Rodeos to Sledding

Rodeos to Sledding
Memories. Time slaps you in the face like a thrilling rollercoaster ride. Slow anticipation to the top, swiftly whooshing down, down, down. Hot summer air cooled at the fair rides, a fast-moving rush of excited screams. Waving goodbye to childhood days of elementary school, I enjoyed the summer of 1957, splashing in sunshine, doing laps for the swim team at the outdoor Ellensburg city pool next to the rodeo fairgrounds.
 
The trail carved into Craig’s Hill like a rodeo belt buckle prize. At Campfire Girls Camp Illahee near Cle Elum, my cabin was not Bluebird beginners, but experienced campers. We were rewarded with an exciting long hike, prepared to carry sleeping bags and supplies overnight, climbing up Bible Rock for a starlit evening of dinner cooked on a campfire, and toasting tasty ’smores. Cocooned in bedrolls, fingers pointed to the Big Dipper, oohs and aahs filled the air, watching nature’s fireworks—meteor showers.

The Ellensburg rodeo managers sent out a plea to Campfire Girls, Boy and Girl Scouts, and 4-H Youth organizations, for volunteers to usher visitors to their seats. I couldn’t wait to sign up, at last a chance to see the rodeo without peeking through fences or climbing trees for a view of the Saturday, Sunday, and Labor Day celebration. Lined up like ducks in the carnival shooting gallery, we had been given how-to, where-to, and when-to instructions about taking “guests” to their seats. A whirlwind of slowly directing, “Watch your step,” then rushing up the stairs, returning to the group of volunteers. Waiting for another turn, several of us were tapped on the shoulder and told to step out of the line.

Standing like cowpokes ready to head further west, we silently wondered what we had done wrong. Our “mission” was explained: “The governor and his party have arrived. Each of you will escort members of the group to their seats.” They made it sound extremely important, but I wasn’t worried. I had climbed up and down those steps like a mountain goat. I was introduced to Governor Albert Rosellini, with the parting words, “April will show you to your seat.” When we arrived at our destination, he smiled saying, “Thank you, April.” Good thing I could read the nametag identifying who I was, as I was so nervous my mind became temporarily blank.

I stood in awe, watching a parade descending down Craig’s Hill, riding perfectly groomed horses, entering the arena to start the rodeo. The rodeo was thrill-a-minute gasps. Bronco riders held onto bucking horses. Real fear shook the crowd when Brahma bulls threw off riders, while clowns rushed to distract dangerous horns ready to toss cowboys into the air like ragdolls. A welcome variety came in time to watch fancy trick riders stand on saddled backs, doing impossible gymnastics on running horses. All-in-all, a wow, wow, wow day.
The first big snow covering 1957, I convinced Dad to load the car with my long sled, drive up to Craig’s Hill, and slide down the “Rodeo trail” for slick excitement.
 
The line of sledders stretched impatience as we shivered and talked, trying to ignore downhill screams echoing in the empty rodeo grounds.

Finally, it was our turn. Dad laid down, hands on the wooden guides for steering. I pushed, hitting the ice sheeted slope, quickly lying on top of his back, clutching his shoulders.
 
Pointed like an arrow flying through an icy incline of terror, we screeched a high-pitched duet.
 
Sliding onto flat ground, resting on the sled until our shaking stopped, I announced: 
“Let’s do it again, Dad!”
 
His quiet “No,” wasn’t questioned.

April Ryan is a Washington resident with more than one snowy hill in her stories and poems! 

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