Surviving, and occasionally thriving, during Cheyenne Frontier Days

The latest edition of Cheyenne Frontier Days has been put to bed. Hundreds of volunteers who ran the “Daddy of ‘em All” can rest, retailers can count their profits, and fans — at least the ones who didn’t join the carnival or become rodeo circuit roadies — have gone home.

And residents like me can rejoice at surviving 10 days of madness. We feel safe on the streets again, no longer dodging drivers who are even worse than we are. We can make trips to grocery stores and downtown without making battle plans.

I wasn’t always this jaded. As a photojournalist for the then-Wyoming State Tribune in the 1970s, I fully embraced my job covering Frontier Days, from pancake breakfasts and parades to afternoon rodeos and evening concerts.

I’d usually join local and traveling journalists at a bar to discuss the day’s events because, of course, we thought we knew everything. As I count down my most memorable good, bad and embarrassing moments, let’s start with one that could still get me pummeled by country music fans.

10 — The Hitching Post was our favorite place, because it had a good live house band. The only downside for my ears was a cowboy who invariably came on stage to sing the last couple of songs. That was my time to leave, because this guy was always off-key.

I am chagrined to confess it was future country superstar Chris LeDoux, a legendary rodeo competitor from Kaycee. Years later, I interviewed him and learned that he was also an amazing Western sculptor and probably the nicest man on the planet.

9 — Another faux pas, this time at the rodeo. Reporters watched for contestants leaving the arena, stopping them before they disappeared under the stands to shed their equipment.

A woman who was the Denver correspondent for the New York Times kept beating me to interviews. I’d stand around patiently to ask questions about their techniques, background, motivation, etc., while my new competitor always asked the same thing: “What’s the name of that horse (or bull) you rode?”

I couldn’t reconcile how someone writing for the nation’s most prestigious paper could ask such a lame question. The reporter was Molly Ivins, who became one of the premier political columnists and hellraisers in America. See a trend here?

8 — I’m glad Molly wasn’t around when the Frontier Days public relations committee convinced the livestock committee to name some of the bulls after local journalists. I was in the arena waiting to take a photo of my namesake busting out of the gate when I heard the confused announcer say, “Here’s so-and-so, today’s leader, riding Kerry Drake. [Long pause] Now why on Earth would someone name a bull Kerry Drake?”

Why indeed? A genuine WTF moment for everyone in the stands, the cowboy and the bull.

7 — This isn’t a “moment,” but a fashion statement. The newspaper’s mandatory dress code was a sport coat and tie, but the rodeo required us to wear a cowboy hat, long-sleeve Western shirt and cowboy boots, no exceptions. Why, Frontier Days could lose its authentic image if someone snapped a photo of us covering the event wearing a sensible T-shirt to avoid heat stroke!

But I really didn’t mind. Losing the tie was a big plus, because I still hate wearing one. And I learned that my Dad was right, a good pair of cowboy boots are indeed the most comfortable footwear ever. I just wish they gave us a clothing allowance, because even in the 1970s, all that Western garb was expensive.

6 — In high school, most of my friends were listening to Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix, but I wore out my copy of “Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison” — again, Dad’s influence. So when the “Man in Black” held a press conference, I jumped at the assignment. While l should have been more professional, I followed him to the elevator, shook his hand and thanked him for all his music. I’d do it again.

5 — Speaking of music, I saw almost every major country star of the era because they loved playing Frontier Days. As long as we sat in a booth on the catwalk, people with media credentials could watch for free. I saw classic concerts by Cash, Merle Haggard, Charlie Daniels, Charley Pride, Dolly Parton, Waylon Jennings, Jerry Jeff Walker and Buck Owens. 

But hands down, the most unforgettable performance was by Kenny Rogers in 1978. Not my favorite singer, but it was during a deluge and he stood on stage wearing a soaked yellow slicker, playing his full show under the worst conditions I’ve ever seen.

4 — Reporters are often bumped up the editorial ladder, so eventually most of my Frontier Days writing landed on the opinion page, where I took up the cause of finally appointing women to chair the rodeo’s volunteer committees. It was one of the rare occasions when Cynthia Lummis — then-state legislator, now-U.S. senator — and I were fighting for the same thing.

Every year, we saw it rejected by men who hated the idea. But Lummis was rodeo royalty as a former Miss Frontier Days, and she eventually won them over.

But the guys who ran the show treated me as a traitor to my gender who ruined their world. Still, that was nothing compared to my decision to let PETA and other animal rights activists air their views about rodeo’s alleged cruelty to livestock. Burning me at the stake would not be enough punishment for that sin.

3 — Those guys could have exacted their revenge by tossing me in the legendary Zipper carnival ride. Despite fears of permanent damage, I willingly bought tickets when my future wife wanted to go for a few spins nearly 40 years ago. I’ve had a pain in my neck ever since, though she reminds me I’ve been a pain to her for just as long.

2 — Perseverance can pay off handsomely, as my friend Pete Laybourn proved when, after many years, he won the wild horse riding contest. It’s a fan favorite, and I’ll never forget the smile on his face when he claimed his prize.

1 — My chart-topper was the opposite of Laybourn’s experience. I loved taking photos in the arena because you can’t beat the action. But after a record rain drenched the rodeo grounds overnight, it was a sea of mud. I didn’t want to ruin my boots, so my father loaned me a pair of hip waders.

That worked fine until I drifted way too far from the fence and got literally stuck in the arena’s mud during the bareback event, making me an easy target for a stray horse. When I picked myself off the ground, I held my mostly dry, intact camera high in the air.

I didn’t expect cheers or gasps that I survived, but I also didn’t anticipate waves of laughter from thousands of spectators that kept growing louder as I trudged off, every inch covered in mud. Even my “friends” let me know it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. It would have gone viral but YouTube hadn’t been invented. 

I’m sure I will get over the humiliation someday. Ask me in a couple of decades.