As I was two or three at the time, I do not remember the moment this photo was taken, but this handsome quarter horse(?) is perhaps the closest I ever came to cowpunching and rodeos. The man holding me in the saddle is my uncle, married to my father’s sister. Both my aunt and uncle grew up on farms (ref Dryland Lament), and for many years my uncle was a rancher and dairy farmer. Together they raised four sons on the Front Range of Northern Colorado; my cousins grew up tough and grounded, not afraid to laugh, but always a bit serious. All four were rodeo men.
“Why would you jump off a perfectly good horse to go wrestle down a steer, or worse, climb on top of a perfectly terrible 2,000 pound bull?” Visions of cousins’ crushed ribs and collapsed lungs led me along toward a tone of incredulity…”Well just seems like somethin’ worth doing,” was the succinct, measured response.
I am far from an expert on the rodeo, but like many other athletic events, the sport is derived from real-world endeavors, the Olympic javelin being an obvious, ancient example. A more modern instance is the Winter Biathlon, based on Scandinavian military training traditions throughout past centuries. (I’m sorry, I can’t help but think of Finns slicing through the snowy forests of the north, gunning down hapless Russian peasant-soldiers during the Soviet Winter invasion of 1939).
The skills of the rodeo were those originally needed for the management of cattle: roping, steer wrestling, bronc-busting–all these events clearly reflect techniques cowboys perfected over years of hard experience (I’m still mystified by bull-riding….to what end? Why would they do that? Oh well.)
In my continuing quest for the “Real West” (is there such a thing?) I acknowledge the significant level of showmanship inherent in the event called Rodeo, but that does not diminish its relevance to Western Americans. Do not underestimate the value and strength of tradition.
Despite its popularity, only the top echelon of rodeo athletes really makes a living at it; it is a notoriously fickle game as well–an injury can instantly end it all. My cousins were good, but not quite good enough,* so eventually, their bull-riding days came to an end as they moved on to other professions, but what a history! Would that we all find something we can look back on with the knowledge that we took risks, excelled, and found camaraderie in pursuit of something bigger than ourselves.
The rodeo cowboy, whether the winner of that day’s riding and roping or not, leaves with the same tribute from the announcer: “He came a long distance, paid his own way, and all that he will take home is your appreciation!”
* – Addendum: A faithful reader (another cousin), insightfully challenged me that, indeed, our cousins’ prospects to go pro were real, but each chose, in his own time and fashion, to not ride down that path, with an eye toward what was really important…each of these men now has a beautiful family to show for this decision. Mad respect. (to steal a phrase from a much younger generation).
