Tourist Attraction?

The Running of the Sheep

By David Feela, 5-21-06

Once a year in Pamplona, people perch along the narrow Spanish streets to watch some agitated bulls trample some addled brained spectators so bored by life that they offer themselves to be gored. I’ve never been to Spain, but I’ve always wondered what prompts that Papa Hemingway urge to seek such a dangerous activity. Sure, I know the Four Corners provides ample opportunity for locals to stand by the side of a road and watch a few hundred head of cattle amble past, but it’s not really the same. Hemingway might have gone so far as to say, it’s just not a MAN thing.

That’s why it probably came as a surprise when I asked Pam if she’d travel with me to Bayfield to watch the running of the sheep.

“Sheep?” she asked. “Why do you want to watch sheep?”

“Because I’ve never been to Pamplona,” I replied.

Perhaps it was the exotic Spanish trill in my voice when I said the word “Pamplona” that excited her womanly curiosity. Or maybe she just concluded that a trip to Bayfield would be cheaper than a round-trip flight to Spain. Whatever the reason, Pam quickly agreed, and we set out from Cortez to explore the Near East—namely, a small town east of us in LaPlata County.

Sheep trailing for tourists is a relatively new event for Bayfield, though the sheep themselves have been driven down from leased public pastures for nearly a century. Back then it was just dirty work; today it’s an event that organizers hope will consistently churn up a little cultural pay dirt. You see, Bayfield decided to turn a facsimile of the traditional sheep trailing into a festival called Heritage Days, so the children will come to associate sheep with something other than a mantra for inducing sleep.

Pam and I arrived along the crowded business route into town and parked behind a long line of vehicles. We’d shut off the engine at about 9:55 a.m. and the running of the sheep was, according to the flyer, scheduled for 10 a.m. I didn’t know anything about the punctuality of sheep, so I hurried Pam along, hoping we wouldn’t miss witnessing some young farmer getting blind-sided by a few hundred pounds of wool. Secretly, I’d tucked my large red handkerchief in my pocket just in case I needed to execute a few passes of the matador’s cape, strictly, of course, for our own protection. As I said, I’d never been to a sheep trailing, so I didn’t know what to expect.

As we approached the corner where Mill Street headed into the Bayfield business district it was easy to conclude that the big event had not yet happened: people milled about on both sides of the street, or they sat in lawn chairs talking with their neighbors, as if a parade might eventually arrive. We found a grassy spot and sat in the shade, staring back in the direction where everyone’s eyes continued to glance. Nobody appeared nervous. I sensed no danger. Pam smiled, as if she’d already seen a clown.

In the distance we heard the faint sound of bagpipes, and soon about a half dozen men in traditional Scottish attire marched down the middle of Mill Street, followed closely by a woman costumed as Little Bo-Peep. I had no doubt that sheep would soon appear. A man standing next to me claimed that nearly 1800 little critters ought to be making their debut, but another five minutes passed and the street remained empty. Could it be that the bagpipes frightened the timid creatures? Could it be that the sheep had turned tail and headed back to their BLM pastures?

But the next time I glanced down the street, the intersection teemed with sheep. I grabbed Pam’s arm.

“Look. Sheep!” I said. “Are you ready to run?”

“Do you have haggis for brains?” she replied.

As if someone had opened a head gate, a river of dirty wool suddenly filled the street, moving past the crowd in a fluid, almost choreographed undulation. Then, for some unknown reason, the herd’s pacesetter decided to leave the pavement and headed for a narrow space between the bumpers of two parked trucks, right into someone’s front yard.

Nobody knows exactly why sheep act as they do, but everyone knows that where one goes, the rest will follow. The yard filled rather unexpectedly, like a clogged drain, with sheep. After a few minutes of flock-lock, someone more resolute than the sheep managed to get one of the baffled animals pointed in the right direction; the flock broke free of its quagmire and moved on. In an odd reversal of sheep protocol, the scapegoat followed the herd, and finally a team of horses pranced by, pulling a shepherd’s wagon. Then, without missing a beat, the street cleaning machine that had been idling at the intersection with its amber utility light flashing started spinning its big brushes and the event was officially over.

No mangled bodies, no broken bones, not even a trace of sheep dip by the time the sweeper made his run. The festival stood for good, sanitary American fun. The crowd along the sidewalk gathered its belongings and headed off toward the booths set up in the park, which promised a fine celebration of the Bayfield Heritage traditions, but as for the sheep…well, they arrived and departed so quickly that I guess I’d have to say I felt a little disappointed. After the flock vanished, the spectators near us just trailed along after the crowd, and I couldn’t help feeling a little self-conscious, wondering if any of the sheep had doubled back for the chance to stare at us.

Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.