After the wettest three month period in Ashland history in the last 100 years, the end is finally in sight. Temperatures are rising, the clouds are parting, and all the warm-weather crops are itching to get going. Just the other day I rang in the season with one of the best things ever: the first strawberry from the garden. Those big pasty things from California just can't compare with the intense sweetness packed into the little ruby prizes ripening in the yard. The best thing is there's going to be more where that came from.
Saturday night, following the color scheme, we got our redneck on and headed out to the Wild Rogue Pro Rodeo for some carnage and people watching. There was plenty of both; the bleachers were packed with all sorts of folks out for a big Saturday night, and we got front row seats to watch it all go down. There were belt buckles the size of dinner plates swaggering by at eye level, kids with hats as big as they were peeking out from underneath the brims, and boots and denim and shirts with pearl snaps galore. I realized I wasn't wearing nearly enough shiny, sparkly things or eyeliner to fit in with the female contingent (note to self for next time). There was one little girl decked out in pink Disney princess cowboy boots that lit up and had a furry ruff on top. Where were those when I was growing up, I ask you?
Beyond the human population, which was an event in and of itself, there were also a large number of large animals involved: bulls, broncos, and sheep, the whole bit. The first time I saw a bull fly out of the shoot with a man desperately clinging to his back, all I could think about was how gnarly that guy's sternocleidomastoids must be (Carl was not thrilled with my hankering to get my hands on the rodeo dudes). Those cowboys take some punishment. I can't imagine how they climb back on the broncos and get thrashed around on a weekly basis - it's repeated, full-body whiplash for an eternity of eight seconds (or however long it was before they were heaved off). Some wore helmets, those on the broncos had protective padding behind their necks, but that can't be good for you. How any of them are able to have children after all that is beyond me.The lower-impact, less cringe-worthy events of steer roping were also quite entertaining. I think these guys are freeing a calf after the fact. Those baby cows seemed to take it all in stride: busting out of the gate, getting lassoed and eating dirt, then hopping up and trotting out of the ring.
I believe the winning time for this event was 4 seconds flat. In that time the cowboy ropes the sprinting steer, leaps off his horse, tackles said steer, and ties its feet with two wraps and a half hitch. Done and done.
The rodeo equivalent of the half-time show involved all sorts of legal forms of child abuse. My favorite by far was the mutton busters. A crowd of kids in helmets entered from one end of the arena and a herd of frisky sheep were led in from the other; 4H high schoolers steadied the steeds while the kids clambered on (some facing forward, others opting to ride backwards). Someone blew a whistle - they were off! Sheep exploded in every direction imaginable, kids flew through the air or were dragged in the dirt, and the crowd roared its approval. The winner was a tenacious little guy in a backwards stance, hugging his woolly steed for dear life as the high schoolers tried to pull him out of the reassembled herd.
I believe the winning time for this event was 4 seconds flat. In that time the cowboy ropes the sprinting steer, leaps off his horse, tackles said steer, and ties its feet with two wraps and a half hitch. Done and done.
The rodeo equivalent of the half-time show involved all sorts of legal forms of child abuse. My favorite by far was the mutton busters. A crowd of kids in helmets entered from one end of the arena and a herd of frisky sheep were led in from the other; 4H high schoolers steadied the steeds while the kids clambered on (some facing forward, others opting to ride backwards). Someone blew a whistle - they were off! Sheep exploded in every direction imaginable, kids flew through the air or were dragged in the dirt, and the crowd roared its approval. The winner was a tenacious little guy in a backwards stance, hugging his woolly steed for dear life as the high schoolers tried to pull him out of the reassembled herd. The next part was the boot race, where kids under the age of 8 pulled off one shoe, left it at the opposite side of the arena, and assembled back on the other end. The idea is to race to the pile of boots, find yours, put it on, and get back to the finish line before anyone else. Kids are vicious, especially when there are prizes involved. The ensuing dogpile was too amusing not to photograph.
How on earth do you top that? With a twelve mile run, of course. Sunday I set out and plodded up 1,700 feet to the network of bike trails that wind through the hills behind town. The birds were singing, the wild white irises were blooming all over, and my new shoes felt just fine. What a way to ring in the second to last week of school - 10 days until the Tetons!
How on earth do you top that? With a twelve mile run, of course. Sunday I set out and plodded up 1,700 feet to the network of bike trails that wind through the hills behind town. The birds were singing, the wild white irises were blooming all over, and my new shoes felt just fine. What a way to ring in the second to last week of school - 10 days until the Tetons!
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