As days go by, I’m discovering more about the wonderful little town I call my own. This weekend, the Junior Rodeo is in town. Buying my first Cow Girl hat at hardware store early yesterday, I rodeo-ed, (at least until the heat got to me). Rodeos are a treat. So American. So real. Watching people and animals work together is fascinating. Animals read body language long before humans know they are completing sentences with their actions. The communication between barrel racer and horse is complicated, and yet, the most natural thing. Working as a team, the rest of us could learn a lot about mutual respect in we only paid close attention.
Fascinating to watch, the smallest children were on huge horses, racing up and down the arena. The competition included beginning steps of real rodeo events. Instead of racing around three barrel, children needed to weave through poles with their horses. And, horses don’t like wavy poles. More than once I winced at near accidents. These little kids were unflappable and patient with their horse partners. A job well done by their parents.
Bulls. You just gotta love them. Anyone who thinks bulls are bothered by bull riders has never lived on a farm. Bulls LOVE to mess with people. Hence, the word BULLEY came to be. They have a delightful sense of humor until they don’t. Bucking bulls are bred to do that. They LOVE the challenge of their eight second job. Just watch the best of the best in the shoot before the gate is released. They quietly think about planned twists and turns just as the rider focuses on concentration. Go behind the scenes and look at these guys in the eye. They are cool, calm, and collected before or after their workout. It’s what they do eight seconds at a time.
For the children, no bulls were involved. Instead, the littlest of the the kids rode sheep. Not an easy thing to do, either. These were tall brawny sheep. Of interest to me was how they get the sheep to cooperate. The dominate sheep of the flock was on a leash on the opposite side of the arena, obviously a pet. When the gate opened, the released sheep run to get to the dominate sheep with a tyke hanging on for dear life. These kids, 5 and 6 years old, did their best. All but one fell off inches from the gate. But one plucky youngster hung on for dear life, making it across the arena. He got a standing ovation from the crowd. His mom and dad hoisted him high in the air as he held his cowboy hat to the heavens. He’ll enjoy wearing his First Place buckle.
The older kids rode Holstein steers. For those of you city folk, that is the male version of the black and white dairy cows. A farm only needs one or two bulls. All the male calves are castrated, becoming steers, and ultimately, hamburger. These “calves” were teenagers, weighing 300-400 pounds. Feisty as any teen, these steers gave the kids a good ride. I certainly would have fallen off. No injuries to kids or animals occurred, while the ambulance and vet waited, at the ready if needed.
Modern day, Wild-West cowboys have jobs involving roping, riding, castrating, and birthing while living in the saddle. Participants in the Junior rodeo are often part of long time ranching families. They’ve been on horses from the time they could walk .
One of the most fascinating days of my life was in the early 1960’s when my family was invited to attend a spring Round Up. In the California foothills, this was a time young calves were vaccinated, castrated, and separated from their mothers. We, as flatlanders, were invited to something I won’t ever forget. A real working rodeo.
Swirling dust, dripping sweat, squirting blood, flying testicles, vaccines, singed hair, braying, bawling, and more of the same. Hot brands lay in the open coals, marking cattle for life as property of the Broken R Ranch. These cowboys roped the calves, stretched them out between two horses with ropes, and went to work. Now, for those of you that don’t know, these “babies” weighed between 200-300 pounds, being much bigger than a Great Dane or Mastiff. Brought in from mountain pastures, they’d kick you in the head quicker than a lightning strike if their momma didn’t get you first. These are not the docile creatures shown on television.
The calves were handled with precision and respect by professionals. There was no pleasure in causing distress to any animals on site. Just part of a day on the ranch. In minutes per calf, the job was done and they quietly munched hay in a holding pen, wondering what just happened.
Being small fry, we could have easily been kicked or trampled. We could have been hit in the head with a flying testicle, or worse, bitten by a grouchy cattle dog. There was a plan for the kids.
Banjo.
Banjo was a nearly-blind ranch horse who was in the twilight of his days. He must have been over 30. A beloved member of the team, Banjo would be our babysitter. All the littles were stacked on his massive back from mane to tale, numbering five. Told to sit and not move, we could watch everything from our vantage point. We could talk or even argue, but we were not to move off Banjo. So, we didn’t. Banjo would find a nice morsel of grace or move us to the shade. He understood completely the valuable cargo he carried. I noticed him watch the activity with sad eyes. Getting old is tough, even for horses.
Watching today, I recognized Banjo in the participating horses. So evident it was that parents had selected horses that knew the importance of their rider. When not in the arena performing, the horses stood like docile beasts babysitting their cargo. Learning horsemanship is a skill. When you are five feet, 70 pounds, brain power is needed to control a beast that weighs 1,500 pounds. Respect and communication between the two are essential to perform the task at hand. All those points were fascinating to watch.
Sitting on the top of the sun-kissed bleachers, I smiled with fresh happiness while remembering farm girl experiences I was lucky enough to live. The Wild West is alive and real, folks. Deeply woven into the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.