My Grandmother was the great mentor of having my priorities straight. She would bring up after a period of listening to my brother’s and my conversation about all the material conquests we were going to achieve in our lives and ground us with a comment in so many words about how we need to focus on being rich in our journeys. I, like the my siblings, probably gave a moments thought out of respect to her but, were more sure of our superior thinking.
It was 1986 on a late July day and we were making the annual trek from Minneapolis (The home of the J Robinson 28 Day Intensive Camp) and we were on our way to Ashland, Oregon for the final camp of summer.
This day was really a run-on day in that, if everything went right, we would drive straight through for 36 hours. So, it was a day and an additional half of a day. Thirty-six hours of drinking mountain dews and eating gas station snacks, sweating and guys farting. What’s worse was knowing this was going to be the experience going into it and still not being able to mentally prepare for it. What was important are the personalities that were going to be together and all of the ways we would somehow entertain ourselves.
There were four of us in the back of Dean Hall’s Chevy S-10 truck. Two were up front – Dean and the lucky other soul who would manage to pull off shotgun at any one of our given stops.
We made our way through Iowa and Nebraska into the Rockies and eventually into Nevada. You have never seen such a long stretch of highway until you veer off of I-80 to the North on 95 in Northern Nevada.
This is the area where our fortunes for adventure had turned markedly for the better. We had been driving on 95 for at least 30 minutes without seeing one modicum of civilization besides the road under the wheels of the truck. We had seen the biggest rabbits and occasional cows alongside or literally in the middle of the road. It was in this stretch where we could see a dot of life in the distance. As we approached, the dot evolved into something of a character that a midwestern boy had never seen. In fact, it was oxymoronic. It was an Indian dressed as a cowboy. Chaps, boots with spurs, 10-gallon hat. He had his thumb out.
It was so confusing on so many levels. I spent my childhood playing cowboys and Indians. They were opposing ideas. Someone overdressed in the oppressing heat that was hitch hiking literally in the middle of nowhere too confused me. My granddad had a saying that summed this area up. “It wasn’t hell but you can see it from here”. How did this guy get here? Why was he dressed up as a cowboy? Did he spring up from one of the bushes?
Apparently we had a little room left in the back of the truck so Dean pulled over and the Cowboy climbed over the tailgate and got in. Lo and behold, our Cowboy was going to a rodeo.
Who knew but Dean had a rodeo class in high school. The moon, sun and stars were aligning for something different for sure. We drove for an hour in what seemed like circles. It was past sagebrush, roaming cows, up and down around vistas and mesas. I had no bearing on where we were or had any clue how to get out. Suddenly from out of nowhere, we arrived at the rodeo. It was an image burned into my brain forever. There were 5, 6 maybe 700 Indian cowboys. Most of them had been having a good time already. Aptly upon showing up we were offered our own personal pitcher of beer. Mind you, we were the only six white guys in the whole place. Strangely and awesomely, we were made to feel comfortable. They welcomed us.
Dean, and a couple of my Minnesota teammates Eric Lerhke and Jimmy Caughey found they could sign up for the remaining race, the wild horse race. This was one of the sections in Dean’s class he took back in high school (Dean hailed from Colorado – a state known for some cowboy heritage).
With much anticipation and great enthusiasm from the Indian cowboys for about what was to happen, it began.
Dean managed to put a headlock on the horse. Dean bit the horse’s ear. Biting the ear the horse didn’t continue to buck and create the considerable mayhem I had witnessed going on before the headlock and ear bite. Dean grabbed the horse by the nostrils. At this point it was Jimmy’s and Eric’s cue to put the saddle on the horse and to synch the strap underneath. Jimmy jumped on and started to somehow make his way across the arena. The saddle started to slip to the side. In slow motion Jimmy and saddle slid to the side with Jimmy falling off. Dean and Eric were on top of this. Dean began repeating all of the techniques. At the moment of Dean biting the ear, the horse just gave up and laid down on the ground. Jimmy’s dream of winning that day came to an abrupt end. Apparently the horse wasn’t a team player under the circumstances.
With that the day wound to a close with us playing a version of beer pong with our newfound friends.
Dean went on to wrestle in the NCAA finals against Carlton Hasslerig. Jimmy went on to become a professional bull rider. Eric is an educator and officiates college wrestling, most notably at the NCAA Division 1 championships.
I knew that this would very likely be a one of a kind experience in my life. I felt the uncomfortable aspect of going into a place where I was in a significant minority for the first time in my life. I was scared and intimidated to only be warmly embraced by those very people. I witnessed the hilarious antics of my buddies and learned there is many times much more than what meets the eye when it comes to people. I had no idea that Dean Hall had rodeo skills.
Finally, I understood my grandmother. This experience was priceless. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My life and what it would be about became much more clear. There was no way that I would look past my journey. It has been a wonderful life.
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