A brooding scene at the White Mountain Apache rodeo

At the White Mountain Apache rodeo, cash bets are taken by a young woman in the cab of an old Ford pickup. Fives and tens and twenties are exchanged and chit notes given. The cowboys line up beside the pickup three and four deep while their wives and girlfriends wait over on the side.

Young kids in baggy pants and too-big shirts run around the carnival grounds where bored carnies lean against the stairs to the Tilt-A-Whirl or Sizzler, both of which have no riders.

Dogs—blue heelers or Australian herding dogs—yap at the horses and the bulls. One young cowboy, no more than 15 or 16, drives five or six steers out of the gate and into the arena both to make sure the gates are working and to see which way the steers will break when they get inside.

For anyone used to the boisterous nature of a Saturday football game, this is a quiet affair. Almost religious. The loudest sound is the flapping of American and Arizona flags above the arena and the nervous, constant whinnying of the horses.

Things move slowly. The crowd in the stands is lethargic almost to the point of looking like they’re sleeping with their eyes open. There is little reaction to anything that happens and people seldom clap, even when the announcer encourages them to “Give a big hand to that busted-up cowboy.”

Emotions are as flat as the landscape, as brooding as the threatening sky.

 

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