How the West was fun

We knew we were in cowboy country when we passed an electric wheelchair with vanity plates.

"Drive it like you stole it" it read. The scooter was strapped to the back of a pickup.

We had driven eight hours, stopping first in Vanscoy where I found a magazine called Cowboys & Indians. It taught me how to wear turquoise jewelry and to tell apart different styles of cowboy hats. Its cover story on John Wayne proved interesting only for as long as we could figure out how to hook up the iPod port to the car stereo. The prospect of ordering a year's worth of the mag for our Calgary friend was tempting, but they minted them in the Yanky West and charged $20 to Canadians, likely for transport via chuckwagon, fuelled by yeehaws.

Our car on the other hand was fuelled by the looks of disgust and appalled glances of Huckleberry as I documented the drive via my digital voice recorder.

"Dear diary . . . " I breathed into my recorder. "We are now on highway number seven, flat and unexpressive . . ."

In Drumheller, we toured dim galleries of dinosaur bones and fossils encased in 4-inch gold picture frames. It was like viewing a private collection at a mansion where each room had a special name: The fossil "libry" The bone "gaaalery" The sea atrium. I got a picture of Huckleberry with his head in the maws of a Piranha skeleton the size of a cot. He can check that off his life to-do list.

After a hall of Darwin's sketches, we walked into a tunnel with a glass floor. Under our feet were the manifestations of pictures drawn by 3-year-olds. Organisms familiar if it weren't for the teeth, or the extra legs, or the odd shape. We were surrounded by mutant water insects and some were our ancestors. I imagined photoshopping some of my forebearers (who likely had the capability to self-spawn and eat simultaneously) into our latest family photos for Christmas cards.

I marveled at how far we've come in evolution as I sipped my Starbucks on the wooden walkway overlooking the badlands and the museum. Coffee . . . mmm . . . thank you dinosaurs for giving us oil . . . so we can make Starbucks.

I was confronted with my own limited evolution when we arrived in Calgary with no idea where to find the Stampede. Our local friend didn't know and Internet was on the lam. He called his brother for advice. We followed him like three ashamed sheep to the Park & Ride.

"You get off when all the stupid cowboys get off," he said.

We did our best to fit in: being fake was part of the ditty. The only real cowboys were behind the corral. For us, it was button-up plaid, cowboy hats and cigars.

The C-train took about 30 minutes, and I witnessed the two-minute half-life of a tram headed to the Stampede. Each stop doubled the number of hyped-up cowboys and girls filing onto the train who prevented fresh air from circulating.

Virtually everyone was paying some small homage to the west, whether with a hat, boots, plaid, or all the above.

Just inside the gates was a faux western town circling a treed picnic area. We stood by the blacksmith shop and watched a clown cowboy on stilts angle through the crowd. He had a braided whip in one hand and snapped it like a firecracker. That answered my question of potential heavyweights taking him down.

Hasslers, just like animals rights protesters, will never take down the cowboy clown.

Even though the Stampede is somewhat clownish and precarious, PETA protesters have had no luck shutting down any of the events.

Partly it's tradition, and partly it's the claim that animals injuries are rare. For more info, GOOGLE.

As we sat and watched the rodeo events, I tried to feign indifference to the cow's plight (Think Frau Farbissina listening to Dr. Evil and Scott argue after they meet).

Between the three of us, we encompassed all possible attitudes towards the Stampede: horror; appallment; excitement; indifference; glee.

The MC upped the tension by announcing the various ailments of cowboys as they mounted the bucking horse or bull.

"And this next cowboy, from Texas, who's all here from Texas? he's got a broken back! A slipped disc. Let's have a round of applause!"

In the large TV monitor, we could watch the cowboy's expression as he slid his hand under the bull's riding strap or get a good grip on the horse's rope.

It was an expression not of fear, per se, but his muscles knowing instinctively what would happen when he nodded his head and the gate flew open. His body tensed, teeth clenched like those of human remains found buried in Pompeii lava, contorted in pain.

I bet they were sweating like a volcano too. One guy fell off his bull, but in his effort to remain on, ended up under the 2000 pound animal as it bucked and stamped its feet in a high stakes game of Dance Dance Revolution.

He scampered away with his neck craning back at the bull, then he fell onto his knees, hands folded in prayer to the sky.

He is not the first to brush injury. For 100 years, the Calgary Stampede has brought the lore of western ranchers into the competitive ring. Wild horses needed to be tamed on the frontier, and cowboys needed to teach them not to buck. Some horses naturally buck more than others, though, and since half the points allotted to the cowboy go to the horse's performance, it's important the horse buck well. Most rodeos ban the use of any equipment that harms or discomforts the horse, and cowboys testify to horses not performing well if they are in pain. The bucking horses simply don't like anyone riding them. They're bred to buck off whoever mounts.

Clench those teeth, cowboy.

As Huckleberry looked appalled at the calf roping event (another skill from ranching days) my SK ex-pat friend was underdoing a gradual chemical change. His skin was becoming as red as chafed cowboy thighs. The sweat dripped down his face. I had no idea three hours had gone by until I saw how burned Ex-pat was.

It looked as though he had dipped both arms in red dye up to his T-shirt sleeve line.

That basically ended the day. On our way to the train we got stuck in the equivalent of a cattle run - hundreds of people trying to funnel through a narrow passage like sand in an hour glass. We were the sand that refused to funnel.

The tram ride home was virtually silent, and very empty. Stampede had demanded energy we no longer could afford until we found some heavy duty aloe vera. Preferably in a "run through the sprinklers" format.

Ex-pat friend descended into his basement suite and refused to come out for the rest of our visit. Huckleberry and I bought some industrial strength sunburn anesthetic.

It was our parting gift.