Ride 'em, Cowboy

RODEO RULES Competitors Thrive On Grueling Action While Chasing the Sport's Big-time Paydays

TEXT BY BETTY MARVIN PHOTOGRAPHS BY JEFF KIDA THROUGH THE CHUTE jockey's legs, I saw 19-yearold Chrystal Porter crouch gingerly atop a quivering equine back, bracing dirty, worn boots against even dirtier chute bars, inching her left hand under the leather rigging, knuckles to the horse, fingers on top. Her right hand pulled the rope tight around the animal's belly, and then situated it just so on the open palm. She closed her hand, pounded the fingers twice, securing her grip.

The chute gate flung open before Porter signaled that she was ready. The girl had trouble from the git-go. With one enormous buck, the bronc's forehead made contact with hers. He leapfrogged across the ring flopping his cargo like Raggedy Ann in the clutches of a 3-year-old having a tantrum. Porter's hand caught in the rigging as he rid himself of this nuisance. Her boots dragged the ground for milliseconds, then she cartwheeled off flailing hoofs. From the catwalk, I felt the heavy splat of her body hitting the ground. Porter landed on her back, gave one twitch, then lay eerily still, arms sticking straight up, frozen in mid-buck. She was out cold.

Porter's bareback bronc ride opened the Williams first annual Wild and Wooly All Girl Rodeo, and just before the competition, I had chatted with her behind the bucking chutes. She told me she's been traveling for four months across the West from her home in Bayfield, Colorado. She's ridden rough stock bulls and bucking horses at as many as five rodeos a week. Her goal: the National Finals Rodeo (NFR) in Las Vegas, competing with the cowboys. But that's most likely a few years off if ever. No woman's ever been able to take on the same bulls as the cowboys, but the men's professional rodeo circuit (PRCA) rules allow her to join them if she can work her way up, just like every other competitor. A few weeks after Williams, Porter joined PRCA and started competing. I wondered out loud how she could wrap her short legs around a bull's broad back.

The five-foot-nothin', 93-pound rookie demonstrated good body position and right arm balance; thumb cocked inward, fingers together. "It's all in the free hand," Porter explained, waving her hand as if rubbing circles on a touchstone for luck. "It's just balance," she reassured me. "But gettin' in there on that bull or that bronc... there's no feeling like that. It's such a rush!" And now, she's on the ground, "rushed" into uncon-sciousness. Someone yells for medics. Clowns and seasoned riders scurry to her side. Her arms begin to fall like rubber bands let go slowly. "She knows her name!" shouts the clown. "She knows her name!" blasts the loudspeaker. "She's gonna be okay, folks!" the announcer roars. Determining that she can move all the important parts, two cowboys help the tough little bareback rider struggle to her feet and rubber-leg it across the arena. She attempts to wave.

No cowgirl worth her good seat and reputation admits she's scared or hurt bad. No surprise - Porter refuses treatment from the EMTs. There'll be no bull riding for her today, though.

Not all rodeo women hanker to be whipped around like a wet noodle in a windstorm. Most prefer to tackle a running calf or three tipsy barrels set in a triangle. While barrel racing or calf roping may not always give crowds a good gasp like bucking bulls and broncs, these hardworking athletes invest thousands of hours and dollars to shave hundredths of seconds off their running times. An announcer at a Cave Creek rodeo informed fans, "One barrel racer here today just bought a new horse for $50,000."

Barrel racing is run on the men's PRCA circuit where there are hundreds more in the bleachers and thousands more in the money pot. This association also makes women racers eligible for their own event at the finals, and a loaded purse. Attorney Kappy Allen, 2000's top cash winner in barrels, earned $145,203, and nearlytwo-thirds of it came from the national finals. Top bull rider Dee Dee Crawford took home $8,452 for the entire season, and there's no women's bull riding in the national finals. Porter's total purse for riding bulls on the 2000 PWRA circuit was $1,825.

Arizona champion bull rider Tammy Kelly of Queen Creek was "practically born on a horse," she says. Kelly ran her first barrels at 5 years old, then graduated to roping and steer riding. But when her husband, Frank, a retired bull rider, suggested eight years ago that she try his sport, Kelly discovered a satisfying challenge.

"I found that I loved it," she said. So much so, that she nabbed the women's World Champion Bull Rider title for five years running(1994-1998), and didn't quit until she discovered she was pregnant with her third child in 1999. Her best year's take: $8,900. "There's no TV coverage and no corporate sponsors like there are for the men, so women don't get as much attention," Kelly lamented. There also are dozens more rodeos for barrel racers to compete in, so there's greater earning potential.

Kelly, now 40, semi-retired after her son's birth. That means she'll be content to ride the bulls she and Frank own, and enter "just a few competitions that are close." Some rough stock riders continue competing past 40 and well into their 50s. A veteran bare-back rider, 58-year-old Jan Youren of Idaho, lays claim to 28 great-grandchildren.

Over the years, the rodeo "want-to" hasn't changed, but the women have. Unlike those first contestants who usually hailed hot off the range to rodeo, even city slickers now ride rough stock. All a bull or bronc rider needs is a lot of spunk, the leather or rope rigging packed in one carrying case, entry fee money and a ride to the next rodeo.

The stock contractor takes care of the animals. On the other hand, ropers and barrel racers spend small fortunes on highly trained horses. Of course, a horse needs a barn and pasture or a place to board. Add in the cost of hay, feed and vet bills, plus plenty of fuel to nourish a gas-guzzling truck powerful enough to pull a horse trailer (another $10,000 to $30,000), and the costs soar. And that's before a discussion of who grooms the horses and scoops the manure."

And everybody but she worried that she would hurt herself.

Margie Henson's daughter-in-law, Nancy Henson, confirms that having kids is still just part of being a cowgirl. "I've seen women compete when they were seven months pregnant," she said.

The Hensons and the Orrs retired to Tucson in 1956. Heavy, Alice and Joe have all passed on, but 92-year-old Margie, a twice-elected rodeo queen and a three-time cowgirl hall of fame inductee, now cheers for her granddaughters.

Billingsley's towheaded 19-month-old daughter, Kaylee, also thrives on the excitement and competition. She called to her mama's prancing horse as they moved into position to run barrels.

"Shawnee!" she shouted, "Shawnee!"

The spotted horse danced at the entrance, begging to bolt. Billingsley reined her into the perfect position, then leaned forward on the mare's neck... paused... and thumped the ribs with her heels. As if the rider used hot irons, the horse lunged forward. In three leaps, she surged past the electric timing eye. Shawnee twisted toward the back side of the right barrel, rounded the drum easily and sprinted for the left. The paint laid into barrel number 2 with a gravity-defying side bend, hoofs gouging gullies in the sand. Ballerinasmooth, she shifted her stride and sprinted flat out toward the middle obstacle. Billingsley swayed with each slant and turn. They rounded the barrel so closely that Shawnee's flank bumped the side. The drum tottered and the audience held its breath since a fallen drum means penalty points, no win. Never hesitating, horse and rider dashed up the center toward the electric eye. The barrel held. Billingsley won. Today's time though not her best 17.97 seconds.

Billingsley's husband, Eric, Kaylee, Hunter and a halfdozen others clapped like crazy. Few people, mostly friends and relatives of the contestants, sat in the stands. But the number of fans doesn't matter. The women run and ride as hard for five as for 500. It's about the "want to" in the blood, not the behinds on the bleachers.

Rodeo's a family affair and kids compete almost as soon as they walk. Four-year-olds ride sheep in Mutton Bustin' events, high schoolers have their own performances and rules, as does the college crowd. With scholarship money offered by eight colleges and universities in Arizona, some students can do what they love and pay for an education.

For some rodeo women, those who know they'll never be able to afford the $50,000 horse or the time and traveling money to keep themselves in entry fees and on the road 50 weeks a year, bettering your best is good enough. But for single-minded gals like Chrystal Porter, rodeo means "travelin' fast and ridin' hard," working toward her ultimate challenge competing against cowboys and winning at the finals.

Three months later, I saw Porter in Winslow at another all-girl rodeo. She had to think a bit before recalling the Williams incident. "Oh yeah," she finally said, shrugging her shoulders. "I think I had a concussion and a couple of broken ribs." In other words, she "Cowgirled up!" That's rodeo speak for "gettin' tough, gettin' up, gettin' out and doin' what you have to do." And Porter did enough to be named women's bull riding 2000 Rookie of the Year and to earn seventh place in the national standings.

Like Margie Greenough Henson says, "After a while, you just don't count the broken bones."

She and her sister, Leigh Ann Billingsley, spring from a proud tradition of rodeo royalty and champions.

"My grandmother, Margie Greenough, and her sister, Alice, left Montana when Grandma was 19 to join up with a Wild West show in Ohio," Hunter said. "They both rode saddle broncs and bulls and roped and jumped hurdles just like the men."

That was 1928, and that's where Greenough met her husband, Charlie "Heavy" Henson. After about a year with the show, they followed the circuits with Alice and her husband, Joe Orr. When Greenough became pregnant in 1931, she took it in stride and didn't quit riding until she was about three months along.

Ten days after baby Charlie arrived, she was back in the saddle.

BORN TO RIDE Rodeo Roper Johnny Miller Got the Bug at Age 8

PRO RODEO ROOKIE JOHNNY Miller backs his horse, Ace, into the far corner of the calf-roping box at the Flagstaff Rodeo. This competition's about as tough as it gets out on the circuits. He's running against world champion calf ropers like Cody Ohl, Fred Whitfield and Joe Beaver. ESPN's presence also kicks up the pressure a few notches. Even the calf gets nervous and struggles to jump the roping chute.

Miller hunches forward in the saddle, looped pigging string gripped in his teeth, the other end of the 6-foot line tucked through his back belt loop. He plans his moves: Ride fast... don't hurry... get it right the first time! Miller waits for the critter to settle, to look straight down the arena - then snaps his white cowboy hat "okay." The chute clangs open, a calf erupts, racing time and flying rope. Ace bursts from the box with a picturesque but time-eating leap. The rope spirals before he's out. . . two . . . three swishes of the nylon coil overhead, and the loop sizzling through air, strikes its mark. The noose totters on one horn, then skids around the calf's neck. Before Ace can "stick" his ground and reverse directions, Miller dallies the rope on the saddle horn, throws himself from his mount and hits the ground at a full run. Riderless Ace prances backward, pulling the line taut, turning the calf to face him.

Luck holds, the calf keeps his feet. Miller races down the rope from horse to dancing calf and clamps the baby bovine against his thighs. With a grab at the calf's neck and groin, and a hike of his leg, the roper flips his quarry to the ground . . . step by step . . . get it right. Jerk the pigging string from his mouth, lash the flailing front leg, pull it together with two back feet, and whip the rope . . . once . . . twice . . . three times around, secure loop and throw hands in the air. Ace yields no quarter until Miller remounts. With his rider in the saddle, the 12-year-old quarter horse steps forward smartly, without command, and the line falls limp. The calf struggles to regain his feet, then lies still.

Officials count... "four... five . . . six seconds!" Miller's tie-off holds the required stretch; he's in the money. His time - 9.6 seconds fixes him in third place. Cash winnings count like "points" for members of the [OPPOSITE PAGE] His hell-bent-for-leather calf-roping technique brands 21-year-old Johnny Miller an up-andcomer on the rodeo circuit. [RIGHT] Miller's passion for rodeo competition dictates that he be in top physical condition.

Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association. The men and a few women who belong hustle across the country to ride, rope and get bucked off the backs of gyrating bulls and broncs, earning $159 here, $489 there, maybe $2,258 from bigger rodeos maybe nothing. At the end of the season, the top 15 moneymakers get invited to the December Las Vegas National Finals Rodeo (NFR). That's the super bowl of rodeo where, for 10 days of work, a roper in top form can realistically walk away with $80,000 to $90,000 as much or more than he's made all year. But nobody starts at the finals.

A few days earlier, 21-year-old Johnny Miller and I had agreed by phone to meet in Flagstaff. I scanned the milling throng of cowboy hats behind the chutes and settled on the tall young man with short sideburns, spotless white hat and meticulous creases down his shirt sleeves and Wrangler blue jeans. Flagstaff's substantial money pot ($45,000) attracts big names, and limits the slots. All contestants enter by phone, but the computer only likes the ones with enough seniority and accumulated points. Miller made it into calf roping and team roping, but got "maxed out" of bull riding, his favorite event.

While I'd never seen any animal abuse, the wellknown criticism niggles at my conscience. We cleared that issue over salads with his team-roping partner, Jimmy Caldwell. They seem insulted at the suggestion that cowboys mistreat the horses, calves and bulls.

"When I die, I want to come back as a rodeo animal," Miller exclaimed. "Those animals get better care than you and me." He set down his fork and leaned forward on his elbows. "For one thing, every buckin' bull and bronc you see out there costs anywhere from $10,000 to $50,000. A good ropin' horse costs the same. With that much money invested, nobody's gonna endanger their animals.

Miller rated rodeo as the love of his life. His dark brown eyes danced and his speech shifted to high gear as he explained rules of the "perfs" (performances) and life on the road. His goal this summer: To "fill my permit" in the pros. That means accumulating at least $1,000 in winnings at any one event in professional rodeo as a full-fledged pro.

"Is there life away from rodeo?" I asked.

"Not much," drawled the Pima Community College scholarship student. He ticked off the reasons. "I want to finish school, I'm working... it wouldn't be fair to a girl, I'm gone so much." Although he does concede to having one "special friend" in Tucson.

He's been at this a long time. When he turned 7, Johnny's parents came to Arizona from Illinois farm country. Meeting his calf-roping neighbor, Ron Thomas, introduced a whole new twist to Western living.

"When he was about 8, he started making a lasso out of a piece of string," his dad, Clark, told me when I visited their home in the Catalina foothills north of Tucson. "So Ron showed him how to rope. After that, he was outside throwing every morning before breakfast. Rain, cold nothing stopped him."

Before his twelfth birthday, Johnny helped Thomas clear desert brush, pour concrete and build a practice arena near his house. "I wrote my name in that concrete," Miller declares in a serious tone, "and I had

such a sense of destiny. I thought, Wow! This is the place where I'm gonna learn what I want to do the rest of my life!"

At 14, he discovered bull riding. Not even his parents' disapproval could dissuade him. A roper at heart, though, he says eventually he'll have to quit the bulls and specialize.

"I'm 6 feet 2 inches," he explained. "My center of gravity is higher, so it's harder to stay on. But being in three events also makes me more valuable for a scholarship team." He's hoping for a rodeo scholarship to a four-year school.

In rodeo, you don't ask, "Have you been hurt?" It's, "How bad have you been hurt?" Still, Miller seemed a little embarrassed. I pressed for details.

"Okay," he said. "Once, my horse flipped over backwards on top of me, knocked me unconscious, broke my ankle. A bull stepped on my neck in Page. Another time I cracked a vertebra in my back, maybe once a couple fingers. It's just part of the sport." He looked away, hoping for a change in subjects.

I mentioned his pressed, not-a-hair-out-of-place look. Caldwell poked a little fun. "Yeah," he laughed, "this is Mr. Pretty Boy." But Miller denied that his mother or a professional does his laundry. He carries an ironing board and iron in his truck camper. Miller's had a couple of modeling jobs, and hopes to hire an agent.

He will rodeo every weekend for the rest of the summer - for more than 40 perfs. He calls the computer at PRCA headquarters to see where he made the entry and finds he's scheduled for two seven hours and 455 miles apart. If he doesn't show for one, that's $250 on the manure pile. That's how it is. Throw in the gear, load up the horse and hay. Rope a calf here, ride from arena to truck. Load up Ace, drive an unprintable speed to the next one. Radar detectors: standard equipment for most. Hot Tamale candy and Mountain Dew get him through night driving. The serious timed-event guys in the running for NFR ride in at least 100 performances all over the coun-try; rough stock riders who ride bulls and broncs, about 1 twenty-five.

Miller wants me to know that nobody does rodeo by himself, especially a rookie.

"Dad bought that new Dodge truck and the camper. Ron Thomas got me started, built the arena. My boss, Gordy Alderson [of Gordy Alderson Bit & Spur], fine-tunes and coaches me. He even gave me his $5,000 professional roping saddle to use. He was a calf-rop-ing champion himself. I owe a lot to this man."

Miller was also lucky enough to land a corporate sponsor. Dan Breck of Tucson's Bill Breck Dodge pays his entry fees in roping events ($50 to $250 per event), but he draws the line at bulls because, he said, "I don't want to contribute in any way to a per-manent injury." Nevertheless, sponsoring Miller was an easy choice.

"Never had to light a fire under Johnny," Breck said with admiration. "He's got the passion, and I love helping a young man follow his dream."

Miller's up for calf roping in Tucson, the season's last run in Arizona. Torrential rains make the arena look more like a swimming pool gone bad than a safe place to run a $30,000 horse. He's running in "slack," the overflow entries that compete outside of the main performance. Straight from the event, he'll head out for a 10-day high-stakes rodeo in Oklahoma.

He feels raindrops as Ace backs into the calf-roping box. Jagged bolts of lightning rip the sky a few miles to the east. Our metal bleachers give me the fidgets. But rodeo stops for nothing.

Miller settles. Crashing thunder rattles the crowd. He snaps a nod. The calf erupts. Ace bursts from the box, sans leap. Miller's rope sizzles through air, strikes its mark. The noose floats around the calf's neck. Miller dallies the tie, throws himself in ankle-deep mud and slogs down the rope. Ace prances backward.

The calf keeps his feet. The cowboy flips his quarry. Step by step . . . get it right. Whip the rope . . . twice . . . three times round, throw hands in the air. The calf struggles to stand, then lies still. Officials count . . . five, six seconds! Tie-off holds. Time: 15.4 sec-onds. He's in first place - today.

The bad news: Miller didn't fill his permit this season. Last year's amateur college rodeos garnered more than $10,000; during this year, his first with the pros, he earned about $700. If the rope hadn't broken in Williams; if the calf had stayed tied in Page; if the judge hadn't given that gosh-awful call in Prescott that made even the crowd mad; if he'd ridden just one-tenth of a second faster in Texas . . . if . . . if . . . the take could have been $6,000, at least. But whisker-close doesn't count in rodeo.

And the good news: No one gives up on the love of his life. All