Skiing in Kansas
by Boyd Bauman

Since I was eight,
I had been leading 4-H steers
that outweighed me by half a ton
around the ring each summer
for both a ribbon and to sell
to the highest bidder.

Into the thirteenth year of my life
came a Hereford that just wouldn’t tame
despite all the bucket feeding,
currying, and sweet alfalfa hay
from my hand.

The county fair less than two weeks away,
Dad finally stepped into the pen,
a striking event in an era when parents
let kids try, even fail, all on their own.

This was a man not easily moved:
250 pounds in overalls and cowboy hat,
forearms Popeyesque from a career
of pulling barbed wire taut around the pastures,
massive hands with a grip equal
to the ever-present pliers in his pocket.

My sister and I watched the show
from the front row just behind the fence.
Dad grabbed the halter close as he could
to the steer’s jaw while they sized each other up.

At the first hint of slack,
the steer lowered his head and bolted.
Dad planted his boots and held on with both hands.

Cowboy hat flew off
and a cloud of dust billowed above
the churning of the four hooves
and the boots solid on the soil.

Dad leaned back in his stance
so his full weight was pitted against steer power.
Two smooth tracks, parallel as a perfect skier’s,
were carved 100 yards across the feedlot surface.

Now Dad at 50 probably would’ve taken another run,
but Dad nearing 60 and on his fifth 4-Her
stoically dusted himself off,
proclaimed, No fair this year,
and headed for the house.

He never strapped on boards
even though Colorado was just one state over
his entire life,
but I can’t imagine any professional
navigating more gnarly terrain,
holding such perfect form
while going zero to sixty in an instant
as on that day my father carved fresh tracks
all the way across a flat Kansas feedlot.



 

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