I dropped granddaughter Ella off in Choteau on Friday afternoon—in time to join the small town’s 4th of July celebrations. She anticipated the crafts and food in the park, a parade, a street dance, open houses, the American Legion rodeo, and a “rodeo slack.” The latter being an event comprised of rodeo performers who hadn’t made the cut for the real deal.
Ella and I had had a sweet week together, but she was ready to regroup with friends. The day was gorgeous. The Rocky Mountain Front shimmered in the not-too-far-distance. Coming home, I headed down two-lane US 89—which, in summer, is usually mildly busy with slow, stately RVs wobbling their way up the curves to the Blackfeet Reservation and Glacier National Park.
This time, instead, I began noticing trucks with horse trailers. Old trucks with basic horse boxes. $90,000 trucks with luxury trailers, room for hay and saddles and air-conditioned sleeping quarters. Everything in between. All heading to Choteau at whatever speed they could muster. A half-dozen. And then a dozen more. And then a dozen stragglers on beyond Augusta. All, I figured, anxious to get to the Choteau rodeo grounds. I suspect, though I don’t really know, that many of the rigs were coming from Harlowton or Livingston—having participated in at least part of those town’s rodeos.
You need to know that I don’t much approve of rodeos. Despite the opinions of stockmen and participants, I don’t believe that the animals involved really enjoy this sport. And despite knowing that rodeo stock is bred for the task, I’m not sure that steers and calves and bulls love riding around Montana in summer’s heat. But a straw cowboy hat on one truck’s dash set my mind spinning. And I spent some time ruminating on the drivers—the riders—the sport—the imagery.
Rodeos are old, 16th century old—the upshot of Spanish imported cattle and horses wrangled by vaqueros. Our label comes from the Spanish verb rodear, to encircle or round up. Rodeo hijinks—calf and steer roping, bull riding, bronc busting–all began as daily chores for those vaqueros and then evolved into friendly rivalries. By the mid-nineteenth century, the work—and those rivalries moved north along with cattle drives from Texas up here—to Montana. Informal rodeo contests became commercial by the late 1800’s when “wild west” shows like Buffalo Bill Cody’s became popular. (Worth noting: wild west exhibitions occurred after the West wasn’t so wild, especially after we’d corralled native inhabitants.)
Before long, rodeos became more common and local. For a spell, women joined fully in the “fun” and few rules governed the shows. But as the twentieth century marched along so did professional associations and the adoption of standardized rules and judging. And women, not always, but more often, relegated to barrel racing. So that’s what the cowboys and cowgirls on their way to Choteau could anticipate.
But I think that those contestants anticipated more. Prize money, of course, that would help—for college, for a family, for the costs of that trailer and the gas, for just being in the sport. The adrenalin rush, also, of course. But beyond those rewards, I suspect, those men and women wanted to live the myth—the legend that dates at least to the wild west shows. Romantic, courtly, sexy, handsome, skilled daredevils. Rough-hewn heroes. Figures—spun out of Charlie Russell’s paintings and Louie L’Amour books; a hundred Westerns—shows and movies—most recently Yellowstone and all its sequels and prequels. From cowboy poetry and the Marlboro man.
Those cowboys and cowgirls driving up to Choteau would have been wearing the required uniform: low slung jeans, boots, snap shirts, cowboy hats, belts with—if possible—trophy buckles. They’d be bringing their girl or boyfriends or anticipating adoring groupies—buckle bunnies. They’d be marginally sober but anticipating a sweet blur of reality before and/or after. They’d be blocking out the likelihood of injuries or the wallet-draining “no time” calls.
None of what I was thinking or am now saying is new or startling. The myth is, for me, at least more elevated, more civilized than that spawned by UFC cage matches—including the recent White House debacle. Still I recommend being a bit skeptical about the glory we attribute to rodeoing. There’s an element of unacceptable racism—even as tribes now hold rodeo or rodeo-similar events. Cowboys and cattle, along with gold, spelled the end of native hegemonies on the Plains. A bit of misogyny as well. There are national rodeos for women, but not so much in Montana. In another vein, honest-to-god ranching is all risk and disappointment and hard, brutal work. Ivan Doig identified the hundreds of “cowboys” and ranch hands and camp cooks and night watchmen as the “lariat proletariat.” The working poor.
But the dream – the myth – runs deep in this place. Our State of Montana tourism folks plaster this message on their website: “Rodeo’s not a pastime here. It’s a way of life. You’ll find it in the dust, the crowd, the quiet before the gate swings. In Montana, we don’t just watch rodeo, we live it.” And indeed a spate of recent governors have worn boots and bolo ties as a matter of course. And the proliferation of huge pickups that haven’t ever wallowed through mud suggests more “living the dream” behavior.
Dave had—very briefly in his youth—gone up to Canada for some short-lived rodeo adventures (maybe more parental defiance than anything). He looked sexy as all get out in boots and jeans worn low. When the girls were little we took them to our Last Chance Stampede rodeo—though I often found reasons to leave the stands for food or bathroom trips. (It took only the screams of a horse down in a chute and unable to get up.) But we knew—we knew—that rodeo was show business, melodrama, not life.
So, I drove away from Choteau wrestling once more with the dichotomy between hopes and honesty, between dreams and the harsh realities of Sunday morning hangovers, Sunday morning scars, and Monday morning drudgery. ©
