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CBC
9 hours ago
- Entertainment
- CBC
What do rodeo fans love about the Ponoka Stampede? The answer may surprise
The 89th Ponoka Stampede is on, and an estimated 100,000 rodeo fans are expected to visit over the week. We asked some of them what keeps them coming back for more.
Washington Post
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- Washington Post
A beloved rodeo clown returns to the scene of calamity
A year after an escaped bull injured three fans in Sisters, Oregon, JJ Harrison came back, knowing, 'There is no rodeo in the world that can plan for that' SISTERS, OREGON The rodeo clown applied streaks of white makeup to his weathered cheeks and gazed into the mirror one last time. After all these years, JJ Harrison still hated painting his face. He pulled a black felt cowboy hat over his eyes and stepped out of his trailer, a gray bin of props under the sleeve of his mesh uniform, his Wal-Mart brand sneakers kicking up red dust on the way to the arena. Seemingly everyone outside the gates at the Sisters Rodeo — thick-armed ranchers chewing Copenhagen, kids eating footlong corn dogs, women in sundresses wearing colorful boots — raced toward Harrison to say hello or get a photo. He couldn't make it more than five feet without being stopped by someone. When he finally reached the chutes near the cedar-planked announcers' box to begin his shift, the sun was going down behind the Cascade Mountains, and the stadium lights flicked on. An old cowboy in a starched blue shirt with a thick salt and pepper mustache approached. Story continues below advertisement 'I heard you got emergency surgery,' he asked. Harrison nodded. 'Take it easy out there,' the cowboy said. 'Use your brain.' 'I'll be all right,' Harrison said. 'But I always get crushed at this rodeo for some reason.' It was time to get crushed again, so Harrison rolled a 125-pound barrel through the dirt of the arena and placed it about 15 feet from the chutes, the lone bulwark for any cowboy who might need to hide from a rampaging bull after being bucked off. While he waited for the gate to open, Harrison climbed into the barrel, tapped the headset microphone under his hat and began his act by riffing on the organ removed from his body nine days earlier. Rodeo clown JJ Harrison at work in the Sisters Rodeo ring. No matter how he's feeling, Harrison shows up to work in Sisters, his favorite rodeo. Harrison jumps into his barrel for the start of a bull riding event. Harrison 'could run for mayor of Sisters and probably win,' the rodeo's announcer, Wayne Brooks, says. 'If you love me for my appendix, it's no longer with us,' he told the crowd. 'But it is available in a glass jar in the merchandise booth if you'd like to take some home with you.' A chorus of laughter rolled down the old wooden stands, and fans were still giggling as the chute gate swung open. A brown and white paint bull violently spun and flopped, like a trout out of a stream, and the cowboy flew off. The riderless bull bolted for the barrel. Harrison ducked inside just as the bovine rammed the drum through the soil. 'I think I pooped,' he told the crowd as it came to a stop. 'And it has nothing to do with my appendix.' He told more jokes between bull rides as the night wore on, and eventually he turned to the end of the stadium that was now infamous. 'We all remember what happened last year,' he said. 'Don't worry, you're safe.' One of the most well-known and longest-tenured rodeo clowns on the pro circuit, Harrison is especially revered in Sisters, where he has a key to the city and has been a pillar of rodeo week every June for the past 17 years. His job is to make everyone laugh and to work the barrel to keep the competitors safe. But last year, he found himself trying to save fans from danger when a bull named Party Bus hopped the fence and injured three people behind the stands. The incident went viral, and Harrison worried it would shut down the rodeo that gave him his first break. It also exposed the paradoxes of his life as a clown. He was angry the bull was even allowed to run in the arena, but he refused to point fingers. He was sad that people were hurt, but he insisted lessons were learned. He didn't want the rodeo, and thus himself, to be defined by the incident, but he knew it had helped make it more popular than ever. This summer, the rodeo sold more tickets than it ever had in its 85-year history, so many that it decided to add another night of performing. The Saturday parade down Main Street is just one of Harrison's Rodeo Week obligations. A child wearing a Harrison jersey hopes to catch some candy during the parade. Rodeo Week is the highlight of the calendar in Sisters. 'This community supports itself,' Harrison says. 'An event like that could have been tragic, could have ruined the Sisters Rodeo.' The Sisters Rodeo, also known as the 'Biggest Little Show in the World,' is considered one of the top rodeos in the country. Once a trading post for sheep herders grazing at the foot of the Cascades, Sisters became a hub in the timber industry until its last mill closed in the 1960s. The rodeo has remained woven into the identity of the community across generations. Competitors and fans travel from all over the country to attend during the first week of June, and many local businesses refer to it as their 'Cowboy Christmas,' the few crucial days that can push their annual profit margins into the black. Unlike many other rodeo properties, the Sisters' grounds are surrounded by national forest, the arena and chutes flanked by lodgepole pines and ponderosas that whisper in the wind at night. Those who sit high enough in the stands can see the snowcapped volcanic peaks of the Three Sisters mountains in the distance. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement Locals bring their trailers to camp out in the trees during rodeo week; it is an eclectic crowd that includes old-school rodeo fans, civic-minded supporters and thrill-seekers who show up to drink Crown Royal and watch cowboys risk their lives. A mustard-colored scoreboard displays the arena's records, and many locals remain proud that the town carries ties to Red Rock, a legendary bull that was born in Central Oregon. More than 300 riders attempted to ride Red Rock, but none was able to earn an eight-second whistle during the bull's professional career that mostly spanned the 1980s. Fans tailgate outside the rodeo in Sisters. The crowd lines up early for entry to the arena. A rider carries the American flag before the start of a night's program. Fans walk through the same area where the bull Party Bus charged after escaping the ring last year. Last year's incident became another entry in the lore of the rodeo. The Saturday night performance had been winding down when Party Bus, a three-year-old newcomer to rodeo, was in the chutes, though no one rode him that night. Instead of roping him back into the pen, the stock contractors opted to release the bull into the arena and run him through a gate. The bull instead took off in the other direction toward the far end of the stadium. While two cowboys tried to steer him back to the gate, Harrison was directing the crowd to sing Lee Greenwood's 'God Bless the USA.' Most of the patrons held up their cellphones and were swinging them in unison, oblivious to the bull running around. Party Bus drifted to one corner of the railing and hopped over the fence. The bull disappeared behind the stands on a grass strip where rows of vendors were set up. Harrison saw it and immediately took off, sprinting the length of the dirt to the area Party Bus had entered. 'Get to high ground! Get to high ground! We have a bull out!' Harrison screamed as he reached the fence. Harrison had worked as a rodeo clown long enough to see bulls try the unthinkable in different venues across the West. A few years before in Preston, Idaho, after a bull had tried to jump into the bleachers and hung over the rail, a man in the front row pulled out a pistol, threatening to shoot the animal while Harrison was standing nearby. In 2006, at the SunDome in Yakima, Washington, a bull had rampaged through a concessions area, his loose rope dragging Harrison and another cowboy across the concrete before being captured. 'There is no rodeo in the world that can plan for that,' Harrison said. 'You can have ideas; you can have all kinds of plans in place; but animals are like small children — they are going to do what they want to do. And the minute you try to count on them to do one thing, they're going to do the opposite.' The Sports Moment newsletter (The Washington Post) Reporter Ava Wallace takes you through the buzziest, most engaging sports stories of the week. Sign up for the weekly newsletter Previous Next In Sisters, Party Bus was doing the opposite. Harrison ran behind the stands and saw the bull running, becoming what the cowboys like to call a meat missile. Still, preoccupied fans began to trickle out of the stands with their kids, chasing after Harrison to get autographs and selfies. One woman approached him as he frantically ran after the animal. It was like trying to chat up a stock car driver in the middle of a race. 'Ma'am? What are you doing? Get up there!' Harrison told her, pointing to the bleachers. Harrison's teenage son, Trevor, had been sitting at a picnic bench with friends before hiding under the table while Party Bus roamed near a beer garden. The bull finally ran into Hunter Adams, a rubber mill worker from nearby Philomath and a first-timer at the rodeo. Adams had been drinking with his friends when he locked eyes with the bull. He started to run and tried to dodge Party Bus, but dodged the wrong way. The bull dropped its head and thrust Adams into the air, leaving him with a concussion and shredding every ligament in his right knee as he landed. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement 'I've never been hit by a bull,' Adams said. 'It felt like a linebacker in football hitting me, but worse.' Party Bus veered toward the back corner of the garden and flipped a woman into the air multiple times. She lay on the ground as paramedics raced to her aid, and Party Bus took off outside a gate before being roped. Harrison found another woman who had injured her collarbone and walked her to a medical team. He felt sorrow and frustration. Three people went to the hospital with minor injuries. Before one of the women was taken there, Harrison waited with her and doctors by the chutes when a cowboy ran up and told him they needed him back in the arena. They still had one more bull to run for the night. Harrison speaks before a rapt audience at Sisters Elementary School. Children are among Harrison's most fervent fans. Harrison is a full-fledged celebrity to the children in Sisters. Rodeo Week in Sisters sees Harrison signing many autographs on all sorts of items. Harrison wanted nothing more than to be a cowboy, so as a teenager, he searched for his place in rodeo. He learned to rope and rode bulls, and after his first year of college, one of his friends ratted him out to his parents. They sat down JJ and told him, 'We're not helping you go through college to get your brain kicked in.' But Harrison continued to ride in secret his sophomore year until a bull's claw stomped a hole into his cowboy hat during a practice session. His skull still intact by a few inches, Harrison decided to give up on bulls and compete as a team roper. Before one competition, he stood atop his horse and drew a crowd of cowboys around him with his jokes. Pat Beard, a roper from a legendary stock contracting family, noticed the laughter outside the chutes and saw a business opportunity. 'Why don't you be my clown?' Beard asked. 'No, man, I'm not wearing makeup. What are you, stupid?' Harrison replied. 'I'll give you 350 bucks,' Beard told him. 'You bet. It's your money,' Harrison said, and he quickly learned he could make more moonlighting as a clown at rodeos than he could as a middle school teacher. He first needed to learn the craft. For years, the rodeo clown's job was composed of two roles: to provide comedy and bullfight, which meant distracting bulls long enough to allow bucked-off cowboys to escape the arena without being injured. In most major rodeos today, three designated bullfighters handle that job, while the clown entertains the crowd and uses a barrel to offer a stationary shield that bullfighters and cowboys can hide behind to elude danger if needed. If anyone is supposed to be hit by the bull, it's the clown. With Beard's help, Harrison started entering shows. Before his first event, in Vancouver, Washington, he wrote out three five-minute skits and built a prop box for his dogs to do a magic trick, but the contraption flew out of the bed of his pickup truck and was crushed on the highway on the drive there. When he arrived, he didn't have any makeup, so he smeared baby diaper cream on his face and improvised the performance. Clowns play essential roles in rodeo, both for entertainment and safety. Harrison has never loved wearing makeup but knows it's part of the job. Holding his daughter Roxy, 5, Harrison talks with his wife, Bailey. As others attempt to corral a bull, Harrison ducks into his barrel. Harrison walks with a cowboy after a ride. 'I spin the roulette wheel every time I go in the arena,' he says. 'I don't want to be a Justin Bieber and have that kind of fame,' Harrison says. 'I've got just the right amount here in Sisters.' Sisters was the first big rodeo to take a chance on hiring Harrison. He sought advice from everyone involved, from the announcer to the bullfighters, and there he discovered a gift for comedy and an ability to work the barrel. Soon he was clowning at rodeos all over the country, from Wolf Point, Montana, to Ocala, Florida, to Reno, Nevada, but when people asked him what his favorite was, he always said Sisters. His truck was wrapped in a decal with his name, and many mornings here, he left his condo rental to find handmade cards from kids on his windshield. 'I don't want to be a Justin Bieber and have that kind of fame. I've got just the right amount here in Sisters,' he said. 'It's awesome that people know who I am, and they want to yell at me randomly. But they're doing that, in my opinion, because that's their way of saying. 'Hey, thanks for being here.'' Even when his body was failing him, he always mustered the strength to show up at Sisters. One year he suffered a cracked skull days before the event but still arrived at rodeo week for his long list of appearances. This year was no different. With 26 stitches in his stomach, he talked to kids at the local elementary about bullying on Friday morning, officiated the downtown parade from the porch of Sundance Shoes on Saturday morning, and performed at the rodeo after the pancake breakfast Sunday. 'He could run for mayor of Sisters and probably win,' is how the rodeo's announcer, Wayne Brooks, always introduces Harrison before he entered the arena. After Harrison suffered appendicitis this year, the rodeo's president, Scott Talerico, worried the rodeo would suffer. 'I truly believe a lot of our ticket sales are based on JJ,' Talerico said. 'I was a little scared, because what do I do without him? It's a different rodeo without him.' Harrison considered mostly everyone here family, and he loved to bring his wife, Bailey, and their children. He met Bailey at a rodeo eight years ago. 'I ran off with the circus,' she said, and she soon was managing his career outside of the arena and living a full life on the road, which often meant more than 35 rodeos on the schedule and leaving their home in Walla Walla, Washington, empty throughout the year. Story continues below advertisement Advertisement But Bailey worried about her husband's health constantly. Harrison has a cellophane soul, but he does not like to divulge his ailments. He knew clowns who had performed well into their 50s and even 60s, but the way he did the job was a young man's game that could end at any point. It was why he was in such high demand and among the highest-paid clowns in the business. At 50, his body had taken a beating from years of collisions with bulls and horses. He had endured numerous concussions that allowed him to sleep just a few hours a night, if he was lucky. He had had one hip replaced and was driving the other one into the ground. Two years ago, he fractured the tibial plateau in one knee early in the season and still worked all summer. Every year, he flew to Reno to see the same doctor, to get the same six steroid injections into his spine. He wore knee braces and took a dose of morphine before every performance. 'I spin the roulette wheel every time I go in the arena,' he said. 'It might be the last day I am alive. You just have to know that. Because it can happen.' What could be more difficult was seeing how the sport ravaged the bodies of those he was out there to protect. He was usually the first one to hover over hobbled competitors in the arena, the first witness often to career-ending injuries. He had cradled the heads of bull riders with broken necks. He had seen blood shoot out from the ears and noses of cowboys, heard the screams of bulldoggers who had just snapped bones in their legs. He always made sure to turn his microphone off when he arrived. He told himself such incidents weren't his fault. He learned early in his career that his workplace is an uncontrolled environment. Trying to stop a bull felt like trying to stop a forest fire. And it was easy for him to draw a blank on all the times cowboys and bullfighters had run to his barrel to avoid being trampled by a bull, but those he had helped rarely forgot. One memory of Sisters stuck out. More than a decade ago, a young bullfighter named Logan Blasdell was working his first rodeo when a well-known bull named Hell No Roscoe had him trapped after bucking off a cowboy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harrison rush toward him with the barrel. 'This sucker had me gathered up. I was able to grab the rim of that can and pull myself around it,' Blasdell said. 'We got bumped around, but JJ saved my bacon.' Harrison attends a production meeting in Sisters. Deschutes County Sheriff's Deputy Mike Mangin show Harrison how to operate his vehicle as part of one night's act. Limbering up before performing is essential for Harrison. Harrison pretends to be 'caught' by Deshutes County Sheriff's K-9 Officer Ronin during one night's act. For the Sisters crowd, Rodeo Week would not be the same without Harrison. Before the second day of this year's rodeo, Harrison arrived in a crisp black cowboy shirt for a meet-and-greet at a furniture store in downtown Sisters. Outside the front door was a table with rows of hats, stamped with different Party Bus logos. Harrison looked surprised. He stepped into the store, where one couple was waiting for him to autograph their hats. 'Party Bus,' he mumbled to himself, taking the cap off a Sharpie to sign. 'Good thing the concessions were closed, and kids weren't out there,' a woman said to him. 'Super lucky,' her husband said. Harrison was quiet as he later walked out of the store. 'I know it's going to a good cause,' he said to Bailey. 'But I don't want to be the face of keeping that alive.' He blasted Macklemore in his truck and eventually drove to the rodeo grounds to attend a production meeting, where the wind caked his jeans in dirt. A director proudly announced the rodeo had set a merchandise record with more than $40,000 in sales the night before. It had done more than $30 grand in each of the two nights before that. The rodeo had built a new merchandise building, and Harrison's signature black jersey was sold on the main wall. Hundreds of fans wore them around town during rodeo week. Next to the uniforms were rows of brown hoodies with Party Bus graphics, complete with a bull hopping over a fence. JJ and Bailey take Trevor, 14, and Roxy, 5, to a family lunch in Sisters. Harrison's trailer is a practically a tourist attraction in Sisters. Signs caution of the omnipresent danger at a rodeo. 'I don't believe they're vicious animals,' Harrison says of bulls. 'I just don't.' The mood remained festive near the concession area where Party Bus ran rampant a year earlier. 'As tough as that bull-getting-out incident was, I think it brought some notoriety to an already great rodeo,' Harrison said. 'This community supports itself. An event like that could have been tragic, could have ruined the Sisters Rodeo. … Everybody right there said, 'No, this is our baby. And we are sorry that somebody got hurt, but we're gonna support our rodeo.'' A year later, with Party Bus officially retired from competing in rodeo, Harrison had a new crop of stock to face in Sisters. 'I don't believe they're vicious animals. I just don't. I think they're built to buck you off and leave and go eat grain,' he said, but he was always retold stories here of what had happened to him when he got in the way of bulls leaving. Fifteen years before, a bull had crushed the barrel with Harrison inside, then proceeded to drive the cylinder through the dirt and out of an open gate at the front of the arena. The fans cheered and held up their hands as if the bull had just scored a goal, a hilarious memory, but also a reminder of the unmitigated power and ferocity of the animal. This year, Harrison watched from his barrel as bulls with names such as Pretty Boy and Cold Turkey and Entitled Little Tool bucked off cowboys over the course of four days and charged at Harrison. Above the dirt, Adams, the mill worker, had returned to the rodeo, wearing a brown hoodie celebrating the bull that trampled him a year earlier. 'If a bull jumps out, throw him back!' the announcer said, and Adams laughed with his friends. 'Throw him back?' one of them shouted. 'Why didn't you do that last year!' When the Saturday night performance had finally ended, Harrison still had work to do. Dozens of fans calling his name for autographs and selfies had lined the red railing of the stadium over signs that read: 'Danger: Stay 3 feet off fence at all times.' It always got a little weird in Sisters — kids stuck their legs through the railing for Harrison to sign their boots, and a man had followed the clown along the stands requesting to see his scar from the appendectomy. A woman asked Harrison to hold her infant because it was their first rodeo, only to watch the baby cry at Harrison's makeup. 'I don't know how you keep doing this every year,' the mother said to him. 'I don't know where I get the energy,' he said, the toddler screaming in his ear. After nearly an hour, he threw a blue tarp over his barrel and finally returned to his camp, where he cleaned blood off his forearm and wiped the makeup off his face. Inside the two-room trailer, he could hear Bailey and the kids laugh on the other side of the door, the only other noise a distant thrum of a guitar from a country band performing near the merchandise shed. Harrison reached up to the ceiling lamp and tapped it off for a minute, sitting in the dark alone, running his hand through the sweat in his blonde hair. Just a few hundred feet away, the stadium lights had dimmed over the chutes, too. The bulls stood still in the pen, each one commanding a lone patch of dirt and nibbling on grain, waiting for the next gate to open.
