When Old and New West Meet At the Small-Town Rodeo

By Brianna Randall, 8-16-06

	Caption: Photos by Brianna Randall

I am a Westerner, through and through. I hyperventilate when flying further east than Denver, and walk in confused circles without my landmark peaks. West is my favorite direction to travel, my favorite place to see the sun, and the region I've always called home.

But I have a confession to make: I've never been to real, live rodeo.

Sure, I've ridden plenty of horses. I'm comfortable around Wranglers, although not necessarily in them. A few of my friends in high school were even members of Future Farmers of America. And yet I've never witnessed true rope-throwing, clod-tossing cowboys and cowgirls handling frenzied livestock in one of the West's most time-honored traditions: the small-town rodeo.

Until, that is, I visited Gardiner, Montana this June.

Gardiner boasts a population of 851, as well as a rough and tumble history as a mining town. The Chamber of Commerce graciously announces it has "learned to host the pioneer visitor." I'm not sure exactly what they do with "non-pioneer visitors." Luckily, I didn't have to find out, since I was about to bravely pioneer the wavy boundaries between the New West and the Old, showcased perfectly at Gardiner's two-day rodeo.

My friends Sarah and Dave moved to Gardiner three years ago, and live across the street from the North Entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Their view ain't bad, I must admit. But the impressive scenery isn't nearly as entertaining as the stream of out-of-state RVs pausing to take awkwardly-posed family photos beneath the Roosevelt Arch.

Sarah and Dave were watching these family vacation festivities from their patio when I arrived that balmy Saturday evening. As I plopped down my backpack, they told me their big surprise -- we were going to the rodeo.

"We gotta hurry, though, Bri, ‘cause we missed the barrel races last night. Our friend's daughter, Cheyenne, is the Rodeo Queen and she really wants us to watch her compete," Sarah told me.

I hustled through a shower, wondering if barrel-racing was more akin to livestock prancing atop rolling casks or brawny men stuffing unwieldy cows into a barrel's small opening. And does a Rodeo Queen sit on a throne when not competing?

As I dug through my backpack, I realized I was completely lacking an appropriate rodeo outfit. Sighing, I rolled up my hot pink corduroy pants, and shoved on my river sandals and a much-abused straw hat.

"Nice ‘Huck-Finn' look, Bri," called Dave from somewhere under his stiff white cowboy hat. "Maybe we can try running over that hat on our way over to give it a little more shape."

However, after we parked on the street (a.k.a. Highway 89) and paid at the rodeo "entrance" (a folding table staffed by a 12-year-old girl), I quickly discovered that the dorky hat was the least of my worries. The river sandals left my soft, city-girl toes' in dangerous proximity to heavy hooves and dangling spurs. Boots are apparently not just a fashion statement here at the rodeo.

Sarah and Dave looked slightly more credible in their protective boots, belt buckles, and hats, but the wrap-around ski sunglasses, ponytails (on both of them) and Patagonia windbreakers were sure to blow their cover. Anyone looking closely would notice they were squirrel-counting, organic-beer-drinking "new" Westerners posing as seasoned rodeo circuit groupies.

Then I started looking closely. The crowd was full of posers -- of every size and shape.
Scattered among the Wranglers and Lucky jeans were Birkenstocks and cut-off khakis. A group of young girls spoke rapidly in Japanese, and a group of very obviously gay men were snapping photos with their cell phones. Cheyenne, the rodeo queen, was sporting white leather chaps with her name embroidered on each leg. Yet a woman leaning against the gate was wearing a white leather jacket fresh from Saks Fifth Avenue.

The contrasts were everywhere, but the beauty of the scene was how well the differences meshed. Oilskin brushed against Gor-Tex in that rain-spattered arena, and no one seemed to recoil. Everyone was caught up in the fast-paced events, rooting for each new cowboy or cowgirl showcased beneath the sage-covered mountains.

My favorite part of the evening was not the announcer's cheesy jokes, or the women whipping around barrels on their horses (no cask-dancing ponies, sadly). Nor was it drinking my slightly crunchy Bud Light, sprayed with dirt from the wildly gyrating saddle-broncs.

It was the kids that made me smile most.

A 12-year-old boy with shaggy blond hair who had the fastest calf-roping time bowed grandly to the whistling onlookers. A 5-year-old boy ensconced atop an 18-hand horse rounded up the cows between competitors. A 15-year-old girl with auburn braids left her hat in the arena, frustrated when her horse went the wrong way around the last barrel.

Then, at "half-time," came the best entertainment: all the kids in the audience -- nearly 150 children aged barely-walking to raging-hormones -- chased a confused, unsuspecting cow in circles around the arena to see who could be the first to pull off her yellow ribbon. After five chaotic minutes of chase, one lucky boy brandished the ribbon, ten children had face-planted in the mud, a few toddlers were trampled by competitive siblings, and the cow looked completely traumatized.

As I looked around at the laughing rodeo-goers, I felt my heart twist in a poignant realization: this small-town rodeo was as endangered as the wolverines wandering the nearby mountaintops of Yellowstone. The presence of so many tourists and Patagonia-wearing squirrel-counters forever changes the dynamics of this cultural event. The rodeo, especially in larger Western cities like my hometown Missoula, has become a novelty for New Westerners.

I could see the Gardiner Rodeo in 2025 becoming a tourist attraction on par with a family trip to Sea World or a live Broadway musical. Rather than a crowd full of folks who understand the intricacies of livestock, the spectators of the Western rodeo are shifting to people who watch in oblivious awe, riveted by the rhythm of a bucking stallion but completely ignorant of how to sit in a saddle.

I am one of the ignorant. I was charmed by the "real" West, and fascinated by the performers. I found myself star-struck by the tall men with authoritative spurs, and the jean-clad women maneuvering trucks and trailers longer than most homes. Yet it also made me sad to view the Old West as more of an attraction than a reality.

But is this shift bad? Or even new?

Driving back home through Paradise Valley I studied the fields of irrigated hay alongside the celebrity-owned "log" mansions. The mystique of the West is as old as 19th Century dime novels and Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. And the lines defining "new" and "old" Westerners are as fuzzy as the photographs of Bill Cody standing next to Native Americans.

To commemorate my first rodeo, I bought my first pair of real cowboy boots from Murdoch's as I drove through Bozeman. Good leather, hand-crafted soles—the old-fashioned kind. I figure whether I'm part of the New West or the Old, these boots are the best way to protect my toes, mark my territory, and cover the ground I call home.

And just like the diverse rodeo-goers in Gardiner and the evolving culture of the Rocky Mountain West, my boots are a hybrid of traditional cowboy and hip outdoor culture -- functional brown leather on the bottom and funky pink flames on top.
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