Once upon a time, I decided to hit the rodeo trail riding bulls. No, I was not good, but I was better than a few of the other guys who were worse than me and good enough to hang on the side of a few run-offs. Luck of the draw and being in the “right place at the right time” seemed to keep me out of harm’s way and from getting any bad injuries, so for a few years, I threw my gear bag in the truck bed and tried my hand.
We forged our way with Rand McNally roadmaps, jerky and energy drinks, drawing straws to see who had to call in for entries. Sometimes a check, sometimes not. I was fortunate enough to throw in with some good guys: Boone Church, Robert Bowers, Dustin Luper, Rob Bell and Steve Balgeman. There were miles and miles between rodeos filled with stories of brindle bulls that spun and pretty girls we had hoped to meet.
The truth of it all is that it was the adventure for me that was the draw, even more than climbing on all that stock. Every night, a new town, a new country to pass through. One night, we’d be climbing on bulls in Oregon, and the next, Colorado. The odds of it being a boring trip in between were rare. It seemed like we all bounced off the ground with little more than a scratch and a grin, and we couldn’t wait to get to the next one.
I grew up on Ian Tyson tunes in the tape deck, with “Gallo de Cielo” and “Navajo Rug” playing on repeat. As of late, I find myself singing “Fifty Years Ago” more and more, with the first couple of lines being, “If I could roll back the years / Back when I was young and limber.”
I believe sliding up on one now might be a bit different, but the trip to the rodeo would still be fantastic.
This article was originally published in the June 2024 issue of Western Horseman.
