For years, I’ve lived with the soundtrack of summer in Jackson - both in town and out in the mountains, and each week carried on the evening breeze I could hear the distant roar of crowds mixed with the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting dirt. The Jackson Hole Rodeo has been this event that was always close enough to hear, yet just far enough away to remain mysterious. This past week I finally stepped through those gates and experienced it for myself. The energy is palpable the moment you enter - reminiscent of some primal ritual - and distinctly American West. The sun began to set as the bulls and horses bucked, and the familiar shades of pink and blue filled the sky creating a memorable backdrop.
The sound struck me the most. Living here, I’ve become accustomed to the natural sounds of the mountains - rushing water, birds calling, elk bugling. But the rodeo has it’s own music: the crack of the gates opening, the swirling dust kicked up by racing hooves, and the energy of the skilled athletes who’ve dedicated their lives to mastering an art form that keeps tradition alive. It’s an entirely different experience from the quiet moments in the mountains, yet wild nonetheless. I’m grateful that I finally stopped to listen to this voice of the valley.
