A Tale of Three Rodeos

The life of a National Rodeo Correspondent is one of desperate privations: gas station food, cheap motels, loneliness and long hours in the saddle. I wanted my mind to soar, but sometimes it just makes my butt sore. The Rodeo, always just ahead, is worth it, though, and it is always a surprise.

Abe and I summit the pass heading toward Bickleton for the Alder Creek Pioneer Picnic and Rodeo, the oldest in Washington, and arrive early for the "Morning Program" thinking to see small children being humiliated by disagreeable farm animals. Instead, what we find is a church service with amplified hymn singing. The sign says "Family Friendly" which translates into English as "no beer." This is very tame, I think, but since at least several hundred in the crowd have brought camp trailers and are staying the weekend, the prohibition is hardly enforceable. "Do you want a hand stamp?" asks the ticket taker. "Yes" I say, and looking at the mark later I notice it says "CONFIDENTIAL" in red.

The rodeo begins with Wild Cow Milking, which is a timed team event. Each three-person team is on foot and must lasso a cow and extort a visible amount of milk from her into a clean bottle which is issued just before the event starts. The event is won by the first team to show the judges milk in a bottle. The cow does not cooperate.

Later the performance takes an ugly turn when bullfighters fail to protect their bull riders on two separate occasions. Both cowboys are caught on the horns of huge, enraged animals and pitched long distances through the air. They fly like rag dolls and land like dust storms. Once in Juarez I saw a matador gored through the thigh and thrown high into the air. He died the next day. Rodeo stock contractors dull the points on the bulls’ horns, but the danger is still there.

Montana is not like Idaho - the road signs are different. In Idaho, dangerous curves are marked well in advance with yellow signs giving a suggested curve speed, but they don’t bother with that in Montana. Instead, a spray of white crosses marks the passing of each soul who fatally failed to negotiate that particular turn. Sometimes they are as numerous as snowflakes. The ghostly multitude encourage me to keep the pickup proceeding prudently.

The Belt Valley is a secret marvel. A small road turns off the highway and disappears down a deep cut between two high ridges. Later, in Belt itself, I am surrounded by forested slopes high above in every direction. The Belt rodeo does not resemble Bickleton. The sign at the gate says "No Coolers." That is not the same as "No Beer," but rather means that you must purchase your beer from approved vendors inside the rodeo grounds. The Belt Rodeo is not exactly "family friendly" even though there are lots of families there. Rather, it is rowdy and impetuous. The crowd is young, muscular, excited and loud. Girls wear revealing and fashionable western attire - short skirts or tight jeans, always with boots, and low-cut tops. Children play close to the rail fence and many climb it carelessly while the events are in progress. Large, wild animals brush close to where the little tykes are perched while their parents busily engage in intense, laughing conversation.

I arrive in Wilsall (pronounced like "Will" and "Sally" for whom it was named) just in time for the parade. I park in line at the curb and get out to watch the silly Norwegian comedy floats and "uff-da" signs roll by. A thin woman in a fading yellow housecoat stands behind a chain-link fence in the neat yard of a pink clapboard house. "Are you going to the rodeo?" I ask her. A dark look of fearful memory crosses her worn face. I see that she has lost some teeth and her skin is quite wrinkled, but she can’t be more than 60 or so. "I stay inside when the rodeo is in town. I used to work in the bar…those cowboys... and…the… cops. The cops are in town today and you could get arrested. They’re just looking for anybody." I wonder what such a sweet and shy person got pinched for and how long ago, but I don’t ask. I just smile sweetly and wish her a fine day.

The Wilsall rodeo grounds are wide open. If you get there early enough you can back your flatbed or pickup right up to the rail fence and sit on lawn chairs for the best possible view. A couple of ancient and disreputable farm trucks are still parked there from yesterday’s performance, thickly covered in dried mud, their beds full of crushed aluminum beer cans. The owners, no doubt fearing to brave high police season for the late night drive home, have taken transportation with more temperate acquaintances.

It is a clear, warm, blustery afternoon and tall snowy mountains fill the sky not far beyond the fence, just across the arena. The strong gusts blow up dust clouds as a blue tractor plows the field. We stand and uncover for the National Anthem, hat to chest. Mounted girls carry colorful flags and their horses prance before us in a pageant of precision equestrian dancing. An intense anticipatory pleasure pervades my senses. I am home. This is America. Let’s rodeo!

Biffle French is a Vashon writer, artist and the National Rodeo Correspondent for the Vashon Loop. Watch for his new photo book "American Rodeo in Black & White" on sale soon.