From chili cook-offs to bed races, from bucking broncs to rodeo queens, I am proud to say I survived my first Bonnyville rodeo. There were a few close calls, though.
It wasn't my first rodeo. Sandwiched between a childhood in B.C. and Ontario and a university career in Halifax and Vancouver, I did spend a few crucial adolescent years in Alberta, thank you very much, and I did, while living in Wainwright, have the opportunity to attend the Wainwright Stampede – for three precious minutes.
During those three minutes, an angry horse bucked a hapless cowboy off his back and tried to trample his head beneath flailing hooves. I cheered when the man hit the ground, I cheered when the horse defiantly refused to be corralled once more, and then I was told that apparently, I wasn't supposed to be cheering for the horse.
After that, a co-worker informed me that I might as well photograph the midway because nothing I could capture would even approach his photographic prowess, so I did. (With a lot of photographic success, just for the record.)
I learned a few things from this year's rodeo that I shall carry with me to every rodeo I attend in the future.
First of all, don't wear black. Maybe Johnny Cash got away with it, but stages are, in general, a whole lot less dusty than tromping along the gates at the rodeo trying to track down event winners and get a good view of the action.
Second, watch where you step — maybe this one goes without saying. However, I did happen to see a guy step in something nasty, notice it, check his boot, and scrap the offending muck off, all without interrupting his flirtatious banter with the girl he was talking to. Cowboys are a talented bunch.
Third, resist the urge to stick your arm through gates to pet the pretty horses on the other side. I did resist, barely, because I'm pretty sure they'd chew your arm off and spit it out if you tried. I was told that likely wouldn't happen, but the same folks who told me that were the ones climbing on the bucking horses' backs, so their judgement has to be a little faulty.
Fourth, when you're leaning through the bars photographing a bull as it tries to destroy anyone and everyone in the ring, including the rodeo clowns, if it sees you and runs straight at you — don't be ashamed to turn and flee. If you happen to scream, “Oh God, it's going to kill us!” and there happens to be video evidence of this event … Well, it could have happened to anyone. And it probably won't end up on YouTube.
Fifth, horses are tricky. Don't ever say, “I was worried your horse would kick me!” after asking for permission to pet a pretty horse, because horses understand more than you'd think. I'm pretty sure they get a fiendish amount of pleasure out of making ignorant semi-city girls squeak in alarm as they very deliberately turn and aim their hooves. None of that was recorded either, just for the record.
In the end, I survived. I was covered in dirt, limping, smelling of horses and worse things, a little bit delirious with heat stroke, and very, very jealous of anybody lucky enough to grow up around horses.
I was always that little girl who wanted a pony and military brats rarely get ponies for Christmas. I still don't understand who in their right mind would climb onto an angry bull, but the horse thing, I definitely get.
It wasn't my first rodeo, and it probably won't be my last. I'm a little sad to see all the horses go and for the excitement to die down. Now I've just got to figure out what on Earth a chuckwagon is.
