A Woman of the West

Skijoring was just a fun thing to try when I was seventeen. The National Finals in Red Lodge, MT was the perfect place to start. Growing up on the race team on the local hill, it was natural for my teammates and I to compete. The hard part was finding a cowboy. I could ski, but to convince the many towering horsemen with big hats and spurs that I would a great skijorer was going to be tricky.

I walked up to the tallest cowboy I could find. He looked down at me when I asked him if he had a skier, and exclaimed “oh boy”. I gulped my fear and said I was fast, that I could ski well, and he might as well give me a chance. Maybe I felt overconfident but it was something I was absolutely committed to doing- and I needed a fast horse. He handed me some cash- telling me to sign up for the sport division. There was a novice division- for under eighteen competitors and beginners, sport which was an intermediate level of competing, and the pro division, having a hefty $10,000 pot to win with competitors that traveled from near and far to rack up the dough. The top prize didn’t even include the betting that would take place after the first night of competing which put money on the most favorable teams. When I walked up to register our team, only the pro division had openings. I placed my name on the list, not only as the only woman in the pro division but one of the only women skiers in the whole event.

The next day, as we watched the teams compete- I saw what I was going to be skiing behind for the first time. The realization that this event was an absolute insane thing to do popped into my mind. Before this, I had never been so nervous that I thought I was going to pee my pants, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. The speed of the horse and the intensity of the rider gave me chills. It was too late to back out, and that isn’t in my personality anyway. I buckled my boots behind the bucking horse where the only separation between us was horse gate stuck in the mud. My cowboy looked back and told me “no matter what, just hold on”.

The wranglers holding the horse let go, and as the horse began to sprint and spray mud and ice behind him with ferocity, my arms were yanked out of their sockets and the fight was on. I gripped the rope with rubber gloves duct-taped to my hands clinging to the hope I would keep the promise I made to myself and my cowboy. I was going to ski this thing, and I was not going to let go. I skied around the stubby gates that were on the course, trying to absorb the jumps on the horseshoe-shaped track while giving myself enough slack on the rope to not be pulled into the mud. Twenty seconds went by in a blink until it was over. We made it. It was the most fun I have ever had. Everyone was cheering, and I myself was shocked that I made it to the end unscathed.

The weekend went by, and although we didn’t win the pro-division, I was proud of myself. My other teammate and I won the under eighteen division, and I bought new ski boots with my earnings. I was immediately hooked after that weekend and knew I would be back this time dragging family and friends with me.

I never thought skijoring was something people were interested in. When I moved to Salt Lake City, UT to attend college- I came across another skijoring event. I immediately signed up, and told all of my friends, explaining many times about what the event was. “Wait wait, you’re skiing but a horse is pulling you? How does that work?!” That was most people’s reaction when I mentioned the sport.

It was the first event Utah put on and was not regulated by any rules that tied Skijoring America or Skijor USA in circuit events that took place in Montana or Colorado. I again went up to a cowboy I thought would be a good fit and signed up for the sport division. His name is Mark Eddy and every year since, I think three in total, he has pulled me behind his wild horses. The event took place over a weekend and drew in a huge crowd to watch. Before the event, I put on a bright pink jumpsuit that I bought at goodwill, the kind people wear ironically. Maybe because I wanted the pink to represent the lack of women in the sport, again being one of the only women to ski signed up. Or maybe I wore it just for kicks, but now every time I skijor, I wear the suit.

The Skijoring Utah event was so fun, every year it’s gotten bigger and bigger. The track, usually straight, where the horse runs on the snow with you, is made harder by having plastic rings you have to loop your arm through and take to the finish line. Even having the rider grab a ring at some events. Skijoring Utah loves to switch it up and always makes the course difficult- I think it makes a more exciting event to watch. This means better rope management, holding the rope but also choking up on the rope or letting out more slack to benefit you is most important. I was on four teams that year, falling a couple runs the second day and a couple the first, which is not unusual for me to do. Skijoring in Red Lodge later that same year, the rope even wrapped around my knees and I was dragged almost fifty feet before the rider noticed and shut the horse’s speed down.

Over the four years I have skijored, I have gained at least one confirmed concussion, a soreness that takes a long time to leave, great friends I get to see at skijoring events, an interview for the LA Times Sports section, my classic duck taped hands spread across two pages of The Ski Journal, a fun event for my family and friends to attend, and countless crash pictures.

This year at Skijoring Utah, I had some notable crashes that Colin Clancey, an associate editor of The Ski Journal and The Flyfish Journal who is as talented as he is kind, sent me some pictures of the crashes that tend to go along with the event every year.

Every year I will continue to skijor. I never thought of it as a “thing” or hobby I do, but it seems that skijoring and I have attached ourselves together. I can’t get away from the comradery of cowboys and skiers, the excitement it brings, and the community that follows. As long as my pink ski suit holds up, and the spirit of skijoring is alive among so many different groups of people, I’ll never stop.