Wyoming Lifestyle Blogger and Photographer: The old man's hat

My cowboy hat is entirely too big for my head.  It wobbles about and threatens to blow off at the slightest breeze.  The brim is also a touch crooked.  I really should get a new one, one that fits and looks a little better on me.

But I just can’t give this one up.

This was my dad’s hat.  He died almost four years ago, and wearing it brings me a certain amount of comfort.  And pride.

My love of rodeo started with my dad.  I’m not really sure where his rodeo game came from, but mine definitely came from him.  When I was growing up, he worked as a part-time rodeo announcer.  He announced everything from Cheyenne Frontier Days slack to local Little Britches and high school rodeos.  I grew up at his right hand in that announcer booth.

In between runs, he’d explain more about the events and what the contestants were trying to do.

“Look at that,” he’d tell me, nodding to a big bay steer roping horse in the arena.  “Watch how the steer responds as the horse leans into the rope.   Watch him pull and keep that steer in the dirt.”

Dad and I would also watch rodeo on tv together, seeing who could pinpoint the score more closely.

“Watch his feet!  See how his feet are spurring in time with the horse’s jumps?  The best bronc riders make it look easy!”

I never rodeoed, not seriously.  I preferred to stick to showing and gymkhanas, occasionally using my long-legged pleasure mare for speed events like barrel racing or pole-bending.  But I never stopped loving the sport of rodeo.  Even as an adult, I’d call my dad and we’d discuss the National Finals Rodeo go-rounds or his NFR fantasy rodeo team.

So while I need a better-fitting hat when I’m shooting rodeo photography jobs (some arena rules require western dress), I can’t bear to leave it at home.  I feel like I’m carrying a little piece of the old man with me every time I put it on.  It’s his voice I hear in my head.  I’ll often catch myself watching the roping horses work, seeing them lean into the pull to help their cowboy with the calf or steer on the ground.

I know he’d get a kick out of seeing my rodeo pictures.  I can imagine scrolling through my final images, showing him when I’d nailed the timing and gotten the quintessential saddle bronc profile picture…the bronc with his forelegs stretched out before him, hind legs fully extended, cowboy with legs forward, hand held high to the sky.

“That’s the one,” he’d nod and say.  “That’s the one.”

As his body aged, it failed him and announcing and even attending rodeos became too difficult.  I know he missed announcing slack at Cheyenne Frontier Days, that he would have loved to catch one more perfect steer trip in person, watch one more explosive bronc ride.

Maybe part of him is still watching catching the rodeo.

Maybe it’s silly.  But I like seeing this ugly old hat sitting in my closet.  My heart feels a little lighter, a little happier, when I clamp it down on my head and sling my camera around my neck.

So if you see me at the rodeo in this ugly, misshapen hat, you’ll understand.  I’m not some wannabe tourist playing cowboy for a day.  I’m just a girl who misses her dad.