I treated myself to a bobsled ride at the Nordic and Sliding Center in Lake Placid for no particular reason, and it was amazing.
Yet the notion of barreling down Mt. Van Hoevenberg in a pocket rocket was never part of my original bucket list…although it should have been. So I added it, just so I could cross it off my list.
True, there’s another bobsled run in Park City, but I’m not schlepping to Utah for another sliding track if I’m already here. Besides, Olympic history was made at Lake Placid, when the Americans defeated the Soviets in the men’s hockey finale.
Leah had less than zero interest in joining me, so I was on my own. Unfortunately, she was nursing a bad lower back the past few days, and missing out on a world of world-class activities–
while I was anticipating the thrill of winding through a dozen curves in a rumbling sled, and wondering how I would capture it all without dropping my phone. Carpe diem, all the way!
I filled out a “hold harmless” waiver online; showed the attendant my drivers license (although I wasn’t driving); and booked a 1pm run-time for $125. I thought it a bit pricey for a 55 second experience, compared to the “value” of free-falling from an airplane (Free Fallin’ Off My Bucket List),
or riding Class 4 and 5 rapids on the New River (New River Gorge), but at least I’d have bragging rights among friends.
Leah was willing and able to join me on the Legacy Tour, where we previewed the Olympic Center’s newest facility–the first of its kind, indoor push-track for bobsled and skeleton in the United States–
where athletes can practice start gate techniques for skeletons, and bobsleds. But they’ll need to dress for winter, because it was like a mammoth refrigerator inside!
We warmed up while examining the 1980 track, which is built atop the 1932 track, which runs parallel to the Cliffside Coaster, North America’s longest coaster.
Next, we boarded a bus that drove us to the 1st of 4 start gates of the Combined Track, completed in 2000…
for a look at what $50K to $100K will buy these days.
Then we walked the upper course…
past Curve 1…
to Start Gate 3…
with a distant view of the Ski Jump Center.
I shared my downhill ride with an anonymous coed, who took the first position behind the driver. I squeezed in behind her, with my butt planted on a quilted foam pad. Definitely, not the best position for a bad back, so Leah was right to sit this one out. Instructions were simple: hold onto the inside bars with both hands.
“But how will I video this?” I asked.
The attendant picked his words carefully: “You didn’t hear this from me, but if you hold your phone near the edge of the sled and brace your arm against the roll bar, your phone should fall into the sled if it slips out-ta your hand.”
We got a push and we were ready to roll…
Mt Van Hoevenberg, Lake Placid–Aug 20 ’22
We posted a respectable 52.25 seconds over the 1500 meter run. Olympian athletes can reach speeds of 90mph barreling down the same course.
While not the fastest run at 48mph, it was quick enough to earn me a moment on the gold medal podium.
There is one place on earth–Silfra–where it’s possible to “touch” two different continents underwater and it’s located within the Golden Circle of Iceland. Leah and I were up for the challenge, but it required some preparation.
First, we traveled southeast of Reykjavik to Thingvellir National Park, the birthplace of parliamentary government (Althing, 930 AD), and the zone where volcanic activity has played a heavy hand in shaping our planet.
Not to get too bogged down in earth science, but a rift occurred through the middle of Iceland where two tectonic plates are pulling away from each other 2.5 centimeters every year as a result of volcanic activity in the region since the beginning of time,
and much of it vents under Lake Thingvallavatn, Iceland’s largest lake.
Above sea-level, lava fields at Thingvellir have been torn apart by tectonic forces, leaving gorges and fissures to admire between two continents.
However, inside the rift valley created by daily earthquakes throughout time, there is one ravine, Silfra that allows snorkelers and divers to experience the tectonic plates underwater, but it requires a dry suit to tolerate the water temperature (2o C) and a certified outfitter to guide thru the underwater fissure.
Leah and I had booked an excursion through Arctic Adventures, who supplied all of our underwater gear and a guide to assist with dressing, and underwater photography.
We dressed in a parking lot by the roadside where various outfitters have set up shop.
Over the thermals and wool socks we supplied, we stepped into fully insulated jumpsuits to wear under incredibly bulky dry suits with fixed booties, snug rubber sleeve guards around our wrists, lashed with rubber bands, and a snug rubber seal around our neck with a rubber band choker. An industrial zipper across our deltoids sealed us in.
Then came a rubberized neoprene hood over our heads. Imagine forcing your head through your neck. After accessorizing our fashionable outfits with neoprene lobster gloves, we were ready for the apocalypse.
We were a group of twelve…
under the supervision of Chris (from Hungary) and Marcelo (from Sao Paulo). We split into 2 groups of 6,
and waited our turn to enter the water.
Immediately, the suit constricted around my lower body as I stepped deeper and deeper into frigid water…but I stayed dry! Without hesitation, I glided in and immersed my face. Only the small area around my facemask was exposed and the sensation around my lips felt like a cold scalding until they turned numb after 10 seconds.
We flopped onto our backs, and let the current carry us slowly through the gorge while watching the arctic terns doing aerial maneuvers overhead.
As we floated past Grynningar Shallows, I was awed by the clarity of the water, with visibility beyond 100 meters (300 ft).
We were in the water approximately 40 minutes. Once we reached the Silfra Lagoon, the stiff current required strong frog kicks for us to reach the exit point.
As promised by Marcelo, each of us emerged from the lake with “Angelina Jolie lips.”
Overall, the experience was sublime. However, my biggest complaint had to be cold hands. Most of the time, my hands stayed clasped behind my back, out of water, but the weak stitching around the seals of the gloves made them porous. Marcelo quipped that the gloves leaked because they were made in Sweden.
Lest we be judged for our adventurous antics, consider this unassuming mother of three from Germany, who stripped down to her swimsuit, and took the polar plunge, albeit for only 30 seconds.
I don’t think she’ll be doing that again, anytime soon, but for me, it could become an addiction.
The New River has been carving the Appalachian Valley for the past 10 to 360 million years–depending on who you ask–which makes it an ancient river–ranked behind the Finke and Meuse as the world’s third oldest river. Of course, there is the obvious non sequitur, given the river’s moniker and apparent age.
One story claims that its name comes from a translation from Indian dialect meaning “new waters.” Another explanation tells of Captain Byrd who had been employed to open a road from the James River to Abingdon in 1764. Byrd used the Jefferson-Fry Map published in 1755. However, this map did not show the river, so Byrd noted it as the “New River.”
Originating in North Carolina, the New River flows 360 miles north until it meets the Gauley River in southern West Virginia, providing some of the best whitewater (Class IV rapids and above) on the planet, and the main reason for our visit.
Our first look came from an overlook behind the Canyon Rim Visitor Center,
treating us to canopied canyon walls as far as we could see, soaring 876 feet above the water.
and a profile of the New River Gorge Bridge (the Rusted Rainbow).
When the New River Gorge Bridge opened in 1977, it was the world’s longest single-span arch bridge for 26 years. With an arch 1,700 feet (518 m) long, it is now relegated to the fifth longest.
While I appreciate the engineering feat of a half-mile span that saves travelers 45 minutes of detouring,
it’s the river I’ve come to conquer.
New and Gauley River Adventures shoved off from Stone Cliff at 10am–14 miles downriver from the bridge–with six eager adrenalin junkies and our guide, Costa Rica Scott in one raft, and a support raft to tag along. Leah refused to float with us, despite my gentle coaxing.
Once we were properly outfitted with life jackets and helmets…
off we went…
While the first half of the trip was relatively lazy, with fountains of 60oF spray coming from occasional haystacks and laterals, the spring run-off and torrents of rain before our arrival had turned the second half into a fast-moving, turbulent churn, filled with hydraulic traps, and 7 foot waves.
which had us threading our way through Keeneys, Dudleys Dip, Double Z, Greyhound, and Millers Folly Rapids with increased caution.
Miraculously, we never flipped and everyone remained in the boat throughout the ride. However, the soul behind me spent most of the time stretched across the raft with his head pinned over the gunwale, retching. Fortunately, whenever our pilot commanded us to “dig in” (paddle like our lives depended on it), I avoided smacking him across the face.
After 4 hours on the river, our take-out was just shy of the bridge, beyond Fayette Station.
What a blast! If only there was time to run back and do it again, but that would have left little time for hiking to Diamond Point;
visiting Cathedral Falls in Ansted;
investigating abandoned beehive coke ovens in Nuttallburg;
strolling through a mining ghost town (pop. 5) in Thurmond;
or just chilling at The Outpost, “Where Wild Meets Wonderful.”
During our travels across America, Leah and I have cycled on several amazing rail trails–each one offering a variety of gorgeous scenery, interesting terrain, historical context, and wildlife features. The Black Hills of South Dakota boasts the George S. Mickelson Trail, which checks all the right boxes.
The trail follows 109 miles of Burlington Northern’s historic rail line from Deadwood to Edgemont–
crossing 100 converted railroad bridges…
and pedaling through 4 tunnels.
The result is breathtakingly beautiful.
Named after South Dakota’s governor following his untimely death in 1993, George S. Mickelson’s ardent support was instrumental in creating a non-motorized mixed-use trail,
from his dedication of the first 6 miles in 1991 to the trail’s completion in 1998.
Rather than limiting our linear miles, we rode the trail from Dumont (its highest elevation point at 6240 ft) to Hill City,
and hired a taxi service to transport our bikes back to Dumont.
The trail consisted of crushed limestone and gravel which was perfect for our road bikes clad with all-terrain tires.
While riding the trail was effortless (mostly a slow downhill roll), there were many reasons to stop:
whether to soak up the landscape;
or reflect on South Dakota’s cultural heritage–such as farmers using cyanide lids left over from Deadwood’s Gold Rush days to shingle and side their houses.
All of which made for a glorious outing,
which only adds to the allure of Black Hills lore.
Leah and I had a lot of ground to cover during our brief visit to the Oregon Coast. With so much to see and do before we moved on, there was little time to waste. We immersed ourselves in seaside activities until we were Ore-goners.
We set up our first camp site at South Beach State Park, and made a beeline to the beach. After 10 weeks and 9,000 miles on the road, we were finally celebrating “sea to shining sea.”
The following morning, we visited Yaquina Head to play in the tidepools;
observe the seabirds,
study the sealions;
and visit Oregon’s tallest lighthouse (93 feet), projecting its light beam 19 miles out to sea since 1873.
And then we were off to Newport’s Historic Bayfront,
where we lunched with our safari buddies Brenda and Michael, who drove from Portland to join us for the afternoon.
On our last full day at South Beach, we played nature tourist. We gawked at Devil’s Punchbowl;
the Seal Rock;
and Cook’s Chasm.
We combed the black sand beaches, searching for sea glass gems;
and we were entertained by surfers braving frigid waters along Beverly Beach to round out our day.
Typically on moving day, it’s clean-up, hitch-up and safety check before moving on to our next destination. Once in a while we’ll break up the drive by stopping for lunch at a roadside dive, but mostly we’ll snack in the pickup. However on this particular day, on our way up the Oregon Coast Highway to Cannon Beach, we were eager to stop at Tillamook Creamery.
And we were not alone. Hundreds were passing through the overhead exhibition windows with us…
before earning a taste of Oregon’s finest ice cream.
Once situated at camp site #2, we were free to roam the shore to explore a different kind of scoop, but still a rocky road…
along Ecola State Park.
Our evening was reserved for clam chowder at Dooger’s in Seaside, and then a walk along their lively beach at dusk.
The area is also filled with history. Leah and I spent the next day time climbing through the gunnery emplacements at Fort Stevens,
intended to protect the mouth of the Columbia River.
We also discovered the Peter Iredale, or what was left of the four-masted steel barque sailing vessel that ran aground in 1906 en route to the Columbia River.
Nearby, the Lewis and Clark Historical Park offered a replica of Fort Clatsup,
and a glimpse of early 19th century housing for Capt. Meriwether Lewis and Lieut. William Clark,
and their guide Sacagawea and son, Baptiste.
Finally, a day of walking through Astoria gave us wonderful examples of coastal living…
and coastal culture,
But a hike up 164 steps to the tower of the hand-painted Astoria Column…
offered us a scenic perspective…
that prepared us…
for our crossing to Washington’s Olympic National Park.
With one of the largest stockyards in the country, it’s no surprise that Amarillo, TX has its fair share of real cowboys. Every year these ranchers bring their cattle and horses to the Amarillo National Center to compete against each other in the Coors Cowboy Club Ranch Rodeo for bragging rights in Saddle Bronc Riding, Stray Gathering, Branding, Trailer Loading, and Wild Cow Milking.
The event officially started on June 3, with its annual longhorn cattle drive through downtown Amarillo. Although Leah and I arrived one day later, Dorinda Blease was there to capture the procession in her grand prize photo.
We cheered with the crowd as the same cattle were released into the arena on the second evening of the rodeo. They milled around for 15 minutes, acting rather nonplussed…
or feeling right at home…
before meandering to the other end of the arena and through the egress gates as future steaks.
After a yellow rose ceremony to memorialize the local cowboys and rodeo guardians who passed over to the Great Ranch in the Sky during the past year, the evening started with saddle bronc riding.
The crowd waits eagerly in anticipation as the horse and rider are carefully prepared in the bucking chute. The moment the gate is opened, the horse bursts free with the rider holding on for dear life and 8 precious seconds,
showing off his finesse, balance and agility…
or not!
A rodeo interlude for all the little cowkids (aged 4 to 7) who were brave enough to ride a slippery mutton buster kept us entertained…
and the sheep, as well.
The cowboys also tested their roping skills, where they had to catch and wrangle a rogue steer to the ground before binding its legs.
With a dozen ranches competing against each other,
there were winners and losers for those keeping score.
But for me, the critters won the day.
And they could probably teach a thing or two to the guys who are pulling the wrong end for milk.
Motor sports awaits its biggest day on May 30, when 135,000 spectators will gather at the Brickyard for the start of the 105th running of the Indy 500. It will be the largest assembly of people anywhere for a single event since the coronavirus pandemic overwhelmed the country and the world.
Last year, the race was held without fans, but this year the Indianapolis Motor Speedway will accommodate 135,000 of 257,325 available seats, or 40% capacity. The number is staggering until the onlooker realizes that the curved rectangle is 2.5 miles long and occupies 559 acres,
with tiered grandstands reaching 7 stories on both sides of the track.
Having checked in at the Indiana State Fairgrounds for overnight accomodations,
we couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming noise coming from the nearby critter pavilions…
so off we went to follow the commotion, and found the source. Apparently, it was a tire spin-off to Mecum’s 2021 Indy Auction:
The Dodge Challenge
…an annual event that brings out the best and most coveted collector cars for bidding:
But Leah and I were in Indianapolis during the Indy 500 Practice to watch drivers rocket down the straightaways in their IndyCars at 240 mph,
in anticipation of bringing home the trophy and chugging a bottle of milk.
So off we went to the fabled racetrack, built in 1909 and mostly unchanged, until the addition of the Pagoda, completed in 2000.
Trying to track the cars as they went screaming by in a blur…
would have certainly resulted in whiplash if we continued watching with each passing lap, but thankfully, the video screen provided necessary neck relief.
And then the unexpected happened…
With 1hr 44min left in the practice session, #45 Santino Ferrucci turning too early into the #2 corner careened into the wall,
and it was time for us to call it a day at the track.
Fortunately, Ferrucci escaped serious injury, and was taken to the hospital for observation.
He has subsequently been cleared to race on Sunday, qualifying for the 25th position in a field of 33 cars, with Scott Dixon enjoying the pole position at the start of the race.
I hope the winner likes milk!
UPDATE:
Helio Castroneves wins the Indy 500 for a record-tying 4th time, finishing ahead of Alex Palou by half a second.
Top qualifier, Scott Dixon finished 17th in the field after his car ran out of gas before his first pit stop, and Santino Ferrucci finished sixth.
Castroneves celebrated with a chilled bottle of 2% milk, but swapped that bottle out for some strawberry milk, which perfectly matched his hot pink and white fire suit and No. 6 Honda.
Tucked into the Alta valley, lies a kennel of 98 Alaskan huskies that are so eager to pull a sled, that a team of six can pull their anchor out of the ground.
So much so that it took a Holmen Husky trainer to restrain them.
It was that kind of energy that had Leah and me so hyped to run the dogs on the trail, but only after properly outfitting ourselves…
and learning the intricacies of mushing, as explained by Vicki from UK.
Most importantly, after witnessing the huskies’ enthusiasm, we focused on how to brake and when to brake!
After a visual review of the basic rules…
we were appointed to our teams.
For the next 90 minutes, we rode through birch forests as the snow gently fell.
Keeping our distance between sleds was our biggest challenge, as the dogs were more than up to the task of hauling a 25 kg /55 lb sled…
with two passengers.
When occasional braking was necessary to prevent our sled from overtaking the sled ahead, the lead dog always turned to us, as if to say, “Why are you slowing me down?”
And when Duke, one our wheel dogs sensed that his partner Nola wasn’t carrying her weight, he let her know about it.
Bred for speed and endurance, Holmen’s sled dogs can manage 10 to 14 miles per hour, and may travel over 90 miles in a 24-hour period, pulling up to 85 pounds apiece!
The Holmen dogs are happiest when they are working, and even more so when they are racing.
When our run was over, it was time to time to relax…
to pose…
and to cuddle.
A fire, a biscuit, and some blueberry tea was the perfect nosh after our wintry mush.
But doggone it, there would be no Northern Lights tonight!
Whenever I’m traveling with Leah, the driving usually falls to me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. In fact, I enjoy driving as much as Leah prefers being the passenger. I figure our roleplay has lasted us through nearly sixteen years of togetherness and over 200,000 miles of highways and byways.
Over the years, we’ve worked out a reliable system where she tells me what to do and I’m inclined to ignore her.
Well, not exactly…
But ours is a predictable pas de deux that’s always destined for Bickerville.
For instance, if we’re traveling on the Interstate, Leah’s likely to order: “Slow down! You’re driving too fast.”
Typically, I’ll answer, “Okay,” and resume my present speed. I know it irritates her when I don’t accept her advice because she tells me so. Yet after a time, all is forgiven–but never forgotten. She never hesitates bringing it up again and again at my earliest convenience.
Similarly, if we’re driving in traffic, I’m likely to hear, “Why do you have to be on his tail all the time?” Her remark always seems to shift into hyperbole.
But I don’t blow a gasket. I simply suggest that if I was that close to him, I’d be able to read his license plate.
Then before too long, I’ll receive another Leah alert: “Slow down! You’re driving too fast.”
Occasionally, I’ll remind her, “You’re welcome to drive yourself, if you don’t like the job I’m doing.”
More often than not, she’ll respond with, “That’s okay. I’m good.”
But patterns are made to be broken. The chance of snowmobiling across the Arctic Circle brought a different scenario I didn’t see coming.
We arrived from Tromsø to Camp Tomak by the busload…
to participate in sledding for the day–either by dog…
or by engine.
After gearing up for Arctic climate…
we were ready for our safety and operations briefing.
That’s when Leah determined that she had no interest in driving, and even less interest in riding behind me.
“There’s no way I’m I getting on this machine with you,” she insisted.
“Why not?” I asked. “It’ll be fun!”
“Because I have no interest in getting hurt or dying,” she expressed.
“Neither do I!” I objected.
“And what if you should roll over?” she predicted. “I think I’d rather ride with Jan.”
Jan, our guide interceded and accepted to buddy-up with Leah. At first, I was insulted that she didn’t trust me–that she imagined I would risk our lives and limbs–until I realized what a huge favor she had done for me.
Without Leah behind me, I was free from scorn and criticism.
The snowscape was endless.
The cliff face was frozen.
The Nordic sky was vast.
And the scenery was breathtaking.
The guests had good reason to be giddy.
When the sun set behind the mountain,
we retired to the Sami tent for warmth, reindeer stew and tea.
Naturally, I thanked Jan for his hospitality and counsel.
“That was absolutely liberating,” I gushed. “I owe you big time for taking Leah along. Maybe you’d like to take her home with you,” I jested.
We shared a laugh together, but Leah wasn’t having any of it.
“Keep it up and you’ll be sleeping with Olaf,” she warned.
GPS was set to Zona Arqueológica de Tulum, but upon arrival, the crossover was still under construction. Following signs to the next Retorno, I backtracked to a bustling turnoff. This looked nothing like the Tulum I remembered from 5 years back. Heck, Tulum used to be all jungle 20 years ago!
But now, it resembled a spider web of agents in uniformed shirts carrying clipboards and shouting directions in Spanglish. Our rental car was stopped short of the road to the ruins, where we were met by Freddy, a representative for Santa Fe Beach Club, whose job it was to redirect us to his business.
According to Freddy, my choices were limited since cars could no longer advance. Either I could park nearby for $20 and walk 1 km to the ruins, or pay $40 a head, granting us: closer parking; National Park entrance passes; access to the Beach Club–including toilet and shower provisions, one drink (choice of water, soda, or cerveza), and a half-hour water tour, followed by reef snorkeling (all gear provided).
“No way!” everyone voiced emphatically.
All of us were content to walk to the ruins for a fraction of the cost. As I prepared to park in an already overcrowded lot, Freddy offered us a winning alternative: the same all-inclusive package reduced to $27 per person–a 33% discount–traditionally offered to Mexican residents. Score! and lesson learned. Always negogiate the price!
While the ruins piqued their interest, the prospect of snorkeling atop the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef (largest reef system in the Western Hemisphere) sounded especially promising to Noah and Nate. After I revised our initial itinerary–which would have included a stop at Yal-ku in Akumal, with snorkeling in a brackish lagoon surrounded by sculptures–I sensed their enthusiasm to swim in the Caribbean.
I followed Freddy’s directions to Tulum’s Hotel Zone, and turned into a narrow seaside road, offering access to scores of Tulum’s boutique hotels and yoga retreats. Unfortunately, Tulum’s current popularity may prove unsustainable, as it’s recent explosion of tourism and new resort construction have overtaken the town’s current infrastructure capacity, turning it into a eco-nightmare.
Nevertheless, developers continue to exploit the bohemian chic of Tulum. Despite government crackdowns (knowingly rife with corrupt officials), illegal projects continue, laying waste to precious jungle habitats that were once home to endangered jaguars and sea turtles.
We drove to the término, reaching our destination…
and luckily found a coveted parking spot along the mangroves by the beach entrance.
We walked the remaining half mile to the National Park on a rutted lane shared by cyclists, and local vendors selling water and trinkets.
Ordinarily, the surroundings are packed with tour groups and spectators, but we arrived on a calm day, without the usual hubbub.
In fact, the landscape was relatively quiet, and devoid of humanity…
except when I wanted an isolated picture of family.
After meandering through 13th century wreckage for more than an hour, we turned our attention to the beach, where the turquoise water looked so inviting.
Ruins Beach is accessible from the cliffs above, but 500 meters south, lies Sante Fe Beach, one of Tulum’s original hangout spots before the tourism boom…
and that was our next destination.
Per Freddy’s instructions, we sought out Captain Harrison, and lounged on PVC beach chairs under a delapidated canopy, waiting for our excursion on Brenda or half a dozen skiffs just like her.
Leah stayed on land after realizing her bonine fix had worn off, but Noah, Nate and I eagerly climbed aboard.
Our captain motored out to open water,
and offered a summarized history of the Mayans, and importance of Tulum…in Spanish.
Soon, we headed for the reef, where others had formed a floatilla of snorkelers.
Noah and Nathan eagerly jumped overboard for an under-the-sea swim…
while I remained on the surface, shooting pelicans…
and keeping track of my sons.
Once ashore, it was time for a beer and a shower. Despite the primitive outdoor plumbing on the beach, we concluded that $27 a head was a better bargain than any of us could have ever imagined for a family vacation adventure.
This tune helps set the mood, so hit play and read until the video:
I’ve been an adrenelin junkie most of my adult life, so it figures that one day I would satisfy my urge to jump out of a plane (with a parachute, of course). But for whatever reason, I never took advantage of the opportunity…until now.
The opportunity came in the form of a birthday present from my sons, Noah and Nate, but with a long ribbon attached: we’d be skydiving in Playa del Carmen, which was my gift to them to celebrate their belated birthdays!
We all came from different parts of the country. Leah and I flew from Jacksonville to Charlotte–where we met Nate, who transfered from Seattle–and continued with us to Cancun, hours ahead of Noah’s direct flight from Philly.
We thought about the weather when we arrived at Vidanta on Saturday. Our jump on Monday was conditional on the weather spirits. The winds had to be just right, and a sunny day would be a bonus. On Monday we got both.
I reserved a car from the resort’s travel center on Sunday, and returned the next day with my family to pick up my VW Polo at 9 am. I was expecting the agent, but nobody was there except for two women from Columbia, who were already waiting with their family for half-an-hour.
When we compared itineraries, the Columbians mentioned they were driving to Chichen Itza. In my mind, I thought that my family deserved priority check out. After all, we had a briefing and a plane to catch at Playa del Carmen’s aerodrome at 10 am. But I wasn’t going to make a stink about it, because we planned our departure with a half-hour contingency cushion. Nevertheless, a spark of adrenalin delivered a dose of shpilkes.
Besides, none of that mattered at 9:15 am when the agent was still a no-show, and the concierge kept her distance when Leah approached her about contacting the agent to secure an ETA, so we could make alternative plans. Another push of adrenalin and my irritation level moved to agita.
We hustled to a tram stop to catch an achingly s-l-o-w shuttle to the resort’s transit hub, and hailed a taxi the moment we got our bearings. A time check revealed 9:30 am. Google maps predicted a 10 am arrival. My pulse was racing just a bit, and I was feeling verklempt. We traveled the road to Playa mostly in silence.
We celebrated our arrival at exactly 10 am (how does Google do it?)
Typical paperwork to indemnify the company was waiting for us, and after weighing in, we anxiously waited for our tandem partners to arrive from an earlier jump. Nearby, our chutes were being prepared.
Leah was driven to the jump drop on Playacar’s beach, while my sons and I met David, Jose and Juan, who we would trust our lives to.
Finally, it was time to jump! On the way to the airport (walking distance), I learned that David had over 2400 jumps, of which 500 were tandem. I was really looking forward to this!
After an official passed us through security with a wand, we caught up with our pilot and plane, a twin engine AirVan outfitted for eight passengers parked along a single landing strip. Once we were prepped on the flight and outfitted with harnesses, we boarded the plane. Soon we were barrelling down the runway and airborne.
Our free fall time was approximately 40 seconds, and we were hurtling toward earth at approximately 200 km per hour (125 mph). No wonder my face was stretched to the max. But after touching down only meters away from our landing zone, I knew that this was a birthday gift I would long remember…
until the next time!
Thanks Noah and Nate for an adrenal rush of a lifetime!
It was reindeer season again in St. Petersburg, FL thanks to Enchant Christmas, a Vancouver-based lighting company that plants holiday fixtures in unlikely places. The illusion of winter shone brightly inside Tropicana Field (The Trop), with 2.5 million bulbs ablaze.
Normally, home to the American League Tampa Bay Rays during the regular season,
the domed stadium had been transformed into an ice skating trail that curled around the third base line and ran across the infield.
Also included was the “world’s largest light maze,” anchored by a towering golden tree behind second base,
and a Christmas market bolstered by fast-food dining options. This year’s Tampa Bay theme was The Great Search, highlighting the disappearance of Santa’s nine over-sized reindeer–
all of whom were hiding within a 90,000 square foot light maze–waiting to be discovered and tracked through a scratch card.
Leah and I visited The Trop with our family from Albuquerque, and apprehensively outfitted the grandkids with skates for the first time.
There were spills and chills and grip-worn guard rails, but thankfully, no casualties, unlike others who required more immediate medical attention.
After a photo op with Santa…
we were off to explore the maze, helping Santa relocate his missing reindeer,
and stopping along the way…
to admire the fancy shapes…
or not.
While the kids had fun finding Santa’s reindeer and scratching their cards, Enchant had lost its enchantment for me after the fourth reindeer.
The canned carols had imprinted on my senses and the warm glow had turned to glare. I had reached the summit of Mount Monotony. That’s when I wished I was home scouting the local reindeer.
We had come to Milwaukee to drink some beer, eat some cheese curds and absorb some culture, and Milwaukee didn’t disappoint us.
Once home to the Big Four: Miller; Pabst; Shlitz and Blatz–Milwaukee was considered the brewing capital of the nation during much of the 20th century. However, after sell-off and consolidation, only MillerCoors remains as Milwaukee’s master brewer.
Nevertheless, there are plenty of reminders of the good ol’ days scattered around town…
For instance, on W. Wisconsin Avenue sits the Pabst Mansion.
In 2015, Pabst returned to the city with a scaled-down version of itself, manufacturing only craft beers, like many of its competitors in the region.
Likewise, the Schlitz Brewery has been converted into an office park.
But a new generation of brewers is doubling down on craft beers, with special attention going to Lakefront Brewery for its laid-back vibe and its innovative spirit, which instilled brothers Russ and Jim Klisch to brew Doors County cherry beer and the nation’s first gluten-free beer.
Leah and I sat in the Beer Hall noshing on fish tacos and award-winning cheese curds while waiting for the brewery’s 4 pm tour.
Eleven bucks buys an 8 oz. plastic cup and four wooden tokens good for four pours from start to finish of the humorous, 45-minute tour–very different from other tours I’ve taken (see Supreme Ruler of Beers and Eco-Beer), where beer sampling follows the tour as a time reward.
At the conclusion of the tour, we gathered around the bottle conveyor,
and we sang…
Additionally, the plastic cup can be exchanged for a free beer glass at the gift shop.
It was our good intention to attend Gallery Night directly after the beer tour…
but drinking beer interfered with our plan, so it would have to wait until Gallery Day.
The following day we drove to the Historic Third Ward, and roamed through six floors of the Marshall Building inspecting a variety of syles and mediums of different artists.
Unfortunately, the clouds rolled in and it rained like there was no tomorrow. We waited out the deluge at a nearby Shake Shack until a break in the weather, and crossed over to Walker’s Point to satisfy our random craving for novelty, humor, and are you kidding me?
As of February 2019, there’s a new museum in town, and it’s head and shoulders above the rest. It’s also a nerdatorium for dads…
and their kids.
The National Bobblehead Hall of Fame and Museum definitely checks the excess box with a collection of 6,500 figurines on display, covering a wide swath of popular culture,
featuring sports and mascots,
fantasy,
and politics.
The Hall of Fame Bobbleheads line the windowsills.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I asked myself, “Why?”…and patiently waited for a sign to give me guidance!
For the overly curious, the bobblehead production process is explained step by step…
However, the bobblehead timeline gave insightful commentary and instant credibility to museum founders Brad Novak and Phil Sklar.
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There’s little doubt that I’ll be raising a glass or two of Lakefront’s Riverwest Stein Amber Lager every January 7 to celebrate.
For a richer experience, play the sound file while reviewing this post about America’s past-time:
I’ve wanted to attend the National Baseball Hall of Fame for as long as I’ve been a baseball fan,
which for me culminated in 1960, when my hometown team, the improbable Pittsburgh Pirates contended for their first National League pennant in 33 years, and went on to play in the World Series against the much-favored New York Yankees.
The series was notable for a number of reasons. The Yankees, who had won 10 pennants in the past 12 years, outscored the Pirates 55–27, outhit them 91–60, outbatted them .338 to .256, hit 10 home runs to Pittsburgh’s four (three of which came in Game 7), and were twice shutout in complete games by Whitey Ford. And they lost.
The series was decided in the seventh game with a dramatic walk-off home run by Bill Mazeroski–a feat that never happened before in baseball’s history, and today, ranks eighth on Sports Illustrated list of the 100 Greatest Moments in Sports History.
Beyond that, I couldn’t imagine there being a boy playing Little League baseball who didn’t step up to the plate pretending to be “Maz” and winning it all with one swing of the bat.
Baseball was more than a national past-time to me; it was part of my life–whether it was practicing, playing the game, or collecting and trading baseball cards with friends…
although I was never a serious collector who was fortunate enough to possess a part of the Holy Trinity.
The Baseball Hall of Fame is synonymous with Cooperstown. Every year, during the mid-season break, the induction ceremony celebrates the best players who have ever taken the field,
to play a game that began in Hoboken, NJ on June 19, 1846 at Elysian Fields.
The village of Cooperstown is a buccolic hamlet on the southern tip of Otsego Lake in upstate New York.
The town, once known as the birthplace of famed author, James Fenimore Cooper,
is now a town devoted to sports memorabilia on every street corner,
and catering to fans looking to own a small piece of folk history.
There’s also a legendary ballpark that each year hosts hundreds of Little League games,
and the Hall of Fame Classic, featuring the best of the game.
Baseball is about the pioneers,
the ballfields,
the fans,
the mascots,
and the records…
But mostly, it’s about the players.
Cooperstown is a shrine for all my boyhood heroes…
and my fond memories of baseball–at the ballpark, where I felt lucky to attend an occasional game at Forbes Field with my dad; on the transistor radio, pretending to sleep, but listening in the dark with an earpiece to Bob Prince calling the game; and in newspapers, where I eagerly checked the box score the following day.
The National Baseball Hall of Fame is a hit with 250,000 fans visiting every year, and a museum worth catching if stricken with baseball fever.
It’s been one year since I featured my father’s battle with Alzheimer’s (read Happy Birthday, Dad!), and I’m pleased to report that on the day of his 94th birthday…
…he continues his fight against inevitable debility. In fact, it appears that he is more fit than the year before.
Last year, Dad’s sedentary existence and subsequent lack of stamina was draining his psyche and physical condition. It was becoming apparent that the Use-It-or-Lose-It paradigm was taking over, but fortunately, Dad’s vigilance prevailed.
There was no magic pill or panacea to persuade him. Instead, it was his will to keep moving that helped him battle his personal perfect storm–assisted by diet and exercise.
One year ago, I found myself enabling Dad’s Clean-Your-Plate appetite by repeatedly up-sizing his wardrobe to accommodate his ballooning waistline. Unbeknownst to me, the Memory Care staff had endorsed an unwritten and unspoken Snack and Dessert Proclamation:
If a 90-year-old man wants a cookie, let him eat one.
But Dad would eat two…or more. He was growing sideways effortlessly with reckless abandon. Belts and elastic waistbands had yielded to suspenders. At 5 feet-2 inches, Dad was tipping the scales at 220 pounds, and it was impacting his ability to balance and breathe without wheezing.
And so I returned him to his love of swimming–his preferred sport for fitness. Growing up, I recalled his need to visit the “Y” religiously every Wednesday to swim laps, take a schvitz and a enjoy a rub-down to blow off the steam of life’s hard-boiled expectations.
And while there was no illusion of recapturing the pleasure of Dad’s “Y” Wednesdays or restoring Dad’s forever-lost cognitive functioning, I anticipated his muscle memory might still respond to water therapy.
I was introduced to Patrick, a licensed physical therapist who was willing to accompany Dad into the pool, and work with him twice a week. After a short period of time, the almost-immediate payoff of sounder sleep, noticeable weight loss, and increased energy and awareness supported my vision of Dad swimming every other day, three times a week.
To date, many of Dad’s vital signs continue to improve. His blood pressure has dropped. He eats less and exercises more, which has resulted in 30 pounds of weight loss in 4 months.
Nevertheless, Dad continues to lose ground to his dementia demons. Steady bouts of “nobody home” syndrome are occasionally interrupted by scattered moments of recognition, and immediately replaced by confusion and silence.
Struggling for the right words almost always results in stuttering followed by resignation. Lingering name-to-face recognition has been replaced by nuanced sweetheart or honey familiarity. Prompting with closed questions works some of the time, but for the most part, Dad has sunk into an eternal state of bliss that many around him find soothing and reassuring.
Could his passivity be a cover for his acquiescence? Maybe, but I’m not really sure if it makes a difference or even matters.
Because whether Dad realizes it or not, the victory of survival is always worthy of a celebration.
Yesterday’s adventure had me scouring the neighborhood for a ladder that was tall enough to reach our 14 foot-high dining room ceiling.
An email alert to our newly adopted community produced immediate fruit, but none of the produce was ripe for the climbing. Of the many responses, either the ladders were too short, or it was the wrong type (extension variety instead of A-frame)–nothing that would allow me to swap out a newly delivered lighting fixture in time for the scheduled delivery and installation of a long-awaited pool table the following day.
While I struck out on ladders, it was a fine way to meet some of my neighbors, and learn about the joys and hazards of living in St. Augustine.
I discovered that two hurricanes within an 11-month period (Matthew and Irma) after a 62-year respite (Dora in 1964) left our neighborhood shaken, but not stirred, with rising water from the Intracoastal Waterway barely penetrating the fence-line perimeter, while gale-force winds and blowing debris delivered negligible roof damage to a few homes, leaving our Madeira community relatively intact.
Additionally, the close proximity to the St. Johns County government complex and the beauty of sharing the same electrical grid resulted in a near, immediate restoral of power.
Meanwhile, it was beginning to feel like I was sitting behind the eight ball, but things have a way of working out when working tirelessly to carve out one’s little slice of heaven on earth.
Fortunately, a last-minute phone call to Smith Electric produced instant results. A crew arrived hours later…
with an 8-foot step-ladder and a 6 foot 7 inch electrician to dismantle the existing fixture…
and prepare the connections…
to hang and balance the replacing fixture…
on the heels of the Pool Table Doctor’s arrival.
Paul made quick work of placing and leveling the base;
stacking the slate slabs;
and shimming the playing surface.
Joaquin was nearby, building the rails and pockets…
while Paul was joining the slabs together with sealing wax.
Together, they finished felting the cushions.
Soon it was time to stretch the wine-colored felt across the table–a quirky color that Leah and I felt was befitting the carved ball and claw table leg design.
After trimming the excess cloth, and attaching the rails…
our Olhausen table was lit and ready for play. The entire process took 2½ hours, and the result–
worthy of a picture, and many future hours of fun.
Leah and I travelled with fishing rods strapped to the Airstream’s interior for one-year, cross-country. The constant sight of them was a nagging reminder of the possibility of learning a new sport together, and the unrequited taste of something “fresh” to grill, for we never found an opportunity to cast a line. However, now that we’ve become middle-aged Floridians, we felt the timing was right to immerse ourselves–hook, line and sinker.
After closing on our St. Augustine house in February, our realtor presented us with a gift certificate for a half-day charter with Captain Robert, his son, but our date on the water would have to wait four additional months to fulfill until we returned as full-time residents, and eventually settled in.
Leah had two immediate concerns with being out on the water: what to do for her new-founded sea sickness, and what kind of potty provisions would be provided. I, on the other hand just wanted reassurance that there would be space for my son Nate, who was temporarily residing with us in Florida after his apartment lease and job contract in suburban Albany, New York expired at the end of May.
A phone call to Captain Robert two weeks ago reserved our place, and addressed Leah’s anxieties: taking one tablet of Dramamine the night before and the day of the boat ride should allay her nausea; and a toilet seat placed atop a five-gallon Western Marine bucket should provide maximum comfort and embarrassment. And yes, bringing Nate along would be fine.
On the day of our trip, a newish Pathfinder 2500, a true fishing machine was waiting for us dockside…
at the Conch House Marina…
at daybreak.
We headed out on a picture-perfect morning…
with sea swells gently lullaby-rocking us in our search for bait a couple of miles from shore. Robert pulled up near a flock of diving birds in search of breakfast, and cast a net.
Moments later, he emptied a bulging swarm of pogies…
a delicious snack for lurking king mackerel.
We cruised about nine miles out from shore to an area already brimming with half a dozen fishing boats.
I wondered about the wisdom of competing with the other boats, but Robert had a hunch. He set up three lines–two shallow, one deep, and we waited…
but not very long. In an hour’s time, we each took turns reeling in our target. First, Leah and me,
and then Nate,
bringing his trophy home.
We pushed out another three miles in hopes of landing a sailfish, or wrangling a redfish, but after a couple of fights, we came up short–minus the bait and hook. Robert postulated that it was probably a shark or a barracuda making a meal of what was already on the line, but we’ll never know.
We trolled around for another hour looking for activity, but the sonar was quiet,
and Leah was pensive…
perhaps wondering how awkward it might be if she needed to use the bucket.
“Do you need to go?” I wondered.
“I can hold it in,” she asserted.
It was decided that we should start back, but stop mid-way and resume our search. Again, the kings were biting, one for me,
and one for Leah,
but we had already agreed that we had enough meat for the day, so both were released. Nate was determined to even the score by catching his second fish of the day, but his time had run out, and we headed for shore.
Yet there was no need for disappointment, since Nate had reeled in the biggest catch of the day.
Robert was equally adept with a knife, making short time of filleting our king mackerels…
which generated about 20 pounds of steaks.
Egrets of all sizes were standing by, ready to take advantage of all scraps that might come their way.
On Robert’s advice, we ate grilled mackerel that night.
I prepared a marinade made of: ¼ cup orange juice, ¼ cup soy sauce, 2 tbsp. canola oil, 1 tbsp. lemon juice, 1 tbsp. ketchup, 1 clove of garlic, oregano, parsley, salt and pepper and soaked our fillets for 2 hours, which rendered a rich and smoky taste when cooked.
Kudos to our Skipper, and thanks for a meal fit for a king mackerel.
There’s a triumvirate of college basketball competing in the middle of North Carolina, with rival sectors drawn by Duke’s Blue Devils at Durham, and North Carolina State’s Wolfpack at Raleigh, but completed by the Tar Heels of Carolina in the bucolic setting of Chapel Hill.
In fact, consolidated ACC (Atlantic Coast Conference) championships by the three powerhouses represent 48 titles out of 64 seasons, for a 75% margin of victory. Even now, as I write this, Carolina has defeated Duke 74-69 to compete against Virginia for its 19th ACC Championship and a place at the NCAA Championship table.
With a long legacy of league leadership, Leah and I concluded that a look around Chapel Hill might offer some insight into Carolina’s dominance.
The campus was abustle, as classes were winding down in anticipation of Spring Break, and time was running out for research papers due by March 9th.
We wound our way around to the sports complex where the public address system at Kenan Memorial Stadium blared a recitation of upcoming Tar Heel dates for Spring sports, which piqued our interest. Perhaps we could find the answers to some of our questions here, so we entered the Charlie Justice Hall of Honor.
We were overwhelmed by the floor to ceiling showcases of memorabilia, photographs, trophies and historical artifacts detailing the history of Carolina football. As I positioned my camera to my eye to capture the glory days of Lawrence Taylor, I was suddenly greeted by the authoritative voice of an attendant behind a long arc of a desk who demanded to know our business.
“Uh, we were looking for access to the stadium, and though it might be through here,” I suggested.
“There is absolutely no photography allowed in the building,” she insisted. “Especially when the athletes are in the weight room.”
At the end of a corridor lined with decorated Tar Heel helmets on one side, and an assortment of NFL helmets on the other, was a glass wall offering a view of several oversized students pressing, curling, squatting and deadlifting 250 pounds or more.
I put my camera by my side. “If you could just tell us how to get to the stadium, we’ll be on our way,” I back-pedaled, not wanting her to think I was spying for a competing organization.
Pointing, she offered matter-of-factly,” Through those doors, and takes the stairs to the left of Choo Choo.”
We mounted the stairs, filed past security’s bag search, and entered a cavernous oval overlooking the first level.
On the field, the Denver lacrosse squad was completing drills before their opening scrum with the Tar Heels.
When the match began, the 63,000 missing fans could not drown out the rap and disco music excerpts that echoed throughout the stands. Leah and I left with the score tied at 1 after 17 minutes of playing time, and with no greater appreciation for rap and disco music.
However, we did fall in love with Patrick Dougherty’s installation of weaving whimsy…
as we passed the front lawn of UNC’s Ackland Art Museum…
on our way to the truck before the meter timed-out,
which served as a visual metaphor for the intricacies of basket(ball) art of a different sort.
With rain forecasted for most of the following day,
we decided to take our investigation indoors where it mattered most.
Inside the museum, we had the run of the court,
dodging and weaving around interactive exhibits detailing every aspect of the game…
that contributed to the success of a program that became a pipeline to the NBA!
When gauging the quantitative results of the team, one need not look any further than the volume of awards.
And if all-time National Championships were a deciding factor, Carolina has seven.
Only Kentucky with 8, and UCLA with 11 have more.
Yet aside from great coaching (Dean Smith and Roy Williams have contributed to the second highest all-time winning percentage at .739) and recruiting amazing talent, Carolina also has the X Factor–
–arguably the greatest player to ever play the game–and the museum has devoted a shrine of artifacts in his name.
Most illuminating are correspondence letters from Coach K…
and Dean Smith…
that directed Michael Jordan’s path and launched him on a career that would shatter records and inspire a new age of athletes…
to become future role models in their own right and not much of a secret after all.
Traditionally, every professional team sport in America routinely celebrates a season midpoint known as the All-Star game….except for football. And for the most part, these exhibition events typically showcase the finest talent of the league franchises, usually selected by fans and coaches to honor the athletes who have amassed the season’s best stats…except for football.
Instead, the NFL currently slips its All Star game (called the Pro Bowl) between the Conference Finals (which determines the winners of the AFC and NFC) and the Super Bowl. As for talent, after excluding football’s best players heading to Super Bowl LII (Philadelphia Eagles vs. New England Patriots), player selection for this year’s Pro Bowl has been determined by fans, players and coaches in equal parts.
Pro Bowl enthusiasm among hand-core fans has flagged in recent years, now that warm and fuzzy football has replaced hard-nose hitting on gameday. The NFL punted the problem to the Players Association, who conceded that members may voluntarily decline to play due to injury concerns. But the league tackled player indifference by raising the stakes and incentivizing competitive play, with $64,000 awarded to every player on the winning side, while losers receive $32,000.
Thankfully, only the Super Bowl remains, before football passes the sports mantle to hockey, basketball, and the Winter Olympics. Fortunately for me, a very laid-back sports fan, uneven internet access and poor TV service from coast to coast prevented me from following the colossal collapse of the New York Giants (3-13), a four-time Super Bowl champion, and a perennial contender.
Nevertheless, with the Pro Bowl temporarily relocating from Hawaii’s Hula Bowl to Orlando’s newly renovated Camping World Stadium…
I decided to treat Leah to a last day of football. However, neither of us was counting on a day of downpours.
Rain was a constant interruption throughout the game–from the moment we arrived for the opening snap…
to the time we returned to the parking lot with minutes to play, and the AFC squad advancing to the goal line for an eventual 24-23 win.
In between, there were a few things to cheer about.
And then there was football, too.
The Pro Bowl was a game of two different halves, with the NFC holding a 20-3 half-time lead, capitalizing on dominant drives over darkening skies.
Meanwhile, preparation for half-time festivities devolved into occasional swordplay on the sidelines,
However, sword order was eventually restored after Dancing with the Stars winner Jordan Fisher emerged…
and took the makeshift stage for ten minutes of coordinated music and mayhem,
eventually finishing with a flourish.
When the game resumed, it seemed as if a different NFC squad had taken the field,
allowing the AFC to roar back under increasingly sloppy conditions.
Naturally, the biggest score of the day occured at the concession stand, when food vendors raided my wallet for $32 in exchange for a cheesesteak, fries, Coors Lite, and a bottle of water.
But despite the puddles and the pouring rain,
we put on our game faces,
and managed to convince ourselves that all of this was time and money well spent.
We drove into the storm until it surrounded us. Lightning was brewing in the distance and then it was beside us. “Do you think they’re gonna cancel if it’s raining?” inquired Leah.
I really didn’t have an answer. “I’m certain that rain or shine is pretty much the rule here. This event is sold out, and there are no rain-checks for this sort of thing,” I hoped.
As we were approaching Belle Fourche (known as the geographical center of America), the rain abated. We dodged a bullet, but the evening was early. We navigated our way through town by following the crowd.
Townsfolk were homesteading on their claim of sidewalk with folding chairs and coolers in an effort to capture the best view, hours before the fireworks. Leah and I were on our way to our first rodeo in the “official” middle of nowhere.
We picked up tickets at will call, and continued through a cowboy arcade of beer, buckles and bows, mixed with the sweet smell of manure. We were shown to our seats by an usher in his sixties. Wiping them dry, the usher cautioned, “I hope I only need to do this once.”
“How much did it rain here?” Leah wanted to know.
“Not so bad. Couldn’t tell ya if it’s gonna start up again, and I used to do weather forecasting for a living,” the usher confessed. “But you know what they say about South Dakota weather?… ‘If you don’t like the weather, wait fifteen minutes and it will change.'” I looked up from my seat. We were sitting in Row C, and the overhang eave was positioned perfectly over our heads.
“Could that explain why you’re an usher today?” I jested.
The usher turned back without hesitation. “That’s what my wife asks!”
The evening opened with a salute to America. Retired Sgt. 1st Class Dana Bowman, Special Forces maneuvered through a dark and gloomy sky, dangling from his Coca-Cola-sponsored parachute.
Bowman streamed into the arena amid cheers, proving to naysayers that the first double-amputee ever to reenlist in the military has the audacity to demonstrate that disability is only a state of mind.
The 98th Annual Black Hills Roundup attracted cowpokes from near and far,
each one competing for a share of $170,000 in prize money with a daring-do skill set that defies sanity. It’s risky business, but the guys on the rodeo circuit take a beating for eight seconds of work–often times coming up lame and short on funds.
Yet, if they don’t remount, there’ll be no payday. So riding injured is a way of life. The roundup was filled with traditional rodeo events:
Bareback Riding The cowboys ride one handed and cannot touch themselves or the horse with their free hand. The cowboys spur the horse from shoulder to rigging, trying to make a qualified ride of 8 seconds. Cowboys are judged on their control and spurring technique, and the horses are judged on their power, speed, and agility. A good score in the bareback riding is in the mid 80’s.
Steer Wrestling Steer wrestling is a timed event, and cowboys compete against each other and the clock. Bulldoggers start out in the box just like the tie-down and team ropers. The barrier is placed across the box and the steer is loaded into the roping chute. As soon as the cowboy nods his head the steer is released and he charges after it on his horse. The steer wrestler catches up to the steer as quickly as possible and then leans over, jumps off of his horse and grabs the steer by its head. A winning time is usually between 3 to 4 seconds, but these big boys keep getting faster and faster. Breaking the barrier in the steer wrestling results in a 10 second penalty which effectively puts you out of the money. The bulldogger then plants his feet and tosses the steer onto its side, thereby stopping the clock.
Saddle Bronc Riding As with bareback riding, the mark out rule is in effect. The cowboy spurs from the front of the horse, back to the skirt of the saddle in an arcing motion. The cowboy must constantly lift on the hack rein to keep his seat in the saddle. Scoring is the same as in all the roughstock events with 1-25 points given to the cowboy and 1-25 points for the animal by each of the two judges. Cowboys are judged on control, spur motion, and timing. Saddle broncs are judged on their bucking ability. A good score in the saddle bronc riding is in the high 80’s.
Bull Riding As with bareback riding, and saddle bronc, bull riders ride with one hand and cannot touch themselves or their bull with the free hand. Doing so results in a no score. Two judges give 1-25 points for the cowboys performance and 1-25 points for the animals performance. 100 points being the maximum, and is considered a perfect ride. Cowboys can spur for extra points, but just staying on the bull for 8 seconds is the main priority. A good score in the bull riding is in the 90’s. There has been one perfect score of 100 in the PRCA.
Thrown Bullrider
Team Roping Team roping is the only team event in rodeo. The two cowboys involved in team roping have unique goals. The first, known as the header, does just what the name implies and ropes the head of the cattle. The other cowboy, known as the heeler, ropes the heels or legs. The header is the first out trying to rope the head as quickly as possible without breaking the barrier. Once the catch is made the header dallies and turns the steer left. This opens up the way for the heeler to work his magic and rope the legs. The clock is stopped when there is no slack in both ropes and the horses face each other. If the barrier is broken a 10 second penalty is added to the time. Also, if the heeler manages to catch only one leg, then a 5 second penalty is added. In addition to these penalties there are only 3 legal catches that the header can make. These are: both horns – one horn and the head – the neck.
Barrelman Dennis Halstead provided slapstick shtick between events, while concessions provided corn dogs, cookies, and coffee.
Not to be outdone, Cowboy Kenny Bartram and his protege performed X-Game stunts on their steel horses after all the real horses had been stabled for the night.
And if that wasn’t enough, the night finished with a flurry of fireworks.
It rained for much of the drive back to the Airstream in Rapid City, making the trip longer than necessary, but a time for reflection. The America I witnessed tonight was spirited and inspiring.
It was cathartic for the cowboys to chew tobacco, drink beer and raise hell, while young families dressed their kids in patriotic onesies, and showed off their newest Western boots. It was an evening dedicated to perpetual promotion–from the ads, the banners, the announcements, the props, to the flag-waving riders.
And it was a chance to see how important rodeo is to the qualifiers, and applaud how they risk their futures to compete and entertain the crowd.
But more than anything, I was grateful that I would wake up tomorrow feeling better than the cowboys.
Streaming thru America 