Cowboy Up
by
Judi Gill
The Winslow Rodeo Grounds are where I learned some of life’s most valuable lessons. To the uninitiated, it might seem strange that an area of red dirt with few buildings, and even less equipment could be capable of creating such a profound effect. But as the old saying goes…appearances can be deceiving. I have no doubt in my mind that if John F. Kennedy had been a cowboy “Profiles in Courage” would have been written in an entirely different locale.
For it is in the red, soft dirt that humans and animals epitomize the meanings of courage, spirit, and determination. Those of us who have been fortunate enough to be behind the scenes have many favorite stories that have moved us. We are aware there is often another element present that is simply known as ‘try.’ In cowboy parlance this means that a human, an animal, or both have given their all.
‘Try’ is present in the wildly rolling eyes of the bull just before the gate is opened. ‘Try’ is evidenced in the white knuckles and tucked down chin of the cowboy on his back. The smell of pine rosin, leather, and fear hangs heavy in the chute area as these two prepare to test each other’s strength, stamina, and will. There is an abrupt nod of a black Resistol hat signifying that the cowboy is mentally prepared and has made his peace with God. Then the heavy gate swings open and 1200 pounds of absolute fury comes charging out with a frail human hanging on for dear life..or 8 seconds, whichever comes first.
The crowd is treated to the sight of the bull gathering his considerable power to unseat this impertinent human from his back. Great muscles gather and release, his mighty chest billows, and his exhalations sound as loud freight train. He kicks the dirt high in the air, turning the once blue sky red, from the force of his contortions. Over the loudspeaker the voice of the announcer says, “Let ‘er rip, tater chip!’ accompanied by the strains of “Crazy Train.”
The crowd is silent; the only sound that can be heard as the drama plays out is the riotously flapping banners. The cowboy goes down into the well; the wildly painted rodeo clown runs in to save him, impervious to the danger he has just placed himself in. He tugs at the cowboy’s hand to loosen it from the death grip created by the bull rope and the pine rosin, but is unsuccessful. The crowd is now on its feet, issuing a collective ‘oooohhhh” as they wait for the cowboy’s fate to be sealed. For many know that even if the rodeo clown is able to free the cowboy he can still be trampled by the bull’s mighty hooves or gored by his horns.
But wait….the cowboy has been able to defy gravity and centripetal force and has regained his seat. There is a mighty roar as the crowd cheers the cowboy’s superhuman effort. The sun glints off a spur raking the bull’s side as if to say ‘Is that the best you can do?’ Custom-made chaps, orange, gold, and red flap mightily around the cowboy’s legs as he spurs the bull to an even greater effort in the hopes of winning a gold buckle. Sweaty, disheveled, but with an ear-to-ear grin, the cowboy dismounts from the bull and with a flick of his wrist sends his black hat sailing. His prized hat spins merrily in the air, now miraculously a clear blue, and then floats lazily down as if it too is saying “Aw shucks, tweren’t nothing.”
Before he can leave can leave the arena, the cowboy has one last ritual to perform….he goes down on one knee, crosses himself, and thanks God for his safe delivery. Then he is off to slake his powerful thirst with a cold beer from the concession stand. He savors the taste of the icy liquid as it pours down a throat parched by dirt and fear. The bull looks equally content as he munches on sweet alfalfa hay.
Sadly, there aren’t rodeos in Winslow any longer, but the lessons I learned and the ‘try’ they imparted are something I’ll always carry with me.