The hand painted sign on the side of the highway lured me to the grounds, curious for a peak at the proceedings. The sight was peculiar.

Sun-baked children screamed for t-shirts and water balloons from a rodeo clown. Cowboys circled the dusty ring, smoothing out hoofprints. The beer garden provided the only shelter for those seeking reprieve from the heat. In the distance motorbikes soar off of an impossible jump, filling the air with an acrid gasoline smell, while families watch the proceedings intently, watching their offspring who grew up to be cowboys. Nurses encouraged children to stop smoking and a muscle car raffle tempted those in the grandstands.

Suddenly, the gates open at the far end of the arena. A teenager, appearing to wear a hockey helmut and chest protector, grips a rope with all his might. Immediately, he is flung into sight, attached like an appendage to a rope wrapped around a furious steer. Seconds seem like hours, as the young cowboy bucks and shifts atop the bull, before turning rag doll into the dust pile. All appears to have gone according to the game plan, and the crowd cheers.

All in fun and games. 

However something has gone wrong. A wound suffered by the steer has reddened the ring. Blood pours from the young beast’s mouth and nose, as organizers rush to catch the young bull. 

No ride. The results are nil and the young cowboy, pummelled from his first ride, prepares to mount another.

This was my first rodeo experience. And yes, as a vegetarian from Ontario, I admit to feeling a bit out of place, as friendly as the Valemount rodeo people appeared.

I grew up in a small town, but have never seen the likes of this up close.

Not to say farm life is completely foreign to me. I lived on a dairy farm for years in Ontario and am well aware of the cyclical and sometimes harsh realities of farm life. But this still seemed completely foreign.

The excitement, the athleticism, the rhythm between horse and rider was undeniable. There was an old world feel to the proceedings, ceremony and respect was observed, and all was done in great seriousness. Safety was of the utmost importance – but how can that be when riding ornery bulls is the name of the game?

I wonder for how long these games will still be played. How many more rodeo queens will be crowned, how many bulls ridden? I wonder if this is the western culture spoken so fondly of, a way of life that seems so disconnected from the rest of the world. Is the ghostlike quality of the cowboy and cowgirl real or imagined? 

When encountering such scenes, we do our best to understand. To comprehend the other. 

And that is all we can do when presented with shadows of a lifestyle slowly fading away.