This site has now been retired. I've moved to my new site Silverknife, where you'll find new blog posts and all my latest projects and photos. These pages will remain for at least a while, as I know some of you are still looking through the archives, but I'm reposting my travel journals and many other articles on the new site. Come and check it out.
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Thursday the 26th of July, 1300/1900.
It's a big one, folks, but I've still got more backed up so I'm going to do it all in one.
We get to the fairground around 1pm. As a competitor Doug gets in free, I pay $10.00 and get my hand stamped with a star. Doug is welcomed warmly by the girls in the booth, and it quickly becomes clear that while the Reunion and the rodeo are province-wide events, the local community is very much involved here.
The Manitoba Threshermen's Reunion and Stampede takes place in the Manitoba Agricultural Museum in Austin, just down the road from MacGregor. It's a huge site, largely volunteer-staffed and supported, which houses literally hundreds of beautifully-restored and maintained pieces of historical farm equipment, vehicles and tractors, as well as replicas of older items.
It also has a large number of reconstructed historical buildings in the Settler Village, with fully authentic furniture and fittings, and several barn-size buildings full of artifacts, old motors and weapons, as well as the custom-built rodeo arena which houses touring events like the one taking place on the next four nights.
Doug parks alongside the pens where the bucking bulls and horses are held, and we try to locate his ride of the following day. The huge bulls look fairly placid in the heat, mostly lying still with tails slowly sweeping, or wallowing in their dusthole.
Unable to locate Doug's bull of the following day (named "Never Wrong"), we walk through the rows of antique farm machinery and engines. People here have a different relationship with heavy machinery. A large proportion of the population are farm people, and encounter the tractors, diggers and other machines themselves on a regular basis.
Those who aren't usually have at least a bit of real land themselves, and would consider it normal to hire a digger to put in a pool or move rocks and gravel for a drive, or a tractor to pull stumps. At the very least most people have a pickup truck for heavy carrying and pulling tasks. Most people have a preference for one of the big brands - Case, John Deere, Caterpillar and others.
The machines are pretty interesting in their own right, particularly the huge steam tractors and miscellaneous machinery like the reconstructed sawmill which sits in the centre of the site under an open-sided shed. The heat is stifling though, and I begin to feel distinctly dizzy and nauseous with it. It seems to affect Doug and the locals equally strongly, however, and regular breaks to sit and cool for 15 minutes in patches of shade help enormously.
We tour the historic buildings, including big fixed engines and a reconstructed railway station with telegraph office, at a slow pace, and then return to the rodeo area where the crowds are building up. Everywhere there are jeans, cowboy boots, big belt-buckles and stetsons - if it weren't for the overheard "eh", "oh ya" and occasional eastern "dis"es and "dat"s, this is a crowd straight out of the american midwest, at least as it's portrayed in movies and TV. And country music is everywhere, playing over tannoys, from a live band in the arena between events and blasting out of passing trucks.
Doug seems to know or be related to at least one in ten people here - a lot of local people volunteer help at the museum through the year, and many more are employed or volunteer to help set up, manage and maintain the event's competitions, the parade and of course the extensive rodeo events.
We get lunch at the local Lions Club dining area - I have a burger, a Sprite and a bowl of chilli for a very reasonable $4.50, and it's really good homemade food too. Then we move to the grandstand seats around the main arena to watch the parade.
For over an hour, more than a hundred antique steam engines, tractors, fire trucks and cars, horse-drawn wagons (including a train of reconstructed pioneer wagons, built by their owners, which travels 60 slow miles by road every year to be here) and other vehicles and machinery pass through the arena in a slow procession, introduced and encouraged by Keith Dunwoodie, a little wiry guy with a white stetson, big moustache, glasses and a huge rolling DJs voice, working at least half from memory but nonetheless naming every driver, the history and characteristics of their individual machines.
Again, many of the drivers are local people, driving their own restored vehicles or on behalf of the owners who are unable to be there. Some of the machinery has been handed down through families for years. The parade is followed by a stooking contest beween teams of audience members, and the stooks are then gathered up for a race between an antique petrol-driven threshing machine and a steam-powered one (steam wins by a nose). After a turtle race between two steam engines, each trying to reach the line last without stalling their engines, Doug and I wander off to explore the rest of the buildings.
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We return for part of the Clydesdale Classic - the judging of various vehicles pulled by the beautiful Clydesdale horses popular in this area on appearance, control and presentation. Then we work our way back to the livestock pens. A younger boy, Clinton, is riding tonight for the first time in the Junior Bullriding event. He will be appearing as an exhibition rider, an option available to hometowners - he pays no charge but will not be elegible to be marked and compete for the prize money. It's how most of these junior cowboys get their first test of rodeo performance.
Doug has brought his own riding gear, some of which Clinton will be borrowing for his ride. He picks between two ropes, each of which has a noose 3/4 of the way down for the bull's neck (in the case of the Juniors it will be a young steer), with a heavy cowbell below that - Doug explains that the bell is essential, as it pulls the rope off the bull's neck after the rider lets go.
A little above the noose the rope is thick and plaited, with a thick leather-bound strand in the middle which separates from the body of the rope, forming a loop. This is where the rider will hang on. If he comes off the bull at the wrong angle, a riders hand can twist over and be trapped under the loop, pinning him to the side of the bull while it continues to buck, spin and - if he's really unlucky - roll.
Other essentials are the glove (thick multi-layered calfskin which protects the rider from rope burns), chaps (more protection plus essential fashion - Doug's are black with flames along the bottom and custom-made, they drag on the ground on Clinton but that won't matter on the bull), and a flak jacket in case the bull gores. Doug points out a spot on his chest where a bull hit him with a horn and the flak jacket rolled it off - without it the impact would probably have put one or more ribs through his lung.
Last are the spurs, also from Doug - Clinton has to add a hole to each strap with my swiss army knife in order to get them tight. He's a skinny 13-15 with very short-cropped blond hair and an engaging nervous energy and chatter, a noteable contrast to Doug's laconic gait and drawl. He's clearly in awe of Doug, who has ridden in several rodeos already, and peppers him with questions as he tries on and adjusts the kit.
We are joined by two of Clinton and Doug's friends, and as a sudden burst of rain passes over we retire to Clintons familys trailer and Doug and I get a beer each from the fridge (it's almost impossible to go anywhere here without there being cold beer within reach). We munch Lays crisps and talk as more people begin to appear and I am slowly introduced to a dizzying extended family of local people. Everyone is welcoming and friendly, everyone has questions about my trip and about England (and well-informed ones - many of these folks have been following the UK flooding on the news and ask if I know people who are affected.
As it comes to the start of the rodeo, Doug switches his baseball cap for a well-crumpled stetson and dons a check shirt over his habitual t-shirt - he will be assisting at the back of the arena, opening the gates of the "chutes", the narrow corrals in which each bucking horse or bull is contained while its rider finds his seat.
Moving around the arena we encounter the rodeo clown, Gordon "Bones" Marks, by his trailer. Doug knows him from previous rodeos and introduces us, and Gordon, a rail-thin man with a neatly-trimmed moustache visible under his thick makeup, is very welcoming. He asks for my full name and scribbles it on a bit of paper. Doug grins across at me, "Oh yeah, he's got something for you!". My heart sinks a little. "You mean in the show?" Gordon looks up at me, "Be back here after the barrel riding", wiggles his eyebrows under the greasepaint and returns to his trailer.
Now pretty nervous, I go to find my seat. Actually, initially I am terrified, but I try to turn the feeling around into excitement. I'm eased a little by the thought of what an amazing experience this is going to be - I've never seen a rodeo, now I'm going to be in one! I am joined shortly by Clinton's mum Cassie and her friend Lynne, who as it turns out have also been conscripted. I feel a little better.
The rodeo is engrossing and adrenal, a celebration of human (mostly male) and equine skill, strength and speed. There are team-roping events (two men on horses bolt from the chutes, heads down, a rocketing steer between them, and try to catch it by the horn and opposite rear leg - this is the way cowboys out in the field bring down a cow to treat or vaccinate it), calf-roping (one man lassooes a steer, dives off his horse and trusses it up), 2 and 3 competitor chariot racing which goes out of the arena and around a long loop of track before bursting back in on the other side, and of course the bucking horses and (junior, at this stage) bulls.
The family tell me that most riders go with one or the other and stick with it as the skills are mostly different - a horse tends to just pogo and buck up and down while the bull is more likely to spin. "And a horse will try to get clear when you're down...a bull'll turn around and try to trample you sometimes. Gets kind of sketchy out there" says Doug, invoking the oft-repeated cowboy's phrase for any situation in which there is a high likelihood of death, dismemberment or permanent maiming.
Clinton is up last in the junior bullriders as the exhibition turn. The boys before him are almost all off before the required 8 seconds, rolling out from under the stamping hooves of their mounts to get to the safety of the sidelines. Clinton's mum is on the edge of her seat as his turn comes. She had originally forbidden him to get into bullriding, and has only just discovered that he's been putting in hours of practice on Doug's practice barrel and the boys have built a makeshift chute on the edge of the family's land for him to practice on their steers.
Finally, on the other side of the ring, we see the tiny figure in blue and yellow Wrangler shirt, armour and chaps climb up, stand straddling the chute and lower himself onto the steer. There is a brief struggle as the cowboys around the chute support and direct him and his mount - the bull is working around already and must be facing the gate before launch. Then Clinton nods, the chute gate is snapped open and the steer leaps forward under full power and immediately begins to spin and buck, jumping half it's own height in the air.
Clinton excels, leaning back almost horizontally with his left hand gripping the rope just in front of his groin (apparently a frequent source of non-permanent but horribly painful accidents for beginners), he is snapped back and forth but rides out his 8 seconds with room to spare, and definitely outshines the kids competing for prize money. The mums cluster round as he comes off, and friends and relatives are down at the front of the grandstand with video cameras.
Once Clinton is clear his steer continues bucking and running round the ring. As with the roping calves and bucking horses, two expert cowboys are ready on horses to run it down, slow it to a safe gait and shunt it out through a side gate.
Next is the barrel race, a lighting-fast slalom round three barrels, exclusively a women's event and one about which the men are less than excited. "So how does a barrel race work?" I ask Clinton's dad, an old-school cowboy with bright blue eyes in a lined but youthful round face. "Well," he looks down at his boot, scuffs a little dust and looks up at me with a half-grin, "you go for coffee or to the bathroom".
It's time for Cassie, Lynne and I to go down and meet Bones, who is by his trailer bouncing on his toes and doing extravagant back-bends. He leads us to the big gates where we hold for a minute, Bones constantly cracking dry jokes in his calm style and if not reassuring us at least keeping us distracted, then takes us into the arena, grabbing a surprised Doug on the way.
He keeps up a stream of patter with Keith in the commentary box over his throat mic, which is relayed over the tannoy speakers surrounding the stadium. "Hey, it's Bones again - who've you got with you, Bones?" "This is Cassie and Lynne and Doug from MacGregor, and this is Mark Hewitt from England, he's hitching around the world" "Is that right? Hi Mark, welcome to Austin" I salute the box through a rising wave of excitement and panic.
It's getting dark now and the spotlights are beaming down, cutting off the rodeo from the world outside. The smooth grey oval of arena I could see from the grandstand is now a vast stretch of grey mud and I'm in the middle. It's a quiet first night, but there are still a good 3 or 4 hundred people in the stands.
"And why have you got those guys and girls with you, Bones?" "Well Keith, I can't get any reception on my cellphone around here, and I need to make a real urgent call. And I've heard that with the right mixture of X and Y chromosomes you can boost a cellphone signal".
He stops us in the middle of the arena, and through a Twister like series of instructions he arranges the four of us into a sort of partial human pyramid with ungainly (and muscle-straining) limbs protruding in various directions, shouting out the number of bars of reception he's getting at each stage. Finally he yells "I got through...hold it...hold it...Bob! How you doing, buddy?" the poses we must hold are seriously painful now "Yeah, I just been fishing. No, not a lot, eh?" an even more agonising pause "I just caught four suckers". The crowd cracks up and we untangle and take our bows with enormous relief.
I return to the stand and enjoy the rest of the show on the wave of adrenaline. Okay, so I got humiliated in front of several hundred people. But I was in the rodeo!
The show closes with the serious business of bullriding. As each cowboy mounts the chute and settles himself on the bull straining and heaving in its pen, the audience begins a slow handclap that builds up to pounding applause. Then there is the long pause as the men wrestle with the sweating animal, the just-visible stetson dips and he's out of the chute, the annnouncer booming "Heeeeeeeee's got a bucking bull!", AC/DC or Ram Jam blasting over the loudspeakers.
It's a relatively poor showing tonight, none of the riders make the 8 seconds and numbers 2 and 3 both get hung up in the aforementioned hand-twisting way, swinging helplessly against the side of the bull until the watching men see an opening, dash in and wrestle them clear.
Animal rights campaigners have shut down the team-roping in other local events lately and are fighting most of the rest of the rodeo activities, to the rage of local rodeo-goers (which is pretty much everybody, it seems). I am still undecided. Certainly it all looks very violent, physical and frantic. But are the animals really being hurt? All the events are over in a matter of seconds, and even the frenzied bulls return to calm within a couple of minutes of being led out of the ring, and are mellow resting in their pens.
There are breakpoints where sports like the roping are instantly aborted if there's a mistake and the animal is being hurt. And the people here love and care about their animals, it's a constant part of conversation. They note to each other who's letting his horse get thirsty, who's riding hard, whose cattle look underfed. There have only been two animals killed at rodeos in anyone's memory, and everyone tells me about them - a bucking horse charged the fence and broke it's neck, and a calf was wrongly roped, suffering the same fate. That's on the whole Manitoba circuit.
I meet Doug by the gates, get a photo with Bones (who is apologetic for the gag and very interested and encouraging about my journey, showing me off to the kids who have gathered to get his autograph), and we head to his boss's trailer where Doug's finely-tuned senses have detected a cooler. I meet the feedstore family and we crack beers, slap mosquitoes and engage in what I'm learning is the popular social practice of standing in a circle in sociable silence, broken only by the occasional glug of a bottle or muttered "yup". Clinton arrives, still high as a kite on adrenaline and two feet taller from the praise he's receiving from all sides.
Finally we all move to the beer garden and line the wooden benches 
under strings of lights for a stream of Canadian Budweiser cans and music from the Barn Burners (they suck, but nobody really cares at that point). When Doug and I arrive home it's well after midnight.
In the morning I shower and dress and we head straight out to the highway, pausing at a thrift store for me to replace my black shirts with paler button-downs for more comfort in the heat, and my ugly meshback cap (obtained in Niagara for 30c)
with a slightly smarter solid FeedRite one (50c). We're both quiet in the car, and saying goodbye is a genuine wrench - despite the difference in our backgrounds and lives, Doug and I got on really well. We found the same things funny, the same things interesting, and everyone I met in MacGregor and Austin has been so warm and welcoming I genuinely feel like I'm leaving a home.
I'm pausing for a Sprite and breakfast pastry in a Tim Horton's now, before heading out onto the highway to start hitching again.
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