1. “Did you know there were cowgirl events at the rodeo?” asked Doug, a local man
sitting next to me, who on discovering I was a rodeo novice, had assigned
himself the task of commentator. “The girls are not as fast as the guys, but they
give it a bit of a go,” he said as the first competition of the day for cowgirls
began in Kenilworth, Queensland.
The crowd quietened in anticipation. The announcer, introduced cowgirl Betsy
from Queensland, to an enthusiastically warm cheer from the crowd. Cowboys,
with their hats and boots, jeans and checked shirts, sat atop the metal railing
fence surrounding the arena, which was stilled in shared concentration. Penned
horses and bulls ceased pacing and snorting. Even the wind dropped
momentarily. All heads turned towards the cage and waited for something to
happen. Then, clang. Up went the gate and out charged the bull running ruler
straight and full pelt. A red ribbon, the cowgirls’ job to retrieve, fixed to its neck,
as bright as neon against the caramel coloured young bull.
A second past then another gate flew up and cowgirl Betsy astride her horse, now
released from its holding, charged after the bull. After a couple of seconds the
horse sensed the watching audience and, excited by the occasion, it decided to
put on a show of its own. It pushed down its head and bucked hard, thrusting its
hind legs high into the air. Betsy leaned back, somehow staying put in the saddle,
one hand firm under the strap, the other arm above her head, making circles in
the air. Buck finished, the horse planted four hooves on the ground and jumped
forward, then head down, it kicked its hind legs up again, spraying peat from the
arena floor.
The horse made its way across the arena floor kick by kick, like a ballet dancer
who has thrown away the script. A dust cloud from the disturbed peat followed
the horse, its fine particles and woody aroma catching in my throat and nostrils.
Betsy clung on, her free arm flapping more wildly and desperately as she tried to
stay aboard. Finally, with a final powerful thrust, her horse tipped Betsy off and
she landed on the ground, face first, only slightly cushioned by a layer of peat.
“Unlucky there for Betsy, a previous winner here and one of Queensland’s best
cowgirls,” the announcer sympathised before introducing the next contestant.
Betsy got up and with half her face covered in dirt, she walked, ramrod straight,
back to the enclosure. Brightly coloured “clowns” guided the now forgotten bull
into a pen and collected the riderless horse, spent after its athletic performance.
“She took a bit of a knock out there, I bet that brought a few tears”, I said.
Doug’s wife leaned across and said to me, “Girls don’t cry at the rodeo”.