It was years ago when I was talking with, Larry Gunderson, a neighbor who was involved in rodeo at the time. I asked him how it was going. He said it was going well, which, from what I gather from rodeo folks, equates to “currently not in the hospital.” Larry then gave a painful account of all the bones, ligaments, and joints that had been broken, torn, or sprained due to his rodeo career. It was a spectacular list which suggests it takes a special breed of person to be in rodeo and I like to think I would have given it a go too. After all, I had cowboy boots, a cowboy shirt for the first day of school, and rodeo experience when I was just a little kid. What I didn’t have was a horse.

I always wanted a horse, but my folks weren’t keen on the idea even though we had a farm with fences, a barn full of hay, and cows. Not only that, Mom and Dad each grew up with horses. But therein was the reason for their horse allergy – they knew horses and the effort it takes to own one.

From what I’ve seen, a horse is nothing like a cow. Cows are typically calm and happy as clams living out life with little else than grass and other cows. Your chance of being bitten by a cow is less than getting hit by lightning. Horses on the other hand, show multiple emotions and personalities. They love all sorts of foods, and they will mentally wrestle you for psychological superiority. “So what do you want….PUNK?” is what horses usually say to me whenever I approach them. I never know what to say back and just like that, they’re in charge. The chance of a horse bite is pretty good when one thinks you’re a punk.

The fact is, my folks were so against me owning a horse, they would let me ride anything else – motorcycles, snowmobiles, scooters, bicycles, the hood of the tractor, and even a bull before letting me have a horse. “Bull?” you ask? Yup. I was maybe nine years old when I begged to ride Allstate, a one-ton, nearly six-foot tall, Hereford bull that was visiting our farm for the summer. Dad, in a serious lapse of parental caution, even helped me up onto Allstate’s back.

Straddling atop Allstate was like straddling atop a car – he was thick. His hair was short and sleek. He smelled of bull. But, it never occurred to me how I should steer the beast or, lacking a saddle, what part of him I should hold onto. Bulls don’t have a mane like a horse. It was as if my dad dropped me off on the surface of the moon with no instructions of what to do next. “I’ll be back in a day or two son! Have fun!” It’s likely we figured Allstate would walk around for a bit like he usually did but we were extremely wrong. What transpired next brought more excitement to our little farm than when a skunk got into the chicken coop.

The normally stagnant and sleepy persona of Allstate suddenly changed. He became energized as if he had just backed into the electric fence and now he was bounding about with me aboard. His bucking lacked the pizzazz of professional rodeo bulls but it was effective. I felt like a ping pong ball. It seemed a horrible dream. After just a few jumps, I flew off and hit the ground without so much as a scratch. Most importantly, I didn’t scream or cry. Even rookie cowboys know that screaming or crying during a bull ride is poor form. I took it like a third grader.

These things came to mind the other day while talking with another neighbor, Brad Arvila. His strapping son, Colton, takes part in the bull riding competition at the North Star Stampede rodeo in Effie. True to form, Colton too has a list of injuries that makes me hurt just hearing about them. Then, a picture in a local newspaper showed another neighbor, Charlie Lokken, in the calf-roping competition. I knew Charlie had horses (one of his horses called me a punk and then rubbed me off his back with a power pole guy wire when I threatened to buy him) but I wasn’t aware he calf-roped. It seems throwing a rope around a 500 lb. animal running full speed away from you and wrestling it to the ground ranks right up there with pounding your fingers with a large hammer – it will involve pain..

I hadn’t realized before that living in the Sturgeon/Alango area has me in a virtual mecca for rodeo cowboys. Really, what are the chances of having four guys, Larry, Colton, Charlie and me living within proximity of each other and all having a go at calf ropin’, bronco bustin’ and bull ridin’?

Perhaps running down day-old calves on foot or falling off horses or riding a bull just once doesn’t earn me the status of “cowboy” with these other guys but it should count for something. If only I had broken a few bones, I’d feel more deserving. It would be so cool to have somebody walk up to ask, “How’s things going out at the farm Leo?” I’d spit off to the side, and say, “Not bad. Dislocated the shoulder and busted some ribs again. Weren’t no bother.” Then I’d spit again.

There are even more rodeo folks in the Northland that deserve mention, however, an article in the paper offers little reward compared to the adrenaline served up whilst waitin’ in the gate fer yer calf to git runnin,’ or yer horse to starts buckin’ or yer bull to beat ya senseless.

Yes sir, Ah ain’t broke me a single bone since my bull ridin’ day and to tell ya the truth, Ah likes it that way (spit). Ah be more of a berry picker nowadays. Things coulda been different though if’n Ah had me a horse. Ma horse would have been named Rowdy. My friend , coworker, and fellow cowboy, Butch Cottrell, now resides in that great corral in the sky and he had hisself a horse named Rowdy. It was a good horse. Butch was a good man. Guess that’s all I gots to say bout that.

Leo is retired and lives in rural Cook with his wife, Lindy. He is the author of three books, She Won’t Mow the Daisies, The Cabin Experience, and Life Over Easy. Leo can be contacted by email at llwilenius@gmail.com.