The View from the Buzzard’s Roost in Cody

An excerpt from my upcoming travel memoir, Travel Mania: Stories of Wanderlust:

When I heard there was a nightly rodeo on a 2001 trip to Cody, Wyoming, I had to see it.

Local residents advised me to sit in the Buzzard’s Roost. “You won’t be looking into the sun at the beginning, it’s got the best view of the action, and you’ll get to see some good-looking butts.”

The Cody rodeo is a bona fide competition, with prize money at stake. It is held nightly each summer and provides steady work for young cowboys. They get experience, and many go on to major national competitions.

It was something of a letdown that seated to my left was a couple from Tenafly, NJ, to my right a guy from Westport, CT, and directly behind me a middle-aged couple from France and their young daughter and son.

As we waited for the rodeo to begin, crowds filed in until the Buzzard’s Roost bleachers were full. Only a few foolish souls sat on the sunny side, in full heat, with the glare in their eyes. Guess they hadn’t thought to ask where to sit.

In the ring, a few riders and horses worked out, but the real action was immediately in front of me as cowboys prepared for the first event. The term cow-boy is exactly right. Most riders didn’t appear to have started shaving yet. My eyes were riveted as they dropped their jeans, just a few feet in front of me, padded their butts and inner thighs, then pulled up their jeans and attached chaps and spurs. When fully dressed, they loosened up muscles with elaborate stretching routines or a modified St. Vitus’ dance. Whenever a particularly good-looking kid dropped his pants, all conversation ceased as everyone concentrated on watching the show.

At precisely eight-thirty, the announcer’s voice boomed, “Welcome to the Cody Rodeo, best damned rodeo in the West! Let’s all stand for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”

As the final crackling notes trailed off, a pack of horses galloped into and around the ring. The kicked-up dust transformed the scene into an impressionist painting, pure color and light and shadow. A roar rose up from the crowd. The rodeo had begun.

Unbroken horses for the bareback riding event were packed into small individual holding pens perhaps twenty feet in front of me. In close quarters, the horses whinnied and stamped, making it clear they were not happy.

“Mon Dieu,” yelped the woman behind me.

Young boys, some swaggering, some fidgeting, and a few looking just short of terrified despite frozen grins on their faces, climbed over the barrier and onto the horses. “Holy Christ,” muttered the guy next to me. “Who in their right mind would do that?”

“Ya gotta be young and brave.”

“Or young and stupid.”

A team of older, experienced men fussed over each boy for the two or three minutes before his ride, pushing and prodding their charge into perfect position. They whispered advice and put a comforting hand on a shoulder — or punched it, doing whatever they could to instill confidence.

“Here comes our youngest rider.” the booming voice announced. “Let’s give a hand for Jesse, age sixteen, from Whitesboro, Texas, riding Pepperpot.” With that, the gate opened, and Pepperpot and Jesse stormed into the ring. His ride and the applause for him were much shorter than the preparations.

The only folks participating in the ring who looked to have much life experience were the clowns. They didn’t get much glory, but they worked hard and seemed to love their job. The clowns became my heroes, the ones figuratively wearing the white hats.

While most cowboys participated in only a single event, the clowns were in the ring for nearly the whole evening. Using nothing more than a small prod and their own smarts and agility, they protected the cowboys from the bulls and unbroken horses. At the same time, they entertained the crowd, managed the movement of animals out of the ring, and bantered with the announcer.

One ornery bull made sudden, sharp, threatening moves, first toward the cowboy and then the clown. As deft as a toreador, the clown maneuvered the bull away from the cowboy. Then he took a running leap and landed behind a fence micro-seconds before the bull could butt him.

“Extraordinaire!”

Like Wyoming.