animal dying in its prime to satisfy a human's enlarged ego is simply not a lesson that anyone wants to learn the hard way.

Not surprisingly, the rodeo people took action. In 2008 the first competition bull by the name of Big Bucks was publicly tested, and came out clean. Five other top bulls were tested that year, with the same results. The PBR (Pro Bull Riding Association) implemented a plan to test animals through their blood and urine keeping the bulls off any foreign substance, while also encouraging otherwise overly-ambitious owners and handlers to cease and desist with the additives, already. Between the harsh consequences (that of the death or debilitation of an animal) and the testing, the problem seems to have been largely quelled.

A few riders here and there have also attempted to get an edge on the competition. While many cowboys might have their favorite clothes for luck and say a prayer or two, some stragglers just had to try one thing more in steroids. They found something out in a big hurry: Rodeo is its own leveler.

The very essence of the sport makes it hard to cheat. Steroids do not help a rider when they come nose-to-nose with an animal's unpredictable personality and instinct. Rider Kody Lostroh says: "If you're big, you're not going to be able to make correct moves, because you're not as agile. It's not a strength sport. No matter how strong you get, taking drugs is not going to help you in any way. You'll never be stronger than the bull."

Bull riding is more about twist reflex, not bulking up. Rider Brendon Clark says, "You're competing against a wild animal, and you can use all the tricks you want. It doesn't matter."

The sheer difficulty of the sport seems to thwart the desired effect of any cheaters. Learned skills and usage of the brain and fast reflexes is where it's at, rodeo-wise. Just because a rider has strength doesn't mean that the opposing animal will do what he or she wants it to do.

While the rodeo association has been heckled with demands to test their participants for the presence of performance-enhancing drugs, this is why, for the most part, those in authority who know full-well the integral and refining qualities of the sport, figuratively looked at each other and went 'nah.'

From its origins on, rodeo is a sport that continues to hinge on honor and authentic grit, having its own special way of handing out cause-and-effect lessons, and of enforcing the phrase 'Just Say No.'

A Matter Of Understanding

I think my opinion began to form at a very young age; the opinion that it’s wrong to try to turn any person or creature into something they’re simply not.

Beginning in a third-grade classroom, I watched as a teacher tried to turn a left-handed student into a right-handed student. My poor friend was struggling and frustrated, and so was the teacher. Nowadays, we know better. The best thing to do is to adjust the circumstances and equipment for that person, and let them be who they are.

In the choosing of my profession, I’ve done everything from electrical contracting to professional cake decorating and beyond, thinking that the only path to success would be to do what others expected of me and to follow the norm. I could show some impressive things I’ve done, and employment positions that I’ve held, ones that paid well and took no small amount of tenacity, but truly I’m embarrassed of the time I’ve wasted doing the wrong thing for me. I’ve been miserable for decades. In my head, I’ve been a writer since the time I could read. It is my true vocation; what I was meant to do. Thank goodness I realized that before I’d wasted my entire life.

Animals are not much different than humans in this regard. There are plenty when it comes to livestock that can do the day-in, day-out things that livestock do. Just like with humans, though, there will be a few here and there that are just plain not cut out to run with the herd. They’ll step out of line. They’ll buck. They’ll kick up their heels. They’ll cause a bit of trouble. These rebels are yearning for something different. They are different. They can’t help it; it’s in their nature. To force them to live a life of ordered security would be borderline cruelty, when they want to buck, kick, and run. They are happiest when doing what they were born to do.

A keen observer can pick out an animal like this, and, if they’re wise, will provide for them the sort of lifestyle they truly desire, versus trying to ‘make them cut with the right-handed scissors’. Many a wise cowboy and cowgirl will know that animals like these are prime for, and happiest when given the life of the rodeo.

There are a diminishing number of people these days that have rural ties. Fewer and fewer of us have ever handled, ridden, or been around livestock. Some don’t understand the reasons for the rodeo or its culture or the nature of the rodeo animals. Some, seeing steers in their pens wearing devices made of leather that encircle the animals’ faces may assume that there are jaw problems or some such thing. Those devices are horn wraps, used to protect roping steers from getting their heads rubbed by the rope during a team roping event, where a steer is simply required to run, something that they do quite happily and naturally. To the uninformed, there are many misgivings about the way things are done when it comes to the rodeo. The answers lie in an increased understanding of the sport.

Rodeo’s roots lie in the chores of a tough mode of employment, where the work is hard and the pay is low. During this time, the ranch-hands spend many hours with the animals, and they get to know them very well. The rodeo events of riding broncs and roping calves were born out of necessity; those who needed to rope a calf or steer were required to do so, and do so quickly in order to help an animal, especially if it required veterinary assistance. Breaking a horse that had never been ridden or was green-broke was just another part of the cowboy’s daily life, as well.

Beyond necessity, it stands to reason that the very people who spent entire days, months, and years of their lives around animals would find a way to form some sort of recreation out of it. Back in the day, it was good for both the soul of the man and the beast, affording some much-needed release from the stress, strains and chores of the often daunting tasks. The laughter and the sport were good human and animal psychology alike. It was exactly the relief from routine that was needed.

The hearts of these animals are tremendous. How lucky are we to get to witness greatness that might only have been seen by ranch-hands and cattlemen, in another place and time? Nowadays, bulls and broncs become veritable legends as cowboy after cowboy attempts to ride them. There is an adoration and respect for an animal with such power and stamina. It’s a thing of beauty. The animals have a good thing going; they are well cared-for and well-fed. Rodeo often adds years of life to some of these bulls, bulls who would not have been used for breeding, seeing how more females than males are desirable for the building up of the beef industry herds.

Veterinarians attribute the longevity of the bulls and horses to the activity they get in the rodeo life, and the good care and excellent nutrition they receive.

If you get to know the average cowboy or cowgirl, you’ll quickly understand that their animals are everything to them. They know better than most how to care for an animal’s needs, often having a special connection with the four-legged critter that’s hard to explain. Small wonder then, also, that history records the rules for the humane care and treatment of rodeo animals having been instituted in 1947 by the PRCA (Pro Rodeo Cowboys Association) seven long years before the founding of the Humane Society in the United States.

The more I’ve learned, the more respect I have for rodeo organizations and its participants. I would encourage those of you that might be skeptics to get all of the information you can, and to just ask if you have questions on things you see that might not make any sense.

The rodeo gives the equivalent of the animal-world lefties and creative rebels a chance for expression and adoration. This sort of thing, instead of being critiqued and squelched, should be celebrated.

Let’s hear it for the animals and humans alike that are bound and determined to be who they are, and for the people that help them to do it. This year, let’s celebrate the unique animals and people who make up the Snake River Stampede like never before. We understand it, we support it, and we love it.

The Stampede’s coming.

Be there. Be a part of it. Because life is like a rodeo. Grab it and hold on.