2008 Write
Stuff: Critter Contest
Runner-Up
Adult Division
By the
Horns: Preserving the Cave Creek Culture
By Lydia Martin
“You can’t
wear that hat,” my aunt said when she first noticed the straw cowboy hat
I was clutching. “Everybody will think you’re a tourist.”
I frowned.
“But I am a tourist,” I replied. After all, my other aunt had bought me
the hat in Tombstone. Still, as we crunched across the gravel parking
lot of Buffalo Chip Steakhouse and Saloon, I grasped the hat, too
nervous to put it on, yet unwilling to leave it in the car.
It was a
Friday evening in Cave Creek, Arizona, and Buffalo Chip’s weekly summer
bull-riding competition was beckoning. As an out-of-stater who had
never witnessed bull-riding, I could not resist its allure, and, as a
social butterfly always willing to stretch her wings, neither could my
Arizona-dwelling aunt.
While I
debated wearing my cowboy hat, we made our way to the back entrance.
The night had already set in. The black sky falling over us blanketed
us in a golden spray of stars. The infrequent cars driving by showered
us in momentary spheres of light that soon dissolved back into soft
darkness. The air was sweet with the scent of mesquite beans, the soft
respiration of cacti as their flowers opened up to the silent moon, and
the dewy whispers of ocotillos twisting their arms around the night.
The Sonoran Desert at night is a memory you can never forget, and one
you would never want to.
Entering
the courtyard behind the restaurant, we perceived the headiness of beer,
the grittiness of dust and pebbles, and the natural smells of bulls and
evaporated sweat—not altogether unpleasant, at least in this venue.
Whiffs of pork ribs, hot dogs and french fries wafted through the air,
mixing with nuances of straw from the bulls’ food and the cowboys’
hats. I wondered how the hot night could hold it all.
Suddenly an
authoritative voice announced the opening of the bull-riding events. In
the booth, a wise elder had taken his place, as revered in this Western
Friday night sport as the announcer at a high school football game back
East, or the caller in a square-dancing tournament down South. At the
familiar sound of his seasoned voice, spectators took seats on the
bleachers or found a spot beside the fence that surrounded the small
dirt ring where the action would take place.
I stood on
my tiptoes to see over the crowd in front of me. After the National
Anthem, the first contender lowered himself onto the back of a waiting
bull, unseen behind the bucking chute. I flinched as I heard the angry
bull crash against the inside of the gate. The cowboy steadied himself
and began wrapping a thick braided rope slowly and deliberately around
his hand; its other end was already tied around the bull’s belly.
Meanwhile the announcer proclaimed the rules: “The rider must hold onto
the rope, his free hand may not at any point touch the bull, and he must
stay on at least eight seconds.” The anticipation grew.
When the
cowboy’s one hand was secured, he raised the other into the air and gave
a swift, determined nod. Someone yanked open the bucking chute; the
bull hurtled out like a bullet on fire. The hulking creature jerked,
kicked and twirled; the rider held on tighter, braced his legs, swung
his free arm in disproportionate circles. The crowd hooted and
hollered, but within seconds he was flailing in the dust on the ground.
“Get him outta there!” the announcer called to the other men in the
ring, the bullfighters. The rider scrambled out from under the bull’s
solid kicks as the bullfighters chased the animal back into the holding
pen. An air of defeat settled over the rider as he gathered up his
cowboy hat and abandoned the ring, but from my obscure spot in the
crowd, I applauded in deep admiration of his brazen courage.
Several
similar rides ensued: bulls waiting impatiently within the metal
enclosures as young riders pulled on gloves and helmets and wound their
hands with bull straps; bulls charging, bucking, kicking, spinning,
extraordinarily incensed and very keen to get the nimble, intrepid
cowboys off their backs as soon as physics would allow. Sometimes the
feisty bovine haunches kicked up dirt, at which point fathers all along
the length of the warped wooden bleachers shielded their children’s
faces. I had to smile at this innate form of protection and love.
During the
bull rides, most riders flew off within seconds, like Jello from a
spoon; they left the ring heaving with anger, ferocity or
disappointment. A few others got their arms caught in the rope; dragged
along like rag dolls as the bull reared, they worked frantically at
freeing their limbs as the crowd held its collective breath in fearful
exhilaration. A select few riders, however, surpassed the crucial
qualifying mark of eight seconds and persevered for another one or two
more. These victors earned scores from the judges and adulation from
the audience, but did not gloat; instead, they exited the arena with a
determined and almost distant expression, biting their lips in
preparation for the finalists’ round.
Each time
the riders were dethroned and scurried to supposed safety at the side of
the ring, it became the duty of the bullfighters, or rodeo clowns, to
compel the animals back into the corral. Nothing stood between these
men, comically clad in oversized shirts, overalls and soccer cleats, and
the massive 1800-pound hulks of flesh, muscle and horns they
theatrically tempted, goaded and distracted. Theirs is a job as tough
and dangerous as a bull-rider’s, but far less applauded, and far more
necessary. This thrilling interaction between grappling cowboy,
seemingly slipshod rodeo clown, and raging bull both intrigued and
startled. No wonder they call bull-riding “the most dangerous eight
seconds in sports.”
When the
first round was over, my aunt and I settled down at a wobbly picnic
table with two bottles of beer. Still invigorated, I set my cowboy hat
on my knee and looked around. To one side, a massive white screen above
the blackjack pavilion counted down the minutes till the next round,
when it would provide a close-up view of the events. To the other side,
a group of cowboys was congregating. Some boyish, some toughened, all
unassuming but self-confident, they sported genuine Stetsons, plaid
shirts, jeans, leather vests and chaps. They drank beer and spat
tobacco. They practiced roping moves and tucked their pant legs into
the tops of their boots. They laughed, jostled and gazed into the
ring. It seems to me the quintessential cowboy embraces tradition, duty
and life. It seems to me I was surrounded by them.
In front of
us, guests thronged on the Buffalo Chip patio, ordering drinks and
shooting the breeze with friends. Water misters lent a velvety touch to
hot shoulders and faces. On obscured picnic tables in the dark back
corner, young couples were oblivious of everything but each other. Deep
within the restaurant, one or two couples showed off a fancy two-step on
the oaken dance floor to the live band’s country songs that drifted out
to us. Above it all, the moon smiled sideways down at us, suspended by
an imperceptible thread from the ceiling of this Friday night. At that
moment, I donned the hat I had been holding irresolutely the whole
night. I knew I belonged here with or without it—but I chose with.
By the end
of the next two rounds, amid the blur of bucking bulls, tumbling
cowboys, histrionic rodeo clowns, clanging metal gates and warm beer, I
had no idea who was who, or even who had won. But that night someone
went home with $1000 and all the pride in Cave Creek. And that night, I
went home full of wonder and respect. My aunt and I had been immersed
in an entirely different world, the true Southwest. It was a world
where sinewy, rough-tanned cowboys clicked their silver spurs in the
dust and tipped hats the color of the moon or of the night sky around
it; a world where men would never tame bulls, but could and did try to.
The cool cowboys standing atop the bucking chutes, silhouetted against a
horizon flecked with Saguaros and shaped by barren mountains, were
iconic vestiges of another time, a greater time.
Undeniably,
Buffalo Chip is a valuable asset to the Cave Creek community. This
hole-in-the-adobe-wall hangout is an authentic dining locale and social
hot spot—but families, friends and lovers also come to this crossroads
of Old West and New West to experience life through its bull rides.
Buffalo Chip, and Cave Creek in general, are as rugged as the cowboys
who ride there, as eclectic as the tourists who come to watch, as warm
and free as a desert night. And in that dusty little town of Cave
Creek, anyone can wear his—or her—cowboy hat without shame. Now that’s
worth preserving.
Lydia
Martin is a resident of York Springs, PA. This is the first time that
she has entered the contest.
|
late this past spring, they appeared anew.
Tiny pairs of brilliant green leaves poked above the coarse gravel mulch
in marvelous testimony to life’s endurance and will. Daily, I entered
the yard to water them. I watched with satisfaction as the seedlings
gained height each day. 
energetic life in one’s very own
yard.
Once there
was a tortoise named Shelly who lived in the magnificent Indian Desert.
She had dug a cozy home to sleep in at night. Shelly went to a school
called Indian Rock Middle School. She had two friends that went to that
school too! Arizona, the roadrunner, was Shelly’s best friend. He was
the kindest bird Shelley had ever met. Her other friend was an inchworm
named Itch. He was over-sized and very colorful. "Let's get to school!"
Inch said. They were off.
