The ideal Sunday afternoon in rural Virginia.
Illustration by Anja Denz
It was my first rodeo, and I was dressed for a winery luncheon—khaki shorts, lime-green button-down, sandals. We had spent the day at Barboursville Vineyards. The rodeo, 10 miles away, was a lark hatched in the Cabernet Franc afterglow. This was back in 2007, when I thought horses in Virginia either wore English saddles or ran wild on Assateague Island. Who knew Virginia had rodeos?
Two Richmond writer friends had organized the mid-September harvest feast for a dozen families. One, who is also a sommelier at Barboursville, welcomed us by sabering the neck of the winery’s Brut Cuvee 1814. Bubbly tickling our noses, we sauntered through the vineyards, sampling the fruit of different varietals. We gathered around a long table and passed platters of pasta and roasted meats and bottles of reds and whites.
As dusk fell, somebody mentioned the rodeo, at Oakland Heights Farm, near Gordonsville. Why not keep this party going?
Our timing was perfect. We parked in a pasture, marched through thick fescue in our sandals and espadrilles, forked over the entry fee and dusted off bleacher space at the end of a large dirt arena just as the crowd stood and faced a cowboy loping his horse and waving an American flag.
The public-address system crackled: “Gentlemen, remove cover.” Men with tan and ruddy faces pressed cowboy hats to chests as Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” blared over the loudspeakers and F-15 fighter jets roared across a large video screen.
I have to admit, I felt awkward and out of place, the appeal of the idea fading along with the wine buzz. But as events got underway, I relaxed. Our kids attacked the concession stand, excited for hot dogs and sodas after all that gourmet food. Cowboys roped calves. Cowgirls raced around a cloverleaf of barrels. Helmeted boys and girls clung to the back of frenzied sheep, an event called mutton busting. For the bull riding, we stood along the fence beside an idling ambulance, grimacing any time a rider got bucked and stomped. Everyone was having a blast, even the riders tossed before the eight-second whistle.
Was this the ideal Sunday afternoon? While some might vote for a vineyard harvest lunch, others—especially those in cattle-rich southwestern Virginia—might cast their ballot for the rodeo. Experiencing both activities back-to-back highlighted their differences, but in truth both are celebrations of Virginia’s agricultural heritage and bounty. The common ground they share is the ground itself.
I forgot about rodeo until 2016, when work took me to California to cover a high-dollar ranch roping. I called the assignment photographer for advice. “I know it sounds weird,” Matt said, “but dress like a cowboy.”
“That’s not who I am,” I told him, the initial awkwardness of that evening in Gordonsville coming back to me. “Trust me on this,” he said.
Matt had spent years shooting for Sports Illustrated and other magazines, but when he took his camera to his first rodeo, he couldn’t connect with anyone. Only after he dressed the part did the cowboys let down their guard and reveal their fun-loving foolhardiness and grit.
I drew the line at the hat. But, duded out in cowboy boots, boot-cut Wranglers, a Western shirt and a big brass belt buckle, I found everyone welcoming. I didn’t put on airs. I introduced myself as a curious greenhorn, a role I’m comfortable in after years of magazine assignments.
By the end of day one, scorched by the sun, I was desperate for a hat. I found a loaner with a broad brim and was surprised by how good it felt.
The people I met were crack horsemen and cattlemen, skilled with a rope and attentive to the well-being of their animals. They came to compete—and for the fellowship. I always imagined cowboys as stoic and silent, but these folks were big-hearted and warm, and for a few days they let me into their lives.
Back in Virginia, with a cowboy hat tan line that reminded me of my first rodeo in Gordonsville, I raved to my family, probably coming off as a little touched. A few months later, Matt called to say a buddy of his, a world-champion tie-down roper from Louisiana named Shane Hanchey, was looking for a writer. Would I speak with him? Long-story short, we are now partners in a digital media company, TheCowboyJournal.com, that gives rodeo cowboys and cowgirls a voice.
I haven’t been back to Oakland Heights Farm, but I think of my first rodeo often and the door it opened. When that day comes, my cowboy hat and boots are waiting.
This article originally appeared in our August 2018 issue.
