Dad walks in and trips over one of Neewa’s soup bones. “Whoa!” He shouts sliding several feet across the room, barely regaining his balance. “What the hell was that?”
I laugh, “You have to watch where you’re going.”
Dad kicks the bone out of the doorway and chuckles.
“Hey I got an idea, let’s all go to the rodeo. Can you believe it, a rodeo here in town?” He exclaims.
I ask myself, go to a rodeo? No, I don’t think so. They torture those animals, don’t they?
“I’m not going,” I say.
Dad answers from his room, “It’s the Women’s National Championships. The main events are saddle bronco riding, barrel racing, bull riding, calf roping and steer wrestling.”
“I wanna go,” Jackie shouts from her room.
“All right I’ll go,” I say reluctantly, knowing Neewa can’t come with us. “But we can still bring her and keep her outside, right Dad?”
Dad puts on his best jeans and is stomping his feet into his boots, “Bang! Bang!”
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“Bring the ghost hunting equipment,” he reminds me. “We can test it out at the rodeo. We’ll see what kind of readings we get from the riders and horses.”
I have to remember to bring along Neewa’s corkscrew stake and chain to keep her from running off. As long as we park in the shade, she will be nice and cool. She can take a nap under the van. I’ll make sure she has plenty of water and food.
***
Arriving at the arena, I jump from the van and prepare a place for Neewa to stay in the shade while we are in the arena. I secure her to the chain and fill her bowls.
While waiting for Dad and Jackie to gather the stuff, I survey the surrounding area with its rippling sand dunes and sagebrush scattered over the stark desert. Tumbleweeds blow across the landscape driven by scorching hot winds. Each new angle of the sun’s rays paints the serrated rock on the distant mountains bright rust and amber. Towering peaks rise over shadowy crevasses under the cloudless blue sky.
Scratching Neewa behind the ear, she leans into my rub for a deep massage. “You stay in the shade Neewa. And don’t pull your stake out of the ground. Here is your lunch and water. We’ll be back in an hour or so, I promise.”
The rodeo has already started. I throw my backpack full of ghost hunting stuff over my shoulder and run for the main gate.
The parking lot is full of trucks with license plates from every state. I see Idaho, Wyoming, California, Iowa and Arizona to name a few, even Canada is here.
As we walk through the entrance into the arena, the sound of the crowd is deafening. The fans are cheering and clapping for one of the competitors. Dad and Jackie are talking to me as an announcement is broadcast over the public address system.
“I can’t hear you!” I say.
A woman on horseback, wearing chaps and a hat pulled down tight on her head, disappears into a tunnel at the far end of the arena. The barrel racing competition has just ended. A hush comes over the crowd as staff rush in and roll the bright red barrels off the main floor, preparing for the next event.
Spectators are perched on railings and fill the bleachers. Families huddle together to support their daughters, mothers, and sisters. Most are wearing blue jeans or silk jackets with logos and of course cowboy hats and boots. The older folks have on the traditional dungaree or corduroy jackets or vests.
As we search for seats, I look at the spectators who fill the bleachers.
The Native Americans bring their look. It’s more of a hybrid between a Western cowboy and American Indian. The blue jeans and boots are about the same, but above the waist are Indian blankets or deerskin jackets with fringe. Their beige stoic faces are draped in characteristic jet-black shoulder length hair or framed in marine style crew cuts. And topped with ten-gallon hats with colorful beaded headbands.
Mexican Americans have come to compete too, with multi-colored ponchos, gaucho hats, and short hair. In the crowd are a few sombreros with red and yellow trim, and gold tassels.
Finally we find empty seats at the far end of the arena. Dad sets up the tripod in the aisle with the infrared camera. Jackie is getting readings pointing the infrared thermometer toward the nearby competitors who are warming up for the next event. I raise the digital camera to my eye and zoom in and out on the spectators across the way. The K-2 meter, Ghost Hunter’s favorite device lays quietly next to me on the seat, no lights flashing detecting any EMF here.
No one sitting around us will ever guess we’re paranormal investigators disguised as rodeo fans. They have no idea what we are doing, nor do they care.
“Next event Calf Roping,” the announcer’s voice blares ceremoniously. “The first contestant is Josie Sullivan riding Sissy, representing the Sullivan Ranch, Gunstock, Colorado.”
While cheers radiate from the stands, a horse and rider stampede into the rink, galloping from the tunnel at a furious speed. I jump up in my seat at the sound of a Bang. The metal gate flies open releasing a calf from the pen near the tunnel. All three of them sprint straight at us at lightening speed, nostrils flared, hooves kicking dirt up in every direction.
The calf, fearing for its life, desperately tries to escape the horse and rider thundering toward it, squeezing the terrified animal closer and closer to the rail.
Suddenly, the cowgirl hurls her rope high into the air. It soars, as if in slow motion hanging above the ground, circling toward its target. Whoosh! As if by magic it falls around the neck of the calf’s head. Josie pulls the reins of her horse and the team skids to a stop. As the rope slices the air, it snaps tight around the calf’s neck. The calf spins a hundred eighty degrees, lands on all fours in shock, and rolls its eyes back and moos.
Jumping from her horse to the ground, she swiftly follows the taut rope with gloved hand to the calf’s neck. She then hoists her cowering prey off its feet and drops it to the ground on its side with a thud. In seconds she ties three legs of the bewildered beast together and steps back throwing her hands high into the air in triumph.
Everyone applauds and looks at the clock and standings to gauge her performance. All of this takes place in about fifty seconds, the amount of time it takes to inhale and exhale ten breaths.
For the next hour, horses and riders sprint up and down the arena, pounding their hoofs, flexing their muscles and snorting in the air. Again and again the challenge plays out, woman vs. beast, beast vs. woman.
At intermission everyone scatters to buy food, programs, and souvenirs as a big tanker truck applies water to the arena floor to keep the dust down. The wet dirt’s pungent fragrance filters through my nose to the back of my mouth. I can taste the floor.
“I wanna use the thermal infrared camera. Dad, let me have a turn, you always get it,” I demand.
Handing my camera to Jackie I say, “Here you take the digital, I’ll use the infrared.”
Infrared pictures are called thermo-grams. They display the heat given off by the horses, riders, or cattle in colorful shades of red, purple, and blue on the screen. The colors are representations of light outside of the visible spectrum called emitted radiation.
Wow, those horses are so beautiful all dressed out with elegantly braided tails and manes, and shiny coats sparkling from a recent brushing. Silver studs adorn the embossed saddles with strands of rawhide hanging down and their bridles and halters glisten from the lights above.
The women riders are dressed in colorful tops, jeans with chaps, and boots with imposing spurs. Adorned with just the right amount of makeup, bright red lipstick, and rouge on their cheeks. They are objects of beauty as well as power.
Jackie whispers, “I’m taking a close-up picture of that horse over there with this sixty X zoom lens. Wow, it feels like I’m riding on the horse myself, this is so cool.”
That was the last event; it’s the end of the rodeo.
All the awards and prize money is being handed out. Cameras are flashing as the press scrambles to interview the winners and console the others.
I hang out and get some autographs on my program. One of the girls who signed my program sat near us in the stands. I saw her chewing tobacco.
She asked me, “Did you have fun at the rodeo?”
I tell her, “It was really something to see you girls riding, roping, and wrestling.” She laughed and said, “We are good, aren’t we?”
“Yes you are,” I said.
As I walk to the exit I hear a woman’s voice, “Let’s go to that ghost town, the one just west of here.”
That was all I needed to hear. I turn to her smiling, “Excuse me Miss, where is the ghost town?”
We all shuffle along together to the exit.
She replies, “Ah, it’s only about five miles from here. You take the main highway west to a sign that says ‘Automotive Shop’ and points to the left. Turn right at the sign and take that dirt road to the end. It leads to a box canyon where the town is. We’re going there now. Do you want to follow us?”
“Can we Dad?” I say with a look in my eyes that fully explains the consequences for a wrong answer.
“Yes, Yes, definitely, we are going,” Dad says while trying to balance all our stuff, some strapped around his neck and the rest under his arms.
“Great,” I declare, “We’ll follow you.”
“We have a red pick-up truck with a horse trailer that says Rayburn Ranch on the side,” she replies.
“Okay, we’ll be right behind you,” I add.
I run to the van, hurrying to walk Neewa and throw all her stuff into the back of our van. Dad and Jackie pack the rest of our gear and get in, while I scan the parking lot for the Rayburn’s red truck.
Catching a glimpse of their trailer I yell out, “There, there they are!”