The Million Dollar Highway

The highway that climbs from Ouray is steep and sinuous. Now days we take it for granted and drive with ease along a paved road in our weather-proof cars. All we have to do is press the gas.
 
After the initial crest there is a large pull-out area. We arrive the same time as a group of bikers and we all get out to see the view.
 
Gushing from a seemingly sheer quartz cliff, a river of water shoots from the mountainside and cascades to a dizzingly deep canyon bottom. This is Bear Creek Falls.
 

Bear Creek Falls

My family and I stand at the railing and peek over the edge. Instant vertigo! One mishap here and you will not be coming back alive. Another crazy feature is that the highway passes directly over the waterfall. The construction of this road was definitely not a feat for the timid.
 
Nearby is a memorial in speckled granite. It offers a clue to who these not-so-timid people may have been. It reads: “IN HONOR OF OTTO MEARS, PATHFINDER OF THE SAN JUAN.  PIONEER ROAD BUILDER.   BUILT THIS ROAD IN 1881—ERECTED BY A GRATEFUL PEOPLE 1926”
 

Memorial to Otto Mears at Bear Creek Falls. 

In the early days of mining in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado, traveling through this rugged area was not an easy task. Several pack trails existed in the area and mine operators would use burros or mules to haul out the ore. Each burro in the pack train could carry a load of 150 pounds, while the mules carried 300 pounds. Several men and hundreds of animals were needed for the task.
 
As more discoveries were being made in the Red Mountain area during the 1870's, it became expedient that a true wagon road be built to haul heavy items such as boilers, crushers, cables, ore cars, and pumps that were necessary to operate a large mine.
 
The towns of Ouray and Silverton competed for the privilege of processing and transporting the ore that came from the Red Mountain Mining District. As the crow flies, Ouray was roughly seven and a half miles to the north of Red Mountain, and Silverton a little over six miles to the south. The problem is that even a crow would have to fly up and over the majestic peaks that separate the two towns.
 

Red Mountain Creek

Continuing past Bear Creek Falls the highway negotiates the treacherous Uncompahgre Gorge. I drive with white knuckles because on my right side is a steep slope down to the river and there are no guard-rails! Luckily after about three miles the river and the road come to about the same elevation and at last I can relax. There are still tall mountains on both sides of the highway and I can only imagine what it would be like to be caught in a snow storm.
 
It is interesting that the river at this point has a reddish-yellow color to it. It is aptly named Red Mountain Creek, receiving it's color from mineral deposits.
 

The best way to describe the building of the wagon road from Ouray to Silverton is to compare it to patchwork—here a little, there a little. The Silverton side of the mountain was the “easiest” route route to Red Mountian. A rough path already existed between Silverton and Chattanooga, but only a brave person would dare drive a wagon over it. The merchants of Chattanooga got together and worked to upgrade the trail to a pretty decent wagon road. The final mile or two to the Red Mountain District was still a steep pack trail.
 
The Ouray side was more difficult because of the steeper terrain, especially through Uncompahgre Gorge. A road company was formed in 1877, but failed within a year, and had done little to improve the condition of the existing pack trail. In 1880 the Ouray and San Juan Wagon Toll Road Company was formed to upgrade most of the same route. During a three-year period work on the road progressed slowly. The steep quartz cliffs near Bear Creek Falls had to be blasted inch by inch.
 
Eventually the Ouray County Commissioners stepped in and took over the toll company. The planned road took a circuitous route compared to the highway of today. It would have left the modern highway route at the turnoff that goes to Engineer Pass along Uncompahgre Creek, and toward Mineral Creek. It would then head up Poughkeepsie Gulch and down Corkscrew Gulch to the Red Mountain Mining District. At the rate of the construction, it would be years until the road was completed.
 

Crystal Lake

After a series of steep S-turns in the highway, the mountain landscape opens up and the grade becomes relatively level. Red Mountain Creek slowly passes beneath the highway to the east side and abandoned wooden structures begin to dot the roadside.
 
On the west side of the highway is Crystal Lake. We decide to pull over and check it out. The water of the lake reflects the distant peaks of Red Mountain and the white cotton clouds that hang in the sky. The kids find flat rocks and skip them over the water. Although it is July, there is still a chill. I breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the green beauty that is all around.
 
Further along the road are more abandoned structures, those of Ironton Park. Although now a ghost town, Ironton was once a major hub between Red Mountain Town and Ouray, with 1,000 residents. I believe most of the buildings are hidden behind the trees, further off the highway. We stop to walk around some of the old structures. Some are well-preserved from the outside, while others have been plastered flat from heavy snows. There is no doubt that this would have been a rough place to live, especially during the winter.
 

Ruined buildings in Ironton Park.

According to P. David Smith's book, Mountains of Silver, many experts believe the Million Dollar Highway is the most avalanche-prone stretch of highway in the world. He states that even though mining camps such as Leadville had existed at equal or higher elevations, most received less snow or were located in terrain that was not as precipitous as the San Juan Mountains. A story is told of a pack train of two men and fifteen mules that were traveling from the Yankee Girl Mine to Silverton in 1883. One of the mules slid off the trail, and while it was wallowing in the snow a slide was triggered and swept the whole group down the mountain. One of the men and eight of the mules were killed.
 

The Million Dollar Highway.

After another S-curve, the highway climbs into the heart of the Red Mountain Mining District. Dominating on our right is the crimson-colored peak of “Red Mountain #3” at 12,890 feet in elevation. A long trestle stretches off to the side of the road and scattered all around are dozens of remnants from the mining days of yore, including a picturesque shaft house standing on the hillside.
 
We pull off into a parking area with several abandoned housing units nearby. The view is panoramic, reminding me that there is much more to explore. A person could spend days here driving on various graveled and dirt roads, hiking on- and off-trail, and still only scratch the surface of what this area has to offer in the way of history and beauty. An interpretive sign explains that during the heyday of Red Mountain, over thirty million dollars in silver, lead, zinc, copper, and gold were extracted. That would put the value to over a quarter-billion dollars in today's prices!
 
It is hard to fathom the work that went into building the highway. Only 11 miles from Ouray, I have arrived at Red Mountain with virtually no effort. Yet in 1882, miners and county commissioners were still struggling to create a road good enough for a wagon. They needed someone who could get the job done, and that's why they brought in Otto Mears.
 

Chief Ouray and Otto Mears.

Born of Jewish parents in the Russian Empire, in the area which is now Estonia, Otto Mears was orphaned at a young age. He was sent to the United States to live with relatives who had immigrated to San Francisco. There he lived until he became older and then moved to Colorado where he farmed wheat. It was here that he made his first road, which went over Pancho Pass near the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. This was the first of many roads built by Mears.
 
He was also a friend to the Ute, being present with Chief Ouray during negotiations in 1868 and 1873. It was the Brunot Agreement in 1873 that removed 3.7 million acres in the San Juan Mountains from the Ute Reservation and opened it to mining. The future route of the Million Dollar Highway fell within this area.
 
In 1883 the Ouray County Commissioners asked Mears to complete the road from Ouray to Red Mountain. A new plan was devised and it was decided to continue the road up Uncompahgre Creek, and then deviate from the previous route and build instead from the Engineer Pass turnoff, up the “impassable” Red Mountain Creek. This would shave ten miles from the route. Otto Mears would contribute enough capital to employ hundreds of men to work on the road, thus propelling forward the date of completion.
 

Abandoned building on Highway 550, also known as the Million Dollar Highway.

He placed a toll gate at the bridge over Bear Creek Falls, which consisted of a log. He received five dollars for each team and wagon, and a dollar for each pack animal. However, since most of that portion was already completed, most of his work focused on the stretch that paralleled Red Mountain Creek to Ironton Park. It cost approximately forty thousand dollars per mile to blast a route through quartzite cliffs that stood nearly 800 feet tall. Even when the road was completed some sections were so narrow that only one wagon could fit.
 
Once the Ouray side of the road was nearly completed in the fall of 1883, Mears began negotiating with San Juan County Commissioners on the Silverton side of the mountain. An agreement wasn't reached until June 28, 1884 and construction began on July 8.
 
Most of Mears's work consisted in upgrading the existing road. As part of the agreement the road had to be continuously downhill until it reached Silverton, with no more than a seven-percent grade. It had to be wide enough that two wagons could always pass one another.
 
The biggest challenge was constructing the final mile or two of road that crossed Red Mountain Divide. They had to blast from the steep cliffs during which time they discovered a large body of carbonate ore. The road was completed in December of 1884.
 

Red Mountain Mining District.

Following our stop at the lookout over the mining district, we get back in the car and within minutes we are cresting Red Mountain Divide at 11,018 feet. Other than one hair-pin turn, the road runs a relatively strait line to Silverton. We pass a few old structures, which must be relics from the old town of Chattanooga. We drive along Mineral Creek before taking a lazy bend toward Silverton. Because of time constraints we don't make any stops, although I watch with lustful eyes, wishing I could explore.
 
A local newspaper reported on June 6, 1885: “The first stage ever to arrive at Silverton will come through from Montrose in the course of a few days, and there is every reason to believe that it will be loaded with passengers. The stage will be decorated, drawn by six white horses. An effort will be made to drive over from Ouray, a distance of twenty miles, in about three hours.”
 

Shaft house near Red Mountain.

Now with the wagon road completed, the cost of transporting ore dramatically decreased. It also allowed freight wagons to travel to and from the mines. These wagons had large heavy wheels and could carry five to ten tons of ore.
 
The Million Dollar Highway did not derive it's name from the cost of building the road. Altogether, the cost of production came to nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Perhaps the name came from the millions of dollars of ore that would be shipped over the road. In my mind, however, the million dollar worth of the road comes from the natural beauty of the landscape.
 

Abandoned structure in Red Mountain Mining District.

The next day I find myself poking around the Hillside Cemetery in Silverton. This is probably one of the most alluring graveyards I have ever visited. It is worth another visit and someday I hope to write about it. Befitting of it's name, it lies on a hillside among aspen trees, with a view of incredibly rugged mountains and overlooking the old mining town of Silverton.
 
By chance I stumble upon the simple white headstone of Otto Mears. It makes no reference to his road-making accomplishments, but rather it gives his company and regiment from his days in the U.S. Cavalry. Upon further investigation I learn that he is not buried in the cemetery at all, but was cremated, and his ashes were spread along Engineer Pass just north of Silverton. ♠

Headstone for Otto Mears.

[Almost all my information comes from P. David Smith's book, Mountains of Silver.]

South Fork (Day 3)

The trail along South Fork is obscure to say the least. I once hiked this eight-mile stretch and crossed the river sixty times in one direction due to constantly losing the trail.
 
With heavy packs we made our first crossing within minutes of leaving our campsite. I took half a dozen steps into the cold stream that rose to my shins. Cold water filled my boots and I sloshed a path of mud as I came out on the opposite bank.
 

At first we easily stayed with the trail on a wide path through the quaking aspen. But then it disappeared and we chose to take a less obvious route that slanted upward. As it climbed higher and away from the river, we decided we must be on a game trail, but by now it was too late to turn around. Instead we chose to angle back down toward the river. The footing proved difficult on the steep slant with loose dirt and rock. I used my pole to steady my weight, but even then it would often slip and I would slide a few feet. It was also a challenge to keep the heavy pack balanced so as to not throw the weight down the hill, taking me with it.
 
After much travail and many scrapes we once again reached the creek and found the trail. Ben and I had a good conversation. He showed me what a mullein plant looked like and explained that it can be used for medicinal tea, as well as toilet paper.
 

Even when on the trail, we were compelled to cross the stream. With each step I would lead with my pole and then place my foot, feeling for steady ground with no slick rocks. Then I would adjust my weight for the flow of the current. I would repeat the process until I had crossed the river.
 

Again we lost the trail.  This time we walked in the river for fifty yards. My feet began to turn numb.
 
The conversation turned to rattlesnakes and Ben explained that the serpents have holes above their nose that can sense temperature and can help them aim for a blood vessel if they decide to strike. Just off the path we found a skin shed, but couldn't decipher the type of snake.
 
The route along South Fork is long and monotonous. It constantly demands route-finding skills. Every bend looks like the next. Shoes never dry off because there is always another crossing to be made.
 

On the lookout for snakes I would always jump when a lizard scampered through the leaves. Then Ben found a rattler coiled on a rock next to the path. He tugged on it with his walking stick, but the snake shook his rattle and slithered into the crevice of a rock.
 
By the time we came to the end, we had crossed the stream forty-eight times. We unloaded the cumbersome packs from our shoulders and felt a lightness as we loaded up the vehicle.
 
Before we left I had one matter of business to take care of. I returned to the stream and dissembled a mound of rocks that lay beneath the frigid flowing water. Then I pulled out an ice-cold can of Pepsi that I had cached three days earlier. ♠

Blue Lake (Day 2)

The water didn't freeze last night, but the wind was brisk once it picked up.
 
After eating breakfast and downing a steaming cup of hot chocolate we climbed a ridge to get a higher vantage of the mountains around us. I pointed out Baldy and Belknap, two massive upheavals of shale rock over 12,000 feet high. “They are steep,” I said, “but not as steep as they appear.”
 

We returned to camp and took down our tents and loaded our packs. An old road that is no longer usable leads down the steep western slope. Ben and I followed this route and talked along the way.  The wind picked up from time to time, still frigid in early morning.
 
Two young streams tumble down the steep declivity and merge at the bottom. We stopped and filled our water bottles. Here the water enters a deep canyon that runs fifteen miles to the valley. Tall peaks surrounded the young stream on three sides, so tall that the summits cannot be seen.
 

The stream flows over golden rocks in the shadows of a pine forest. Then it completely disappears underground. When it emerges, it is a beautiful turquoise lake.
 
With spring runoff the lake is nearly full. Pine trees come to the edge and some grow within the blue waters. The lake is wide enough that it literally fills one side of the canyon to the other.
 
We ate lunch on its shores and then walked to the other side on a precariously slanted edge.
 

The waters of Blue Lake spill out into the rugged canyon. We picked our way with heavy packs on our shoulders, often losing the trail. Our route took us through brush and groves of aspen. We crossed other streams that would soon join the main creek. We were always within the sound of tumbling water.
 
We came to a section of canyon where the walls weren't so narrow. There we found a flat, grassy space to pitch our tents.
 
I walked down to the river and sat on a flat rock and removed my shoes. I rolled my pant-legs to my knees and lowered my feet into the water, deep enough to cover half way up my calves. The smooth rushing fluid felt good on my tired feet, but it was colder than I expected. I pulled them out on the rock, let them breathe for a few seconds, then dipped them once again into the water, this time letting them become numb and leaving them longer.
 
I repeated the process several times, then I took off my glasses, knelt on the flat rock, and immersed my entire head beneath the water. I held my breath for five seconds, then came back up. This felt better than dipping my feet. I felt elated. I dipped my head again and swished my hair in the flowing stream. I repeated the process once more, then dried my face on a towel and let my wet skin warm in the sun before replacing my socks and shoes.
 

The rest of the evening went by without much fanfare. I climbed the hill above to gain a vantage point. Once I came back down I hung around the stream and took pictures. By the time I ate dinner the sun had set and the cold shadow of night was covering the slopes of our canyon.
 
We are miles from the nearest person tonight. When the sun first set, I thought I heard howls, bugles, and whistling. But I think they were just phantom noises coming from my imagination. I sat and watched the openings on the slopes, hoping to catch a deer or elk coming out to graze. Even the animals seem to be distant tonight.
 
But one thing is for sure. I can hear the powerful rush of water coming from the stream. I can hear it from my tent and it will stay with me all night long. It will perhaps become part of my dreams.

Elk and Waterfalls (Day 1)

We are now camped at 11,000 feet. Inside my tent the edge is taken off the cold, but while I was outside cooking my dinner over a small propane stove, the air was bitter. We have seen deer and elk today, but I hope not to get any bears scratching at our tents. I have left my water bottles outside to see if they form ice by morning.
 

We got a late start today, not beginning until 1 pm. The trail climbed quickly. We passed waterfalls, old mining structures, and tall pine trees. Many wildflowers were in bloom, including the columbine.
 

As we climbed higher, majestic peaks came into view and alpine meadows unfolded. Cold water tumbled down the mountain. Small rivulets fed into the main stream. I stopped and dipped my water bottle into the water and filled it to the narrow neck. My fingers became numb as they felt the water. I drank from the bottle, then topped it off again.
 

On the hillside we saw a small herd of elk file up the side. They stopped to look at us. Their bodies were big with brownish-yellow fur. Soon more elk walked out from behind a hill. In a long line they made their way to ridge where they stood on the skyline. I counted thirty-five. A few were bulls with partially-grown velvet antlers. Some of the cows chirped back and forth.
 

The signs told us we had only hiked four-and-a-half miles, but it felt like ten. We climbed 3,000 feet in elevation with heavy backpacks. We could now see the highest peaks all around us. The wind picked up and was bitter on the skin. I reached into my pack and pulled out a long-sleeve shirt.
 
We found a level place to pitch our tents. We cooked our dinner over small propane stoves and then talked over a cold fire pit. We are now going to bed and I hope the bears don't come.

Johnson Cemetery Comes Alive

The old house was abandoned and we were able to walk on our own to the burial ground.
 
We walked along a small two-track road that was surrounded on both sides by tall purple thistles and an old alfalfa field. All was green including the weeds that grew in the field. Two different flocks of wild turkeys crossed in front of us. The sky was covered in rain clouds, but no rain fell. Unconnected irrigation pipes flanked the sides of our path.
 

Johnson was settled in the 1870's by the four Johnson Brothers: Joel, Joseph, Benjamin, and William. Both Joel and Joseph happen to be my direct ancestors.
 
On January 2, 1871, Joel recorded in his journal: “I was ordained a Patriarch in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints under the hand of President Brigham Young, George A. Smith being the mouth. About this time President Young suggested to us that the Johnson family have what was called Spring Canyon twelve miles north of Kanab for a stock race and for all the family who wished to settle there, and requested us to go and look at it which we agreed to do as soon as we conveniently could.”
 
Sometime later he recorded: “. . . I started for home [from St. George] and arrived late in the evening, having previously made arrangements to meet my brother and some others at Virgin City on our way out to look at Spring Canyon Ranch near Kanab, agreeable to the request of President Young. We . . . found a beautiful canyon from half a mile wide [to] several miles long covered with grass, with small springs coming out at the bluffs on each side, and a small beautiful stream running from the mouth of the Canyon, plenty of excelled grass for meadow and stock range extending for many miles around. We were highly pleased with the place and concluded to accept the President's offer. Therefore we made arrangements for some of us to move there in the Spring and start a cooperative Stock Association for herding stock raising and dairy purposes, after which we all returned home. In the latter part of March I moved my wife Susan and her two boys Joel and Lamon out to Johnson and my brother William, who was stopping at Washington moved out his family also and my brother Joseph sent three young men.
 
“We took tolls, grain and seeds of many kinds for farming and gardening, and also trees and vines for orchards and vineyards. My two oldest sons Sixtus and Nephi also moved part of their families out and all went to work. Some to planting out fruit trees and vines, some to building cabins, others to plowing, planting, garden making etc. I then started for home and met my brother Benjamin at Virgin City on his way out to Johnson with farming tools or implements, grains, seeds, etc.”
 

Joel Hills Johnson (right) is buried in the Johnson Cemetery (left).

Detail on headstone of Joel Hills Johnson.

Another family that found their way to Johnson was that of Henrietta Bird Shumway, the third wife of Charles Shumway. They came from Mendon, Utah in Cache Valley. Her biography recounts her experience upon arriving at the canyon: “The farm, unfenced and uncleared had never known a plough. The only shelter was a deserted trapper's cabin, so small that when all the beds were made, Henrietta could scarcely walk between them to cook the meals.
 
“It was dangerously late in the year to be putting in crops, but they must if they were to survive the winter unaided. Even the halflings toiled like men, digging out the rocks and lugging them away to make fences; while each of the older boys were giants uprooting trees, and scrub and sage. Someone was always at the plough. It never ceased turning the soil from dawn to dark. They were lucky in their neighbors. Seeing their plight, the Johnson men came in a body and dug them an irrigation ditch to the creek, and their young ones helped with the planting.”
 

Headstone for Margaret and Richard Shumway, infant children of  Richard Franklin Shumway and Margaret Hannah Johnson Shumway.

During the next decade, more families moved to Johnson and the small community soon enjoyed an adobe brick school-church, a general store, and a post office. None of these continue to exist, as Johnson has become a ghost town. Only a handful of farms are sprinkled along the canyon.
 
The Johnson cemetery, which is about the only relic left of the former town, is very secluded in its own side-canyon. A very quiet and peaceful feeling is felt there. Inside the fence there is hardly a weed to be found. Every burial is from the 1800's. Most of the headstones are of the old type, hewn from stone. As we walked around we found the surnames of Johnson, Laws, Glover, and even a Shumway. However, a large portion of the burials, I believe, are unmarked. It is interesting that a lot of old-style nails are scattered across the ground. In the middle is a giant ant-pile. Some headstones were tipped over, while others had completely disappeared, yet we could tell there was a headstone there at one time.
 

Headstone for Conradine Albertine Sorenson Mariager Johnson, wife of Nephi Johnson, who is the son of Joel.  Conradine was born in Denmark and while in Johnson was very good friends with Henrietta Bird Shumway.

I don't know the history of the cemetery, but I believe that it has been cleaned up extensively from a neglected state. Elsinore Nelson, daughter of Sixtus Ellis Johnson, reported a visit to the cemetery in 1961 in search of her grandfather's grave: “It was in a beautiful spot at the foot of a hill. It was difficult to find among the tall grass and weeds [that] had grown around the graves, but we finally located it. There was a beautiful headstone with his name Joel Hills Johnson and this inscription on it 'Prepare to meet me in heaven.'”
 
Two of my family lines come together in this canyon—the Johnsons and Shumways. Peter Minnerly Shumway and Mary Elizabeth Johnson became acquainted when both their families lived in Johnson. They were married on December 17, 1879 in the St. George Temple. They didn't stay in Johnson long. In a couple months they made their way to Arizona with Peter's family, crossing Lee's Ferry and encountering blizzards and cold weather. They lived in several places in Arizona before settling down in Blanding, Utah.
 
Mary's mother, Editha Melissa Merrill Johnson, died four years before their leaving. I can find very little about her other than the usual dates and places. Elsinore Nelson wrote: “I have often heard Father speak of Aunt Editha as being a very kind, sweet mother to her children and a wonderful helpmate.” She had been sick for sometime and passed away on February 7, 1876. One source states that she died during child birth. She left behind seven children. As was the custom during days of polygamy, one of the other wives stepped in and raised the children as her own.
 
We searched and searched for Editha's grave, but was unable to locate it. As the cemetery is small, it is not difficult to check every headstone. We concluded that she is buried in an unmarked grave. Perhaps it was marked at one time, but over the years it had been knocked over, withered away, or crumbled.
 

After Jenelle and the younger girls left to go back to the vehicle, Kaitlyn and I were left alone to linger in the cemetery. She made the comment: “Wouldn't it be neat if the resurrection were to happen right now and all these people were to resurrect and we could talk to them?”—Yes, I would love that! To be able to hear their stories, listen to their voices, and see what they looked like—that would be absolutely amazing! ♠

American Rodeo

One of the greatest benefits of world travel is that it helps you recognize and appreciate what you have at home.
 
I can distinctly remember the feeling I had 24 years ago when I returned to Utah after living in Spain for two years. We drove down State Street in Salt Lake City and I felt like I was in a ghost town. It wasn't for the lack of people that lived there, but because the streets were wide, the buildings low, and everything spread out. In Spain all the buildings were at least five-stories tall, streets narrow, and everything crammed together. For the first time I appreciated the space we had in our humble state of Utah.
 
Other things came to mind that suddenly felt unique to my corner of the world: dutch-oven potatoes, homemade root beer, bugling elk, the scent of sage brush, and the dusty competition of rodeo.
 
Rodeos can be found all across the state, from the Cache Valley to Dixie. I will admit that I wasn't raised going to rodeos. In fact, I didn't attend my first rodeo until after I was married. But it only took once to hook me.
 

Rodeo can be very dangerous.  This cowboy was dragged across the arena during the bareback competition when his hand became caught in the handle.

Last night my wife and I attended The Great American Stampede, a rodeo in my home town. There's a certain feeling that can be felt just walking into the arena. Horse trailers are scattered along the back side of the parking. Steers are being herded into stalls. Men and women wear tight jeans and cowboy hats. The scent of hamburgers and horse manure waft through the air.
 
We sat on the back row of the bleachers next to a woman from Jensen, Utah who was quilting a blanket. Jensen is a small town in the Uintah Basin and I've noticed that a lot of these young cowboys come from podunk farm towns. She asked if went go to the rodeo often. When we said that we try to go once a year, she responded that she goes once a week. Her daughter attends Colorado Northwestern Community College and was competing in Breakaway Roping.
 

The steers wait their turn.

We've never been personally involved in rodeo competition. The closest we got was one year when we entered our 8-year old daughter, Kaitlyn, into the mutton-busting event. To qualify you must weigh 65 pounds or less. They put a helmet on the poor little kids, then put them atop a fat, woolly sheep. The kid holds on for dear life while the sheep takes off like a bullet out of the chute. The longer you ride, the better your score. Kaitlyn didn't score too high.
 
From what I gather, very few mothers want their sons to go into rodeo. They pick up disgusting habits, the pay is low, and it is very dangerous. I've listened to enough Chris LeDoux songs to know this is true. They live out of their car, spend all their time on the road chasing a dream, and become so physically broken down that it takes a toll on family life (or so say the songs).
 

It's bulls and blood, it's dust and mud . . .

The very first rider last night proved that point. It was the bareback riding event. Horse and rider came out of the chute, the cowboy digging his spurs into the neck of the horse and the horse kicking high. When the rider succumbed to the jolting and tossing, he flew in the air, but his right hand became trapped in his handle and for the next five minutes he was dragged twice around the arena like a helpless rag doll. Two other men on horses were finally able to stop the wild bronc and get the hand untied. The poor cowboy limped across the dirt in a lot of pain, holding his arm like it was a piece of meat.
 
In addition to the cowboys and cowgirls, there are a lot a personalities during the evening. The announcer is the one who sets the tone and can get the crowd riled up. The clown pitches in with his antics. The clown also has additional skills with barrels and bulls. And of course, there is the rodeo queen and royalty. Later in the evening we saw the queen on the front row signing autographs for kids.
 

The many faces of rodeo.

Your typical rodeo includes bareback riding, breakaway roping, tie-down roping, saddle bronc riding, steer wrestling, goat tying for the women, team roping, barrel racing, and bull riding. But sometimes it's the stuff in between that gives it extra flavor. Last night we enjoyed a trick rider who twisted and twirled like a pole dancer, but on a speeding horse. And then there was the mutton-busting. I couldn't help but to think of Kaitlyn. I think I've figured out the secret to a long ride. If you straddle the sheep backwards, lay on your belly, grab the wool, and lock your feet around the sheep's neck, then you can stay on pretty well.
 

A young girl competes in the mutton-busting event.

And the winner is . . .

Saddle bronc is probably my favorite competition. It is similar to the bareback. Even though there is a saddle to sit upon and stirrups for the feet, there is no horn to grab. Instead, all the rider has is a loose rope. Therefore he must be an expert in the balance and rhythm of the horse. Last night we watched as one saddle bronc rider was bucked upside down into the air and landed straight on his head. Pretty bad. The injury put the cowboy writhing on the ground for several minutes. At last he got up and walked away.
 

A cowboy successfully binds a calf in the tie-down roping competition.

Perhaps the most iconic event in rodeo is bull riding. It is certainly the most dangerous. In some aspects, it is slightly disappointing. First of all, the riders are required to wear helmets, at least on the college level. This detracts from the cowboy image. Second, the bulls never make it far from the chute, unlike the horses, who seem to go bucking all across the arena. This makes the action more distant. Then, when you couple this with darkness, it makes photography quite difficult. 

Having said this, bull riding is nothing short of spectacular.  Anyone willing to ride a three-quarter-ton angry bull has a stroke of bravery that I will never have.  The goal of bull riding is to stay on the animal for eight seconds holding onto the flank strap with only one hand.  The bull is the most difficult mount of all rodeo animals.  He is the heaviest, and the only one with horns.  It is the only one that will try charging the cowboy after he has bucked him off.  Hats off to anyone who has the courage to attempt such a feat.  The bull riding event is the perfect finale to any rodeo.

During one of the breaks the announcer walked onto the dirt and drew raffle tickets from a jar. They handed out several twenty dollar bills and tickets to a John Michael Montgomery concert. He read the name and city of each winner. All were local except for one, a man from London, England. I don't know this guy from Adam, but my guess is that he was a tourist visiting the area and saw a poster advertising the rodeo. Good for him! I think far too many people come to our beautiful neck of the woods only to go to the National Parks and take in the beauty of Mother Nature. That's fine to a degree, but in my opinion, to obtain a deeper understanding of the culture, you must get off the far too-beaten tourist trail. ♠

Bull riding is the most dangerous event in rodeo.