Water Valley Stampede | Grit & Grace

Grit, Grace, and the 72nd Water Valley Stampede

    It is incredibly nice to finally wake up to blue skies, sunshine, and the hope that the rain is done for at least a few days. This past weekend was a phenomenal one for rodeo across Alberta, even if my original itinerary didn't go exactly to plan.

    I was initially scheduled to head up to Stony Plain, but the Farmers' Days Rodeo was unfortunately canceled. The heavy rains earlier in the week left the arena conditions unsafe for both the animals and the athletes, which is always the right call to make. With a sudden gap in my weekend, I decided to pivot and head south down to the good old hamlet of Water Valley.

    It has been many, many years since I’ve set foot in that town. Just pulling in brought me right back to my teenage years. Back when I was 16 or 17, I was the equipment manager and trainer for the Innisfail Junior B Blades hockey club. Every time we made the trek down to play the Cochrane team—and came out of it with a win—we would get the bus driver to stop at the legendary Water Valley Saloon on our way home to celebrate.

    Despite those deep-rooted memories, I had actually never been to a Water Valley Stampede. This weekend was a completely new experience for me, and it was amazing to see a quiet hamlet grow so immensely. The rodeo grounds are vast, yet they were completely filled; every nook and cranny was packed with stock trailers, holiday campers, and living quarter rigs. From kids barely old enough to walk to the 80-year-old veterans of the sport, there were people roaming everywhere, absolutely buzzing and ready to cheer on the athletes.

    And there was plenty of legacy to cheer for. This past weekend wasn't just another stop on the circuit; it marked the 72nd Annual Water Valley Stampede.

    Seventy-three years ago, back in 1953, the chutes opened for the very first time on these grounds five miles west of town. While it serves as a flagship, deeply rooted event for the Foothills Cowboy Association (FCA), it draws a massive, top-tier roster of roughstock and timed-event athletes by being co-sanctioned with the Lakeland Rodeo Association (LRA), Bull Riders Canada (BRC), and the Canadian Rodeo Association (CRA).

    While the trucks hauling the stock have gotten newer and the world outside has gone entirely digital, some things in the Foothills haven't changed a bit. It is a beautifully "unplugged" weekend—partially by choice, and partially because the cell service is notoriously shaky—which forces you to put the screen down, look up, and actually connect with the people around you. It’s a true, resilient rodeo fan’s event that runs rain or shine, driven entirely by volunteers and steeped in family legacy.

    I had actually been warned about the digital dead zone before I even hit the highway. The local Facebook pages made it very clear: stop in town and bring cash, because there will be absolutely no ATMs on the grounds due to the lack of signal. I was prepared for that. What I didn’t anticipate was that the complete lack of cellular service would completely sabotage the local connection between my phone and my DJI Action 6 camera.

    While everyone else was settling into the grandstands, I was in full panic mode. I ended up making a mad dash back to my holiday trailer, unhooking the truck, grabbing my Starlink Mini, and ripping right back to the rodeo arena. Then came the logistical puzzle. I had to scramble to find a power source, run the cable so that the roaming crowds wouldn't trip over it, and stash the Starlink dish in a spot that was open enough to catch the satellite signal, but hidden enough that it wouldn't get trampled by a pair of cowboy boots. Against all odds, I got the satellite link secured and my camera finally synced to my phone just as the chutes were getting loaded. I hit record literally just in time for the Junior Bull Riding.

    It is a hard reality check, however, when your brain still wants to operate like you are in your twenties, but your body steps in to correct the record. Not that I am old—I am much younger than many of my counterparts out there shooting in the dirt—but this weekend really solidified the fact that I am a lot closer to 50 than I am to 20.

    Going into the weekend, I honestly thought I was prepared for the cold, damp weather. I had my rain gear. I had my straw hat. I had the layers to stay warm and the layers to stay dry. But there is a specific kind of damp chill that just bypasses the Gore-Tex and shakes your entire frame.

    A couple of weeks ago, I stepped out of the tractor, landed wrong on a rock, and I am pretty sure I broke one of the small bones on the outside of my left foot. I’ve been taping it, keeping it elevated when the farm work allows, and making sure to wear footwear that gives the swelling some room. With my background in sports medicine and my years working as a trainer for the hockey teams, I know all too well how these specific injuries go. They don't heal easily, they don't always show up on an X-ray, and cold weather will absolutely make them scream.

    This weekend, that foot decided to make its presence fully known, proving exactly how much agony a tiny, untreated bone can cause. Combine that constant, radiating ache with standing in the damp cold for a five-and-a-half-hour rodeo performance, and my muscles just quit. My back completely seized up.

    I managed to get back to the trailer after the dust settled on Saturday, downloaded my images, got some food in me, and crashed. But when Sunday morning rolled around, I couldn't even get out of bed. My back was an absolute disaster. Between the pouring rain outside and the physical seize-up inside, I didn't make it out for Sunday's performance at all. It is a tough pill to swallow because I genuinely loved the atmosphere on Saturday, but you can only push the limits so far. As I sit here writing this today, my back is still locked tight. It hurts just to sit in the chair.

    I have been struggling lately to figure out exactly what to call this ongoing project. "Blog" doesn't feel right for the weight of these stories. The CPRA has made it abundantly clear they don't consider me a journalist, and trying to pull answers out of the pro series guys has felt like a slow, painful process of pulling teeth.

    But sitting in the damp dirt at Water Valley this weekend, it finally clicked. This is exactly why I named this series Grit & Grace.

    Seeing the crowds come out in droves—huddled under umbrellas and pop-up tents, refusing to let the cold rain ruin their weekend—reminded me why I do this. It reconnected me to the importance of shining a spotlight on these grassroots, community-driven events. If my own version of grit and grace can bring just a little more awareness, help sell out a grandstand, or bring a new sponsor to their arena, then I am exactly where I need to be.

    Because what struck me the most this weekend—even more than the raw athleticism spanning across generations of competitors—was the sheer, unscripted kindness. That true, human-looking-after-human camaraderie was put on heavy display during the bull riding on Saturday.

    Thanks to the quick work of the bullfighters, I actually caught the reality of this sport on camera. One of the young riders came down incredibly hard. Even over the crowd, you could hear that distinct, deeply unpleasant noise that immediately tells the entire arena something is very wrong.

    But within a split second, the competition completely dissolved. The bullfighters did their jobs flawlessly, getting the young man safely into the bucking chute to prevent any further harm. But it was what happened next that defines this culture: the other riders—the guys he was actively competing against—immediately jumped in. They were helping the paramedics haul their medical gear behind the chutes so the athlete could get looked at as quickly as possible.

    They didn't care about their own upcoming rides or the buckle. Their only concern was: what does this guy need from me right now?

    I was too busy behind the lens to see exactly what happened in the aftermath, but I eventually caught a glimpse of him in a sling. His buddies were right there, making sure his gear was packed up and looked after. The ambulance didn't have to leave the grounds with him, which is always a massive victory in this sport, and I am wishing him a speedy recovery.

    But watching how he was treated made one thing crystal clear. You will not find this type of selfless camaraderie in any other sport or lifestyle. We spend so much time culturally idolizing pro athletes making millions of dollars a year, but these Cowboys and Cowgirls—the ones who put aside their own competitive drive to pack the gear of a fallen friend—are the ones who actually deserve to be put up in lights.

emiacstudio.photoserve.co for all images from the Sat perf