The Last Cowboys

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From The Wall Street Journal:

 In 1983, country singer George Strait scored a major hit with a cover of the modern ballad “Amarillo by Morning.” The lyrics describe life on the rodeo circuit: overnight drives to the next stop, bones broken by falls from the saddle and relationships fractured by distance. But the song ends on an upbeat note, with the singer crooning, “I ain’t got a dime but what I got is mine; / I ain’t rich, but Lord I’m free.” A tidy encapsulation of 150 years of cowboy mythology, “Amarillo by Morning” celebrates the lone man on horseback: rugged, noble and self-reliant. John Branch’s new book, “The Last Cowboys,” chronicles this world of the modern rodeo cowboy, with all the travails imparted by Mr. Strait and others. But Mr. Branch shows, too, that the ranching life glorified by the sport is full of hard work, and—in the early 21st century—even harder choices.

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“The Last Cowboys” focuses on the Wrights of southwestern Utah, who run some 200 head of cattle on land that has been in the family of patriarch Bill Wright for over 150 years. Bill’s great-great grandparents came from England as part of the Mormon migration, and in 1862 moved south from Salt Lake City to the rugged country that abuts what is now the west side of Zion National Park. Bill and his wife, Evelyn, have 13 children, and their oldest son, Cody—whose story forms the loose spine of the book—is a two-time world champion saddle bronc rider. For the uninitiated, Mr. Branch describes Cody’s event as “an eight-second partnership of choreography in which the bronc was an angry participant. The rider’s lower legs were supposed to cock back as the horse bucked into the air and snap forward just as the bronc landed on its front hooves.”

Cody, who is nearing 40, has made millions in endorsements and winnings (success at a single rodeo can net a professional rider tens of thousands of dollars). And yet, as Mr. Branch explains, just as important to Cody is the family tradition he has established. Several of his brothers, a brother-in-law and two of his teenage sons (described by Mr. Branch as “miniature versions of Cody, like unnested cowboy dolls”) are leading riders on the circuit, all aiming for the same goal: to win enough money during the season to qualify for the National Rodeo Finals, held every December in Las Vegas. The younger men ape Cody’s mannerisms and ask for the notes he has compiled on all the broncs he has ridden in competition, with particular interest in how much rein to give. “Too little,” Mr. Branch writes, “and a drop of the horse’s head might pull the rider over. Too much, and the rider exited off the back or got jerked to the side.” The Wrights boast a dynasty unlike any other in individual pro sports.

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Seemingly every small town in the West hosts a rodeo, and pro riders spend as many as 200 nights a year away from home, crisscrossing desolate highways in the wee hours, sleeping in parking lots or rest stops, and subsisting on fast food. In just one week during “Cowboy Christmas,” a string of July rodeo events, the Wrights log 4,300 miles spread across 70 hours of driving. All of that puts strain on personal relationships, but the toll on the riders’ bodies is medieval, featuring a litany of shattered bones—mostly arms, legs, wrists and clavicles. One family member even keeps a piece of his fractured tailbone in a jar, as a memento.

Link to the rest at The Wall Street Journal

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