Not Exactly My Scene
I'm from Northwest Indiana. That means my rodeo exposure basically amounts to what I caught on TV during family road trips, and honestly, I wasn't impressed. Seemed like a lot of dirt and yelling and guys in hats doing things that seemed unnecessarily dangerous. So when my buddy James invited me to shoot photos of his son Jacob riding bulls at a Christian youth rodeo in Decatur, I said yes because I don't like saying no to friends, not because I was excited about rodeos. I was thinking I'd get some decent action shots, check it off my list, and head home to edit.
I was so wrong about how that Saturday would go.
Perfect Day, Bizarre Smells
Aiden and I showed up around 3 in the afternoon on December the 13th. The weather was absolutely perfect. I'm talking the kind of day where you step out of the truck and think, "Yeah, okay, I'm grateful to be alive right now." Clear sky, decent temperature, no wind yet, just that sweet spot where everything feels possible. The arena was already buzzing with activity. Families were there, kids were running around, people were setting up in the stands. There was this energy to it that I wasn't expecting.
And the smells. Oh man, the smells. You've got the earthy rodeo smell mixed with animal and hay, which makes sense. But then somebody had set up the concession stand, and now you're standing there with the aroma of fresh popcorn and hot dogs doing battle with the very real scent of bulls and dirt and everything that comes with them. It's this bizarre olfactory clash that shouldn't work but somehow does. It smelled like a county fair decided to have a baby with a cattle ranch. Your brain couldn't quite decide if it was hungry or if it needed to step back.
From Reverent to Absolute Chaos
Then the announcer got everyone's attention. The whole place quieted down. He led us all in prayer and we stood for the national anthem. Just like that, you knew what this was about. This wasn't just a rodeo. This was a community gathered together, grounded in something bigger than just the event itself. Kids and families and strangers all standing together, hands over hearts, saying words that meant something. It set the tone for everything that came after.
After that, things kicked off. And I mean kicked off. The shift from that calm, reverent moment to pure chaos happened in nothing flat. One second it's quiet and unified, the next second kids are being thrown around by sheep. These kids weren't out there messing around. They were on a mission. They had that focus, that determination. This wasn't just fun and games.
Muttin' Bustin' and Flying Five-Year-Olds
The muttin' bustin' started, and I finally got it. I finally understood why people think this is entertainment.
Aiden lost it. I'm not exaggerating. He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. These five-year-olds, and I mean literally kindergarten-aged humans, were climbing onto sheep that immediately decided they wanted nothing to do with passengers. The moment a kid was settled on a sheep's back, that animal would bolt like someone had fired a starting gun.
Here's the thing that got us both: those muttons' legs were moving so fast they looked absolutely ridiculous. I'm talking cartoon-level fast. And they weren't just moving. Those sheep were determined to throw off their pint-sized protagonists. The kids had their little hands gripped so tight in that wool, white-knuckle grips, doing everything humanly possible to not eat dirt. Their faces were pure determination mixed with absolute terror.
Both boys and girls were out there getting thrown around, but I noticed the little girls seemed to have better grips. They were holding on with this fierce intensity, like they weren't going to let that mutton win without a fight. Some of them lasted longer because of it.
But what really got me was how they fell off. I expected it to be quick, you know? Kid loses grip, flies off, hits the dirt. Done. Instead, some of these kids were falling off in slow motion. Like actual slow-motion falling. They'd start sliding off sideways, and instead of just dropping, they'd ride that sheep sideways for most of the trip across the arena. One leg on one side, one leg on the other, desperately trying to stay on while the mutton is still shaking and bucking beneath them at a ridiculous speed.
About ninety percent of them faceplanted. Hard. And they'd be crying, dirt all over them, tears mixing with the dust running down their little red cheeked faces. Their daddies would come running out of the stands, scooping them up, trying to console them. And you'd think that was it. Traumatized. Done. Never again.
But no. These kids wanted to do it again.
Some of them would get back up, brush themselves off, and do a little dance right there in the middle of the arena like they'd just won something. Like that fall didn't even happen. Like they'd just conquered the world. They were fighting with everything they had. White knuckles. Grim determination. And when they fell, they fell hard. But they kept coming back.
I was totally amazed at these little people. Here they were, barely tall enough to see over a fence, getting thrown around by animals twice their size, eating dirt, crying, and then deciding it was worth doing all over again. That's not something you see every day.
Aiden pointed at them and yelled, "Dad, look at their legs!" and he was absolutely right. Those muttons had legs going a million miles an hour while the kids just held on for dear life, even when they were halfway off and riding sideways like they'd forgotten which direction was supposed to be forward.
It was the funniest thing either of us had seen in a while, honestly.
He watched for a bit longer, entertained by the sheer absurdity of small children being flung around by faster-legged creatures and somehow managing to stay on longer than should be physically possible. But then, like most kids when the novelty wears off, he moved on to other things. I can't blame him. Five-year-olds covered in dirt can only hold your attention for so long.
The Real Reason I Was There
The real reason I was there was Jacob. James and Leslie's son. Bull riding. That's a completely different animal from muttin' bustin'. Bull riding is where the serious stuff happens. This kid had only been riding for about five months, which is basically nothing in the grand scheme of things. He was still figuring it out. Still learning what his body needed to do, how to balance, how to read the animal beneath him. And on that day, in that arena in Decatur, Jacob placed third for the season.
Third place after five months of doing this. Let that sink in for a second.
I watched those older boys ride, and I saw what bull riding really is. Some of them got bucked hard, came flying off and landed so close to getting stomped that I don't know how they got out of the way in time. Their bodies were moving faster than their brains could catch up. Some came off limping. Some were holding their arms that had tried so desperately to hang on to a massive animal. Some looked like they didn't know what planet they were on. They were genuinely hurt, genuinely shaken.
But here's what struck me: these young men love this. They actually love this. And they'd probably love it for the rest of their lives. It doesn't matter that they're getting thrown around like rag dolls. It doesn't matter that a thousand-pound animal just tried to kill them. This is what truly makes these boys cowboys. Not the buckles or the skill or the placement. It's the willingness to get back up after something throws you down. It's the commitment to something bigger than yourself, something that doesn't care about your safety or your comfort.
Learning as I Go
I was there to document it. That's what I do. I show up with a camera and I capture moments. Except I'd never shot a rodeo before, and I had no idea what I was walking into.
To be honest, I got so caught up watching the muttin' bustin' that I missed the first half of it before I even started shooting. I couldn't pull my eyes away from the show. It was just that captivating. But once I got my head in the game, I started capturing everything. The people in the stands, the little calves poking their heads through the pipe fence, the bulls waiting in the pens.
And here's what surprised me about those bulls: they were just loafing around without a care in the world. Oblivious to the theatrics of it all. These boys would be sitting behind the shoots with them, and the bulls were just doing their thing, completely unaware of what was about to happen. But the second those bulls got cinched down and ready to ride, something flipped. They'd immediately lose that calm demeanor. You could see it happen. One moment they're just lounging, the next moment they're a completely different animal. Ready to buck.
The arena was chaos in the best way possible. There were bulls in pens, riders getting ready, people everywhere, and the whole thing was this beautiful mess of controlled pandemonium. I started walking around trying to figure out angles, trying to predict where the action would happen, trying to get into a position where I could actually get the shot when the moment came.
Rodeo photography is harder than I thought. You can't just stand in one spot and hope the action comes to you. You're constantly moving, constantly trying to anticipate, constantly thinking about where that rider and bull are going to be in the next two seconds. The action is fast and unpredictable, and if you miss the moment, you miss it. There's no second take. There's no asking the bull to ride again because your focus wasn't quite right.
By the time we left that evening, I had almost a thousand photos. A thousand. And do you know how many of those were absolutely perfect? Not nearly as many as I would have liked. Catching the action when you're new to something is the hard part. You're learning the rhythm of it while you're shooting it. You're figuring out what works and what doesn't while the bulls are bucking and the riders are holding on and everything is moving at full speed.
What Actually Mattered
But here's what really got me during that day, beyond the technical challenge of trying to capture bulls and riders. It was the community aspect of it. This was a small country town event. These kids were taking it seriously. Genuinely seriously. They weren't there to mess around. They were there to ride and to compete and to push themselves.
And everyone else there? They were rooting for everyone's kids. Not just their own. I watched parents cheering for other people's children. I saw riders congratulating other riders. There was this sense that we were all in it together, all supporting these kids as they stepped up and did hard things. Strangers cheering for strangers' children. That's something you don't see everywhere. In a world where a lot of things feel divided and fractured, this little rodeo in a small Texas town felt like people actually cared about each other's success.
The weather was still perfect at that point. No complaints. I was moving around, shooting, trying to find angles, trying to figure out how to make this work.
Behind the Shoots
Now, here's where it gets interesting. I was trying to get better angles, better positions to shoot from. I was walking around behind the shoots trying to find spots that would give me a good view when the riders came out. And let me tell you, that's not easy. The shoots are where the bulls are kept before they go into the arena. You're navigating this area that's basically not set up for photographers. You're climbing over fences. You're watching out for bulls that are just standing there, occasionally moving, occasionally deciding they want to go somewhere. You're dodging sheep. You're trying not to trip or get trampled or accidentally spook an animal that weighs a thousand pounds.
It's kind of a maze back there. Like, genuinely confusing. You turn a corner and there's another fence. You find a gap and squeeze through and suddenly you're in a completely different area. The whole thing is this chaotic navigation puzzle, and all the while you're trying to keep your camera safe and yourself intact.
The Moment
That's when I found the pen area in the back.
There were the older boys. Just a handful of them. They were kneeling down together.
They were praying.
Right next to a bull. One of them had a high probability of being thrown from that very animal in just a few minutes. But there they were, kneeling together in the dirt, grounded in something bigger than themselves while the animal stood right there with them.
I stopped moving. I didn't deliberately stop because I was trying to be respectful or anything like that. I just stopped. Because I immediately felt like I was intruding on something that wasn't meant for an audience. This wasn't a public moment. This wasn't performance. This was just these young guys doing what they needed to do before they rode bulls. Real faith. Honest faith. Just a few teenagers in a pen area in the dirt, kneeling together, praying before they stepped up and got on a thousand-pound animal that was standing right there with them.
I felt weird about it. I'm not going to sugarcoat it. I felt like maybe I shouldn't be seeing this. Maybe I shouldn't be capturing this. These weren't people posing for photos. They weren't thinking about documentation. They were just there with each other, doing something that mattered to them.
But I photographed it anyway.
Because even though I felt weird about it, I also knew that moment needed to be seen. Not in a sensationalized way. Not in a "look at these good Christian kids" way. But just honestly. That's what faith actually looks like sometimes. It's not always in a sermon or a church service with music and energy and people around. Sometimes it's a bunch of teenagers in the dirt, kneeling together next to a bull, grounding themselves in something bigger than themselves before they do something that scares them.
I got the shot. And then I moved on, back into the maze of fences and animals, back to the work of trying to capture the action.
The Afternoon Keeps Going
The afternoon kept going. The muttin' bustin' continued. More kids rode. More families cheered. The energy was constant. There was always something happening, always another moment to capture, always another reason to be grateful I was there with a camera in my hands.
The Wind Arrives
Then, somewhere along the way, that north wind showed up.
You know the one I'm talking about. The wind that you don't see coming. One minute it's pleasant. The sun is still warm, the sky is still clear, and you're thinking this is a perfect day. The next minute, that wind hits and suddenly you understand that fall is done playing around. It's serious now. It's getting cold.
Real cold. The kind where everyone bunches up a little closer. The kind where you're regretting not bringing a jacket. The kind where the energy of the event shifts just slightly. It's still fun, still exciting, but it feels a little more intimate now. Like everyone is huddling together against the wind.
Going Home
By the time we left around 8 o'clock, the sun was going down and the temperature had definitely dropped. I was tired. Aiden was tired. My feet hurt from walking around the arena. My brain was tired from trying to figure out angles and timing and all the technical stuff that goes into shooting something you'd never shot before.
I had a thousand photos to sort through. A thousand photos that I knew, objectively speaking, had some good ones in there and some that were just blurry misses or badly timed shots because I was still learning the rhythm of rodeo action.
What It Actually Meant
But I'd been there. I'd watched Jacob place third in his season after only five months of riding. I'd witnessed a community show up for each other's children in a way that felt genuine and real. I'd navigated a fence-and-animal maze trying to get the shot, dodging bulls and sheep and trying not to make things worse. And I'd stumbled onto a moment of genuine faith that I wasn't sure I should be capturing but knew I had to.
A thousand photos. That's what I left with that day. A thousand images of five-year-olds flying off sheep, of older boys getting thrown around by animals that weighed more than most cars, of families cheering for kids they'd never met before, of that one moment in the dirt where young men knelt down and prayed before they stepped into something that could hurt them.
I went there as a photographer from Northwest Indiana who thought rodeos were just a lot of yelling and dirt. I left as someone who'd witnessed something real. And yeah, there was a bunch of yelling and dirt. I wasn't wrong about that part. But it meant something different now. The yelling wasn't just noise. It was a community showing up for each other. The dirt wasn't just mess. It was the ground where kids learned what they're made of.
Those little kids who got bucked off and came back for more taught me something. Not in a preachy way, but in the way that actually sticks with you. They didn't give up because it was hard. They didn't decide that one failure meant they should quit. They got dirt in their teeth, tears on their faces, and still wanted to try again. That's either courage or insanity, and honestly, at five years old, I'm not sure there's much difference.
And those boys. The ones I watched nearly get stomped. The ones who came off limping or confused or shaken. The ones who knelt down in the dirt and prayed before they climbed back on. They're doing something that matters to them so much that they're willing to risk getting hurt for it. That's not just about rodeo. That's about faith. That's about commitment. That's about understanding that some things are worth more than your comfort or your safety.
I thought I was going there to shoot photos of a kid on a bull. Turns out I was going there to witness what faith actually looks like when you strip away all the church language and the Sunday morning energy. It looks like teenagers kneeling in dirt next to a thousand-pound animal. It looks like five-year-olds getting back up after they fall. It looks like strangers cheering for each other's kids. It looks like a community that genuinely shows up for each other.
That's worth capturing. That's worth being there for. That's the kind of thing that reminds you why you picked up a camera in the first place. Not for the perfect shots or the technical achievement, but for the moments that matter. The real ones.
Even if you grew up in Northwest Indiana and never cared about rodeos.
