SARA GETTYS/Yakima Herald-Republ Shawn Best Sr., known as "Iron Man" in the rodeo circuit pulls off his boots after his bareback ride. The day before, a bull had stepped on his right leg, popping his hip out of joint. During his saddle bronc ride, his hip popped out, and he was unable to stay in the saddle. Photographed in White Swan on Sunday, June 8, 2008. Links   E-mail             Print            Advertisement

Walk through the gates at the White Swan Treaty Days Rodeo and you'll be greeted with the scent of frybread and the fine grit of dust in the teeth. Families spread out on blankets in the sun, while behind them the weathered white wood of the bleachers bakes.

Traditional Yakama foods vie for the attention of the passerby: huckleberry pie and salmon next to cold lemonade and paper trays overflowing with fried potato strings. Behind the rodeo grounds, cowgirls warm up their horses and cowboys lounge in the shade of horse trailers, feet kicked up.

Behind the chutes is the hallowed ground of the cowboys. With bruises and scrapes just beginning to mark them, young boys strap on pads to take on the wild colt race, where teams have to hold and ride an unbroken colt to the judges. Older cowboys wait patiently, few signs of nervousness or anticipation. Gloves are flexed, joints taped, gear checked.

All of this comes down to this, the split-second story, the moments that stretch out across this hot arena, which rise and flicker in the dust, tinting everything that comes close.

This: the cowboy sliding into the chute, pulling on his gloves before looping rope round and round his palm, an umbilical cord that connects horse and man.

This: the horse, which has stood still and quiet, the cinch pulled tight, suddenly a bundle of muscles, jumping with tension.

And this: the explosion out of the box, the whip of main and fringe, bodies lashing the sunshine, tattoo of hoof prints in the dirt, the swing, the pulse and pull of gravity, leather and flesh.

When it's over, this brief and brutal ballet, it's back to business. The horse, now released, lopes back toward the pen. The cowboy, fist raised in triumph or limping and grimacing, walks back through his gate, too. He unlaces the spurs, and wipes away sweat mid the chatter of watchers, the verbal replay. He shimmies out of these work jeans to reveal legs laced with scars, a body that holds the story of every ride, and the spirit of those to come.