Saturday Night at the Small Town Rodeo

It was nine o'clock on a Saturday night in June when I saw the glow first, off to the left of the two-lane. I'd been driving since before dark through high desert, past dry lake beds and fields of cheatgrass. For the last hour the only lights were my own headlights and the small towns I went through in a single long block.

The glow turned out to be the rodeo grounds. The dust made it visible before the sign did. I pulled off onto a dirt road and followed a line of pickups across a field, parked in the grass, paid a man at a gate who took cash and didn't ask anything. Inside, the bleachers rose out of the dark, and the loudspeaker was already talking.

Something like, “Folks, we're going to start the second go-round.” I don't remember the actual words. I remember the crackle at the start of every sentence, and the way the announcer let the crowd's noise finish his thought.

I found a seat on the top row. The wood was warm from the afternoon even though the air had gone cold. Up there you could see the whole town — water tower, grain elevator, the dark line of the highway coming in and going out, and beyond it the desert rolling away under a clear sky. The arena below was a square of dirt between steel fences.

The air smelled like dirt, horse sweat, and the oil from the popcorn machine by the gate. A boy went by with a flashlight, selling programs even though it was too dark to read one.

A horse was in the chute. The gate opened and the horse came out sideways, high in front, and the rider lasted maybe three jumps. He hit the ground on his back and rolled. The clown got between him and the horse, and two men on horseback moved in. The announcer said a name and a score, and the crowd gave a polite hand.

The events kept coming after that. Calf roping, steer wrestling, barrel racing. The barrel horses were the fastest thing all evening, cutting the cloverleaf pattern so tight the dust from one run hadn't settled before the next horse came in. Between events, the loudspeaker played a country song, and the kids on the fence turned around and waved at their mothers in the stands.

The children lined the rail all night, boys and girls, some small enough to need a boost up. They hooked their arms through the top bar and leaned out over the dirt. When a bronc came out they leaned with it. When a rider stayed on, they slapped the rail and hollered. One little girl in a purple shirt sat on the fence like it was a porch swing, a paper cone of cotton candy in one hand, her mouth stained the same color. The announcer called something to her, and she hid her face against her mother's shoulder.

Between the calves and the steer wrestling, a lull. The arena hands dragged the dirt with a harrow, and the dust drifted up into the lights like the whole ring was breathing. A woman behind me said to her husband, “He'll be back in the final round.” He wasn't.

At intermission — and a rodeo does have an intermission — a couple of kids about six years old rode sheep out of the arena. That got the loudest cheer of the night. One boy held on all the way across the dirt and kept his hat on. A girl after him lasted four jumps, came off laughing, and stood up in the middle of the ring. The crowd clapped harder for her than for anyone on a horse all night.

The last event was the bulls. The last bull threw its rider in a circle, the rider landed hard and stayed down a moment. The clowns were there, and the pickup men. He stood up, put his hat on, and walked to the fence. The crowd clapped because he was standing, not because of anything.

The announcer said goodnight and told everyone to drive careful. Trucks started up in the field, one by one. Kids were asleep in back seats, wrapped in ranch blankets. The gate man had gone. The lights stayed on after the arena emptied, and the dust settled into the rails and the dirt.

I drove out the same dirt road and turned back onto the highway. For a few minutes the grounds showed in the rearview mirror, then they went over a hill and the desert went dark. The road ran straight ahead, and I didn't pass a single car for a long while.

I kept thinking about the girl on the fence, and the sheep riders, and how a whole town had come to a square of dirt on a Saturday night. It wasn't nostalgia. It was happening right then, somewhere off the highway. I had only seen it because I was passing through.