Forever on Our Mind: LET 'ER BUCK!!!
LET 'ER BUCK! LET 'ER BUCK! LET ‘ER BUUUUUUUUCK! LET! HER! BUCK! LET 'ER BUCK! LET'ERBUCKLET'ERBUCKLET'ERBUCK LET 'ER BUCK!
80-86. LET ‘ER BUCK!!!
September 2016:
Every Wrangler-wearing cowboy in Pendleton will no doubt see through my just-off-the-rack trucker hat, crisp American flag T-shirt, baggy Levi’s, and tattered sneakers. They know, on a visceral level, that I prefer Great Notion Brewing's hazy IPAs to Miller High Life and Coors Light. That I’ll eat more sushi than steak this year. That I donated to Hillary—and later paid $1.29 to download her campaign anthem, Rachel Platten's "Fight Song", off iTunes. That I listened to a left-wing podcast while driving a fuel-efficient Honda Civic through the Columbia River Gorge and miles of wheat fields to get here.
But no matter: I’m trying my best to blend in for my first-ever Pendleton Round-Up. The boisterous rodeo dates back to 1910 and today draws 50,000 merrymakers to its namesake city in Eastern Oregon—more than doubling its year-round population for a few days every September. And if I don’t have the ass for form-fitting jeans or the money for ostrich skin boots, I can at least speak the language of the locals.
In this case, that means punctuating every sentence, thought, and phrase with the words, “Let ‘er buck.”
Those two-and-a-half words—”Let ‘er buck”—serve as both the Pendleton Round-Up’s official slogan and a kind of citywide rallying cry for nearly a week of unbridled bacchanalia. It is a phrase to fill the silence between shots of whisky. It is what you say when you don’t know what else to say. It is a loud, proud exclamation point at the end of a sentence. It’s a heartfelt prayer—delivered in church and at the holiest of holy lands, the brick-red Pendleton Round-Up Stadium. But more than that, “Let ‘er buck” is a state of mind and way of life. To “let ‘er buck” is to give into the fun, turn oneself over to the pageantry, and revel in the giddy atmosphere that permeates every block of Pendleton’s historic downtown.
My buddy Jose and I are here to experience the entirety of this Oregon tradition, so I resolve to document my time the only way I know how: by putting together an admittedly incomplete list of the times I heard (and uttered) “Let ‘er Buck” over the course of three rootin'-tootin days at the Pendleton Round-Up.
Before the rodeo even begins:
I’m a sucker for a good walking tour, so I kick off my time in town with a trip through Pendleton Underground Tours.
Over the course of two delirious hours, we head underground, beneath Pendleton’s modern-day sidewalks, and wind through a dizzying maze of opium dens, long-dormant card rooms, an old-school ice cream parlor, and one of the city’s many brothels.
At the end of the tour, our guide bids us farewell with a friendly, “Let ‘er buck.”
On the sidewalk en route to the rodeo:
I walk toward the Pendleton Round-Up rodeo grounds when I hear what sounds like a mooing cow on Court Avenue. Rather than Babe the Blue Ox, a blue Dodge Ram glides past. Every few seconds, the driver lays on the horn—only a long, drawn-out “mooooo” replaces the shrill honk you’d expect. A set of bull horns are affixed to the grill, the tips puncturing what appear to be empty Natty Ice cans. “Let ‘er buck,” I hear a passerby shout at the smiling man.
At the start of the first day’s rodeo:
Jose and I settle into the front row on Thursday, contorting our legs to let stragglers find their seats as the Round-Up’s rodeo court rides horses that sprint onto the grassy infield. Once the dust settles on the day’s opening ceremonies, our announcer welcomes us by way of: “Use it as a noun, use it as a verb, use it however you want ... even if it’s the only time you say it all weekend, I wanna hear a ‘Let ‘er buck’ one time today!”
I’ve been in Pendleton for all of five hours at this point, so I haven’t yet been overtaken by the spirit of “Let ‘er buck.” So I respond by choking on a half-whispered declaration, almost ashamed to take part in such an embarrassing display of pandering and crowd participation. (Related: I cross my arms in silent protest whenever the scoreboard at a Portland Trail Blazers game implores the crowd to clap our hands. As you can imagine, I’m a lot of fun at parties.) The crowd roars as loud as I’ll hear them all day.
At the campground, at 3 a.m.:
A waterfall of whoops, hollers, and overlapping cries rouse me from a drunken sleep with the ferocity of a thunderclap.
The jumbled cacophony devolves into an almost musical conversation in this temporary campground just up the hill from Round-Up Stadium. Campers all around me communicate with a mystical frequency whose wavelengths you can only really ride if you’re tuned into the magic of Round-Up Week:
“Let ‘er buck!”
“Let ‘er buck!”
“Let ‘er buuuuuuuuck!”
“Let! Her! Buck!”
“Let ‘er buck!”
A glance at my phone reveals that it’s 3 a.m. So, okay, I’m a little less than charmed right now.
During the Westward Ho! Parade:
Jose and I find a spot near the rodeo grounds on Friday morning to watch the Westward Ho! Parade, billed by organizers as the country’s largest non-motorized procession.
I am in no position to argue with that claim. Dozens of horses carry past and present members rodeo courts from throughout the Pacific Northwest, fish-out-of-water politicians try to look natural while riding horses and waving at indifferent crowds, members of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation are adorned in traditional regalia, and buttoned-up rodeo organizers don their cleanest cowboy hats. I see what seems to be 50 stagecoaches throughout the parade—or roughly 49 more than I thought still existed. Two oxen pull a Conestoga wagon at one point, bringing to mind the Oregon Trail—which makes sense, since the world-famous path once ran through the heart of what is today downtown Pendleton.
In between carriages and stagecoaches, rodeo queens and dignitaries alike scream, “Let ‘er buck” with a reckless abandon. Everyone seems like they’re having the best time ever—as if they’ve waited all year for this moment, which I suppose many of them have. They yell with the unhinged tenacity of a Seahawks fan egging on Russell Wilson in the pocket. Frat bros shot-gunning Bud Lights don’t get this loud. You never see this kind of earnest glee and genuine excitement anywhere else on Earth, and I feel my heart’s icy resistance melting in the summer sun.
The final horses saunter past around noon, two hours after the parade started, and the Round-Up’s gates open for the day. Drunk on patriotism, small-town charm, and the spirit of “Let ‘er buck,” I head for the beer garden.
At the start of the second day’s rodeo:
Once again, the announcer implores us to bellow, “Let ‘er buck!” to kick off the day’s festivities.
Jose and I take it in from the second beer garden we’ve visited in as many hours; we’re double-fisting Hop Valley IPAs and Mike’s Hard Lemonade when I happily yell, “Let ‘er buck!” as loud as I’ve ever cheered for the Portland Trail Blazers.
I turn to Jose, raise my frosty can, and yell, “Let ‘er buck!” as if I didn’t just scream loud enough to be heard in Bend 15 seconds ago.
In the Let ‘er Buck Room:
Going into my first Pendleton Round-Up, I read almost as much about the rodeo’s Let ‘er Buck Room as the rodeo itself. There, under the ground’s south grandstands, the bar is as famous for its rowdiness as what it serves—hard alcohol, more hard alcohol, and Pepsi to mix it with. The Let ‘er Buck Room, a saloon that feels no larger than my apartment’s bathroom, gained a reputation some years back for permissive attitudes toward fondling, groping, and flashing—swap Mardi Gras beads on Bourbon Street for Pendleton Whisky stickers, and you get the idea—though security has clamped down on the bawdiest high jinks in recent years. Even so, photos aren’t allowed within its wood-paneled walls.
Then again, maybe they haven’t completely eradicated the rowdiness. I’ve yet to finish my first drink when I see a man unhurriedly licking a woman’s exposed breast before applying a temporary tattoo. Her husband looks on with the proud smile of a father whose child just learned to ride a bike.
I will hear screams of “Let ‘er buck!” rattling around my head for weeks after returning to Portland, and I will smile every single time. In a world that feels a little more fractured with each passing day, this simple phrase has brought us together—in silliness, in good cheer, in earnest and unhinged joy. We may not be able to outrun the dark clouds drifting over our corner of the world, but we can at least pierce the veil—however briefly—with this almost religious incantation. No matter what happens from here, we can forever and always let ‘er buck.
But my time in Pendleton isn’t up yet—so I wedge my way through the mosh pit, plunk a pewter token onto the bar, and ask for a Pendleton Whisky on the rocks. As if I could drink anything else at this perfectly chaotic moment in time.
Without a word, the bartender pours what appears to be a half-gallon of whiskey into a NyQuil cap. She slides it over, smiles, and says “Let ‘er buck.”
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