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It's a tough ol' evolving bird

Stock show proved flexible in surviving its ups and downs

James B. Meadow, Rocky Mountain News

Published January 6, 2006 at midnight

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Hey, you - tenderfoot. Lose the latte.

And, for that matter, chuck the Gucci loafers, get rid of the Chanel shades, jettison the iPod and, for heaven's sake, turn off the high-definition TV.

Now what?

Well, for starters, squeeze into some denim, snap the buttons on your shirt (or blouse, ma'am), step into a pair of real pointy boots, tilt your Stetson just so and get ready to amble your hindquarters down to the one - and only - event in Colorado that's part Super Bowl, part World Series, part hog heaven, part bull. . . . uh, effluvia, and 100 percent All-American. An event that's got some mileage on it, but even at 100 years ain't showing its age. An event that neither two world wars, nor one Great Depression - nor, for that matter, a jet-paced modern world where everybody seems bound and determined to go lickety-split all the time even if they don't always know where they're heading - could bring to its knees.

An event like the 100th edition of the National Western Stock Show.

Not that the National Western needs an introduction to many. After all, the old gal has been exercising an irresistible sway over the state for a century. Last year, it attracted an estimated 633,000 people - 77 percent of whom hailed from the seven-county metro area. That's a lot of city folk (OK, suburban folk, too), and Denver City Auditor Dennis Gallagher has an idea about why at least some of them came.

"By taking a deep breath, we can revitalize our agricultural roots," says the fourth-generation Coloradan. "Just the smell of the effluvia helps us remember from whence we all came."

Of course, some people don't need any reminders. Take Perry Blach, a Yuma guy, who reckons he's been to every stock show since 1935 - not counting the one he missed because he had a prior engagement serving in World War II. Of course, Blach wasn't just a spectator. In fact, he's a small part of National Western lore for "selling the most Hereford bulls to one man at a stock show," he says. "Sold him 51 head of bulls, and that set the record and it still stands today," says the 82-year- old rancher, before adding with a chuckle, "That is a lot of bulls."

But not a lot of bull.

If you ask Blach, "The stock show to the cattle industry is like the World Series in baseball, the Super Bowl in football. If you can win at the stock show in Denver, you're at the top of the world."

Not that the National Western was always so high and mighty.

After all, when it was first calved back in 1906, it only offered four breeds of cattle and but 351 cattle, sheep and swine. Today, those figures are 20 and 7,500, respectively. Moreover, back in 1906, the winning bid for the Grand Champion steer was $379.50; 99 years later, the price was $110,000. And even that figure was $500 short of the all-time price, which was set in 2003.

Side of red ink

But inflation aside, the stock show roots were often best served with a big slice of humble pie and a side of red ink.

"Oh, those were precarious times - the show ran in the red. A lot of the early minutes of meetings say, 'Can we do it again?' " says Denver historian Thomas J. Noel.

Noel ought to know, having spent five years researching and writing Riding High: Colorado Ranchers and 100 Years of the National Western Stock Show ($50, Fulcrum Publishing), a meaty roundup of the show's history and high points.

"I didn't realize how often the show had to be bailed out by the large packing houses of Denver," says Noel.

Then again, Noel admits he didn't realize how critical was the link between the National Western and Denver. And vice versa.

"It's really a matter of identity," he says. "I mean, every big city in the country today has a football team or baseball team. But the stock show is something unique to this city."

Moreover, unlike the once-formidable stock show in Chicago, which bit the dust, the National Western is still kicking up its hooves. In spite of the dicey finances early on, in spite of those world wars - which made for a severe shortage of mules and other livestock, which were appropriated for military use - in spite of all those dreadful, blizzard-choked, subzero days ("Stock Show weather" to the locals), the only time in the past century that our stock show didn't go on was 1915. And that was because of a nationwide outbreak of deadly hoof-and-mouth disease the previous summer.

Hell, the stock show even weathered Prohibition, thanks to the fact that Roe Emery used his trucking empire to quietly import Canadian hootch into Denver, where it managed to trickle into more than a few shindigs attended by cattlemen. Of course, it was probably only coincidence that the stock show brain trust had elected ol' Roe as president.

Gentler, familial side

Not that the stock show had ever been short of . . . hmm . . . ingenuity - especially when it came to boosting attendance. Why, back in 1913, in the hopes of showing a gentler, more familial side, organizers held the first "Baby Health Contest," in which its two-legged infant contestants were evaluated on, according to Noel, "firmness and color of their skin, the shape and position of their ears, along with height, weight, chest measurement, head measurement, teeth, and general configuration." Four years later, the contest was abandoned, in part because someone finally figured out that judging babies like livestock in January might have a deleterious effect on the naked infants.

Over the early years, other hopeful hypes included jousting contests, a "Wyoming Day," milking contests and the superb equestrian skills of horsewoman extraordinaire Loula Long, whose ability to ride was equaled by her talents at cultivating the media. One Denver Republican reporter showed up to interview Ms. Long at her Brown Palace suite and found her awaiting him garbed in a red kimono and a "boudoir cap."

If Loula was a lollapalooza at the gate, she had nothing on what arrived at the 1931 stock show. Namely, the dawn of the rodeo.

Hard to imagine

So entwined are the stock show and the rodeo today, that it seems hard to imagine that it wasn't until the National Western's silver jubilee that bronco busting, et al. became a staple of its menu of attractions. Curiously, the public's adoration was equally divided between the cowboys and the livestock they were trying to ride. In fact, the biggest buzz around town was created by a bronc dubbed Midnight, whom one newspaper called a "loud, snorting brute."

No cowpoke at the rodeo was able to successfully ride Midnight at that inaugural rodeo. Then again, no cowpoke had ever been able to get the better of that proud, ill-tempered equine, who retired undefeated after 16 years on the rodeo circuit, and was buried at the Cowboy Hall of Fame in Oklahoma City.

Thanks to Midnight - and the rest of the rodeo - the 1931 stock show was a hoot-and-holler success, luring standing-room-only crowds of 12,000, who weren't averse to the 50-cent admission. Thanks in part to the rodeo (and perhaps the Rocky Mountain's largest-ever turkey exhibition), the stock show turned its first profit in a decade.

The strategic placement of the National Western rodeo (after the New York and Boston extravaganzas - and, more recently, the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas) meant it was a must-stop for top cowboys. Which meant it was a must-see for rodeo fans, whose fealty helped the stock show survive through lean times, such as World War II.

In 1942, in fact, the Office of Defense Transportation decreed that large shows around the country be canceled to marshal resources for the troops fighting overseas. But National Western president Wilson McCarthy used his cachet with certain Washington bigwigs and managed to keep the stock show's doors open, albeit on a slightly more modest scale. It probably didn't hurt that the stock show made a show of investing its proceeds in the war-bond effort.

During the 1940s, the stock show trotted along, introducing events such as the junior livestock and the cutting horse competitions. Of course, some of its more memorable events weren't exactly orchestrated.

Which brings us to the Great Cattle Break of 1947. Sometime before sunup on Jan. 12, 29 steers decided they'd had enough of their corral and smashed their way free. Ambling along the city streets, the Bolshevik bovines created more than a little turmoil for morning commuters. A posse of cowboys and cops managed to round up the dissidents, though not before one particularly unruly fella had to be shot dead after injuring a policeman.

The escape once again detonated a call for more and improved facilities at the stock show. But then, expansion had always been - and continues to be - a clarion cry from stock show proponents. In fact, at one point, the lack of adequate exhibition space prompted rumors that the stock show might be relocated to Texas or Utah.

But that talk was laid to rest in 1952 when the Denver Coliseum opened its doors, providing a 30,000-square-foot arena floor and 11,566 seats. Given this, it was no surprise that ticket income from the 1952 show was more than double the previous year's take. And the 112 exhibitor booths didn't hurt either. As the stock show's facilities got gussied up, its reputation grew as the place to be. Why, in 1957, Gene Autry - the Singing Cowboy himself - showed up to purchase stock for his 20,000-acre spread near Fowler.

It wouldn't be long before the stock show began feeling cramped again. Finally, in 1989, Denver voters approved a $30 million bond issue that resulted in the appearance of the three-story Expo Hall and the $13 million Events Center. Not that the stock show still couldn't use a little more room, you understand.

Not just business

But, though a whole lot of livestock deals go down inside the National Western's environs, the stock show has never been all about business. Which is to say, there's always been room for a joke or two. Take, for instance, the Wilson Family of Canada. One of their traditional antics is to put a straw-stuffed dummy under one of their massive, tame bulls, have the bull lay down, and then go screaming to unwary firemen that someone was "being crushed." The frantic rescue effort that often ensues can sometimes last as long as 15 minutes, depending on how well the gathering crowd can hide its laughter.

But newbie firefighters aren't the only ones left wide-eyed at the show.

Former National Western general manager Chuck Sylvester likes to recall the time some inner-city schoolchildren were taking a tour of the livestock pens.

"There were some form of reindeer and one kid climbed up on the fence and grabbed onto the horn of one," says Sylvester, adding with a laugh, "and the horn just fell off. Now, agricultural people would know that those animals shed their horns - that's just part of their physiology." But the terrified kid who was standing there, eyes big as saucers, clutching an antler in his hand, was not one of them.

Few people have more stock show memories than Sylvester. But it isn't his cache of recollections that make him special to the National Western. During the 25 years he was at its helm (1978-2003), stock show attendance went from 229,580 to 641,033 - largely because Sylvester knew that forward was always the best direction to look.

"I had a saying that, in essence, the stock show is a convention for people in the livestock industry," he says. "But what's nice about the stock show is the public is invited to come in and share and enjoy the convention."

Sylvester, of course, realized that those invitees were largely "city people, urban people," who, he also knew, were the key to the show's continued growth. Savvy country boy that he was, Sylvester figured out that, "When these people come in, how many times can they go up and down an aisle and look at the butts of cattle without getting tired? You need to put things in (the show) that urban city people can enjoy."

Indeedy. Which is why, during Sylvester's tenure, the stock show hosted a Draft Horse Show and Pulling Contest, a dog-pulling contest, a miniature horse show, llama exhibitions, a Dancing Horses show, a mutton bustin' competition (young children riding sheep across the arena, hanging on for dear life), and an expansive indoor trade show that is the state's largest. (Speaking of the trade show, you can pretty much find anything from RVs to snakes to jewelry. One year, Shotgun Willies - yep, the strip club - had a booth. But, legend has it, that ended when one of the, uh, girls sold the shirt off her back to a cowpoke.)

Mexican Rodeo

But perhaps Sylvester's shrewdest move was bringing in the Mexican Rodeo Extravaganza.

Almost from its arrival in 1994, the Mexican rodeo - replete with mariachi band, bloodless bullfighting, dancers, singers and, of course, some very chill charros - has been huge. Rife with pageantry and skill (bronco riders are judged on style as well as length of time on the horse), the event has, says Noel, "helped to keep the rodeo relevant" because of its appeal to "the fastest-growing ethnic group in the state."

This year, not resting on its leathery laurels, the stock show has augmented its 100th edition with a couple of Wild West shows and, for one night, the Martin Luther King Jr. African-American Heritage Rodeo.

But no matter how much the National Western expands and morphs, there's little chance it will forget who it is and what it offers.

"It's a day to get back to what this country is about," says Sylvester, not giving you a chance to ask the question before answering it with, "And what this country is about is agriculture, and people producing the best food in the world; the safest, cleanest, best food in the world - and an abundance of it. It's a chance for everyone to get back to being a human being for a day or two; it's a way to be in touch with the soil and nature, and all those good things that God created."

In other words, dudes and dudettes, whether you skedaddle, mosey, amble or sashay, it might be time to put a little giddyup in that gait. Time to slow down and show some love to the event that gives new meaning to the term reboot.

Oh yeah - and don't forget to lose the latte.

or 303-892-2606

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