I guess I’d gotten it in my head that Jackson Hole, Wyoming was going to be relaxing—a stroll in the cute town, shopping on “Rodeo Drive,”  ducking into the old saloons and galleries—a moose wandering into town offering occasional excitement. Jackson Hole travel has all of that from the travel writing I’ve read, but we never made it to the cute town. Like I’ve mentioned, my crazy husband likes vacations to be “different.” Why is it that we can’t spend a few nights at a beachfront Hyatt? So we ripped along the buffalo-lined highways in a rented SUV, the snow-capped Grand Tetons popping up from the open plains, to the middle of nowhere in order to experience a “Survivor Day.”  This involved flinging knives, throwing axes, trapping beaver and shooting pistols—and later slugging homemade whiskey from a jug proffered by our hosts that we were too polite to refuse. Fortunately, a sudden lightning storm prevented us from loading up a donkey and leading him on an obstacle course that included climbing over a mountain of hay. The types of travel groups John associates with also seek adventure, and the group we were with was no exception—I remember some of his travel companions arranging a staged kidnapping in Eastern Europe by a government’s “security forces” to demonstrate how people were abducted. When someone asked if he could resist, the thugs beat him up, breaking several of his ribs, and threw him in their trunk.

So an evening at the rodeo struck me as mellow—I had never been in spite of how much time I spent in Idaho as a kid. The handsome cowboys came rocketing out on bucking horses to AC/DC music, which was reminiscent of my Daisy the mechanical bull of my youth. But then it turned out that John had committed us to volunteering as “rodeo contestants,” which I guess is never done due to liability (and for good reason), but someone in our intrepid group had convinced the ranch to allow it (I found this out later).  Word was that it that our act involved a “baby steer” and I figured we’d be like the clowns in the warm up act. But when I wandered into the ring, thinking that this was how a real cowboy feels out there—exposed as a stripper under those blinding lights, by the way—I  was stunned when a huge, acorn-colored steer with nasty, grown-up horns came charging out, angry. My two compatriots had him by the ropes—or more like he had them—and my job was to pick the bow off its tail. The crowd loved this from the get go. The steer bucked hard, kicking up mud, and would not offer his hind end. I made several flailing attempts to run around him and seize the bow, the crowd cheering. Clowns indeed! I remember thinking that I had to get it! Otherwise I’d be out there all night humiliating myself until some cowboys would have to come into the ring and rescue me in the exasperated way of the Oompa Loompas. Grabbing the steer’s mucky tail, I finally yanked off the bow with my other hand—you have never seen a backend was filthy from the continuous grass-eating, and I was covered up to my elbows. My cowboy hat will never be the same—though John says not to clean it off because it now looks like an authentic cowboy’s. We’ll see—but where would you possibly wear it? I’m sure he has something in mind.