It was the big black cowboy hat that I noticed first, but the rest of his clothes were blue denim—jacket and jeans. He was carrying a medium-sized duffel bag, smaller than a hockey player’s. He wasn’t a 20 km hiker.
The underside of the big black felt hat was curved, almost moon-shaped. It reminded me of Hoss, the middle brother in the 1970s TV series Bonanza.
He was native. He smiled as I passed, already slowing down. I stopped. He ran to the truck, slung his bag easily into the box and got in. He looked to be in his late 30s, he was wearing cowboy boots too. He was average size but well built, fit looking.
I extended my hand and said my name as I always did.
“Harvey,” he replied gripping my hand.“Everyone calls me Harv. I’m from Chetwynd, hikin’ to Hope. Goin’ that far?” he asked hopefully.
I said I was. “But exactly where’s Chetwynd? Close to Dawson Creek?”
“North of Prince George, west of Dawson Creek. The Creek is where we go for a city.”
Harv was on the second day of his trip from Chetwynd to Hope. He had stayed overnight in Williams Lake, he didn’t say where. He hoped to get to Hope before nightfall. It was early afternoon when I picked him up at Cache Creek. I’d take him right to Hope. We’d be there in three hours, so he’d easily make his destination in only his third ride of the day.
He explained his car had broken down at Hope— transmission—on his way back to Chetwynd from the Cloverdale Rodeo, close to the Washington border at the West Coast of B.C. He had left the car at his friend’s place and was going back to Hope to pick it up.
The Cloverdale Rainmaker Rodeo is always on the May 24th long weekend. This was the last week of October.
“So you’ve been without a vehicle all summer,” I said.
“Oh no,” he replied, “found a nice used Chev pickup in The Creek after I got back to Chetwynd. Been using it all summer, Alberta and Saskatchewan, down into the States; I’m native,” he smiled, “no problem crossing the border. Been to rodeos in Idaho, Montana, Washington, Oregon. Good truck! Just hiking to Hope to get my car back to Chetwynd.” He smiled again.“My friend’s getting tired of it sitting in his yard.”
“So it’s all fixed and ready to go?”
“Nope, but he’s found a transmission and somebody who’ll help me get the old one out and the new one in for a hundred bucks. Maybe he’ll take 80 if I help him and it don’t take too long. Should only take a couple of days.”
I changed the subject. “You’re a rodeo rider, a competitor?” I asked.
“Well, only partly,” he replied. “I try to get on a wild horse race team. Takes three guys. I’m the middle guy, it’s the easiest job, but you gotta be strong and fast and know what you’re doing. And I shape cowboy hats too, for any cowboy who wants a special look.”
“I saw your hat right away,” I said. “Maybe it was your hat that made me stop.”
He laughed as he took off his hat and turned it around, proudly. He was a good-looking fellow with long, neatly combed black hair.
“It’s a great-looking hat, you look just like Hoss in that hat. How do you shape a hat like that?”
He moved the hat around again.
“You need two things,” he said. “A steam kettle and a hair dryer, that’s it. But you got to know what you’re doing too. Carry a kettle and dryer with me all the time, they’re in the back in my bag. Never know when I might need them.”
“So you charge cowboys to shape their hats. How much?”
“Ten bucks,” he said. “Ten bucks and I’ll work it until you’re satisfied. Some cheap felt hats don’t shape good or keep their shape good, the felt’s too thin, but most cowboys don’t wear cheap hats. And I can do a real good job on the good ones, makes the cowboy really happy.”
He was smiling again. I was really starting to like this fellow.
“How did you start? Who showed you? How did you learn?” I was inquisitive.
“Somebody told me, showed me, then I just started doing it. Then I got pretty good at it. Then I started charging at stampedes and rodeos. Then the other cowboys saw the hats I shaped. Wanted theirs done. Sometimes do four or five right after the rodeo’s over, or in the evening sitting round the campfire if it’s a two or three day event. Word gets ’round.”
“And if I’m lucky in the wild horse race, split the prize money, I pick up a few more bucks. Keeps me going, gas, and stuff to eat, to the next rodeo. Don’t smoke or drink, just chew some,” he smiled.
“Sleep in your truck?”
“Yup, got a little old camper on the back, everything works, just like home. Go to rodeos all summer long. I like it.”
“Say,” I said suddenly as a thought struck me. “I come from a little place in Alberta, a little town called Bruce, but it’s got a big stampede every year. Ever heard of the Bruce Stampede?”
“Yup, heard about it and been there a few times. Bruce Stampede, that’s a good stampede!” he said enthusiastically.
“Then you’ve probably heard about our home-town cowboy Ernie Dorin,” I said.
“I know Ernie Dorin, know him good!”
“He does the Wild Horse Race too,” I added.
“Yup, he sure does, but I never been on his team. Everybody wants to be on Ernie’s team! He’s good, he’s fast, he’s tough and he’s been doing it a long time. You gotta be tough, damn tough, to be the ear man in the Wild Horse Race!”
“I don’t know too much about the Wild Horse Race,” I said,“Tell me how it works.”
“It’s easy,” he said. “Three guys: ear man, middle guy, saddle guy. You got a wild horse, never halter-broke. They put on the halter in the chute, long, heavy halter rope, three guys on the rope. They open the gate and the clock starts going. The horse comes out, wild and crazy! First thing, the three guys holding the rope gotta do is turn the horse’s head to face you. If he comes out hard and starts running away, you’re gonna lose him! Get him facin’ you, he’s pulling back, jerkin’ his head, rearin’ and pawin’ the air with his front feet. The ear guy, that’s Ernie’s job, that’s the dangerous job, works his way up the rope while he’s still helpin’ to hold him too. The middle guy, that’s me, gotta be strong and leanin’ back and diggin’ in and holdin’ the horse, keepin’ him facin’ you. The saddle guy, he’s holdin’ the rope too but he’s gotta carry the saddle besides.
“The ear guy gets closer to the wild horse’s head, but he’s gotta watch those front feet pawin’ and the horse tryin’ to rear up, pull away. Get his chance, the ear guy’s gotta grab the horse’s ear and bend it, hard! Used to be, they’d bite the ear, but that’s too dangerous—you can lose your teeth or get knocked out cold! So now most of the guys just bend it with their hand, real hard. That makes the wild horse stand still, nearly always. Then the saddle guy quick carries the saddle to the horse and throws it on, catches the cinch underneath the horse an tightens it real fast, but it still gotta be tight enough so the saddle stays on. Then the saddle guy gets on, holdin’ onto the horn and sometimes the cinch strap too. Then the ear guy lets go the ear, the middle guy lets go the rope and the two of them try to shoo the horse or wave their hats to make the horse go over the line not far away where the flag man’s waiting. Mostly that horse ain’t gonna buck too hard, he’s not a real buckin’ horse, he’s just a wild, not halter-broke horse. That’s the Wild Horse Race!”
“Sounds like a lot of things could go wrong,” I said.
“Yup, that’s the thrill of the Wild Horse Race. And some rodeos, they don’t let out one horse and the team and time them. They let out three or four horses and teams at the same time and see who makes it to the finish line first, second or third. I don’t like it that way, too much commotion, too many chances to get hurt or tangled up with somebody else’s horse. And the audience don’t know where to look and see the best action! One atta time is better, the crowd likes it more; the wild horse race lasts longer, too.”
“And you like being the middle guy?”
“Yup, less chances to get hurt, more chances to get on a team, don’t need a saddle, don’t need to ride, just pay one-third the entry fee and get one-third the prize money if you win. But you gotta be strong and fast to get a job. Word gets ’round. ‘He’s strong, he’s fast, let’s get him on our team.’ And you might even get on more than one team—better chance to win something.”
We stopped to fuel up at Boston Bar. Harv looked hungry, we had a hamburger and coffee each. I paid. He thanked me.
Back on the road, we talked about the Bruce Stampede again. He mentioned the annual Horseshoe Tournament. He said, “And I know the native guys from the Saddle Lake Reserve north of Bruce who come every year, win all the time! The Frying Pan brothers, or maybe cousins, I think. Good horseshoe players, them guys!”
I told Harv I wished I had my cowboy hat along so he could shape it for me.
“But we don’t have a plug-in,” I said.
“We’d find one,” he replied, giving his head a nod.
I took him to his friend’s place in Hope.
He spotted his car. “Right where I left it,” he said laughing.
We shook hands. I wished him luck. He thanked me, got his bag from the truck box and gave me a wave.
It had been a shorter drive than usual between Cache Creek and Hope.