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Formerly our neck of the woods
​starring the unique people, businesses and entertainment in the lakes area and beyond

Drill Seargents are Never Wrong

7/31/2016

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By Jim Barker​

It was almost the merriest of times in Basic Training under the Drill Instructor’s guiding yoke at H23 Company, Fort Ord, California, 1969. Initiation to the US Army began with a few days at Reception Station, where everyone was given a "Yule Brenner" haircut and marched about by sergeants who seemed to be stuck about five octaves above normal speech, followed by the introduction to a wardrobe of "khaki and Lincoln green!"  Everyone got a literal taste of “KP” (kitchen police duty), and late night “fire watch,” even though there were no cigarette butts in sight. A comic memory of military life through the "Beetle Bailey" cartoon series was the image of peeling potatoes. True to form, this writer found himself commissioned and seated on a barrel, peeling an even larger barrel of spuds by day number two!

The sworn duty (a rich mix of the former), of the seasoned cadre was to whip into mental and physical toughness our motley population of 250 fresh trainees. Many were draftees from sundry physical and social environs that almost defied cultural anthropological diagnosis! Since we were all "fresh meat," with virtually no knowledge or savvy of military protocol, the first Basic Training day was a total baptism at the mercy of the cadre. Being highly physically fit from a summer of rigorous irrigation work in Idaho's Snake River Valley, my twin brother Ron and I had somewhat of a "survivalist's edge." However, my first global mistake was addressing the Company Commander as "Sergeant," rather than “Captain, Sir."  That was worth about 50 immediate push ups!  Quickly I realized that visibility could be a detriment, as one could easily become scapegoated, and the recipient of an avalanche of corrective verbal and physical surprises. A favorite punitive event to miscreant trainees was to have them lie on their backs, arms and legs pointed skyway, confessing sins they had yet to accomplish! This experience was titled "the dying cockroach." Part of the process of creating fitness and existential humility were frequent sessions of making all trainees crawl around the Company grounds. Viewing this procession, one could almost imagine a colony of frenetic silkworms charging for mulberry trees!

The physical regime was demanding, and food rations became trimmed to force the more obese trainees to drop pounds-- much to the growling stomachs of the rest of us. Ultimately, stealth and "taking the initiative" evolved into night forays for leftovers in the well-steamed cans behind the Mess Hall. The histrionic Mess sergeant the following day may have had his own “memorable movement” wondering how his prized cans had lost so much volume overnight.


One of the most dreaded activities was the "low crawl." Twin brother Ron quickly evolved as one of the "swiftest crawlers" along with trainee Kawakami (aptly dubbed “Kamakazi”), for his speed like a gator doused with Louisiana hot sauce. This duo could slither in equal fashion to the excitement of observing Drill Instructors, leaving the other trainees far behind, who were often motivated by the able DI's shiny boot!


At one practice session, Sgt. Clifton was in charge of the timing. In the intensity of watching the two speed demons going "nose to nose," he completely forgot to time the other flight of trainees. The Supreme Court solution: No problem!  They were all commanded to re-crawl the course. The ensuing orchestra of grunts and groans must have rivaled the best strains of Wagnerian classics-- to the discerning ear and widening smile under Drill Instructor Smokey's righteous broad-brimmed sombrero...


Submitted with Bumps and Bruises No Longer!


Post Script:
The author, the other twin, scored the perfect 500 on the final PT Test as the only such score in the Brigade.
​

Jim Barker is an Iowa native who spent many summer vacations on the Whitefish Chain in Minnesota. He now lives in San Jose, California.

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Raccoon Review: Nature's Grocery Store

7/28/2016

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Picture
Hello ladies and gents of the Lakes Area. My typical fare may be the many wonderful restaurants found here in the lakes area but I thought I'd do something a little different and talk about nature's grocery store this time around.  
The rivers and lakes are teeming with an abundance of delicious fish. Now the art of attaining said delicious fish is not for the faint of heart, but if you're adventurous, be sure to give fishing the way we raccoons go about it a shot!
You will need the appropriate equipment, scuba gear and a pillow case. It also help to bring along a friend with a speed boat.
See, when humans go fishing they spend the whole day out there in the hot sun, waiting and hoping that a fish will bite. Humans are like that, hard working sorts. We raccoons on the other hand live by the motto, “Work smarter not harder.”
When we go fishing we don't go out looking for fish, we go out looking for fishermen, in fancy boats, with fancy fish finders. We put on our tiny little raccoon sized scuba suits (Amazon sells literally everything) and hide out under their boats. After Mr.Fisherman reels in a few fish, one of my racoon friends jumps out of the water and begins running around the front of the boat causing all manner of chaos, while I sneak on board and stuff as many fish as I can in my pillow case. Then the speed boat swoops by and both of us jump aboard leaving Mr. Fisherman high and dry while we make off with lunch.
So humans of the Lakes Area, if you are ever feeling adventurous, give fishing a shot, racoon style.
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JUMP! JUMP! Part 2

7/25/2016

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By Dan Dix
“The Crazy White Man”

Editor’s note: Part 1 of “JUMP! JUMP!” appeared in the April 2016 issue of Our Neck of the Woods. In that story, our hero finds himself in a broken down car next to a bridge over a roaring river.


The bridge is, I would guess, 50 or more feet above the water. This river pounds over huge boulders before and some distance after the bridge. But directly under the bridge there is this gorge that the water must have been cutting into for millenniums. On each side of the river are cliffs, not as high as the bridge, but high. In the gorge it is very humid but the air is made cool by, I assume, the water that is splashing over the rocks. To add to the magic, the roaring sound of the river fills the air.
On each side of this bridge were steel tube guard rails about 3 feet high that were also in good condition. I have seen some bridges without any guard rails, simply open air. The tube guard rails on this bridge had gaps big enough for a person to get though should he or she want to.
I walked back out on the bridge and looked again. It was so high. But while I was looking, some kids jumped in again. I wanted to follow their example but I was so afraid. I told you about my fear of heights, right?
The man who was serving as my guide and car repair mechanic asked me what my business was and I gave him my tour guide card which shows me swinging over a river on a rope, one-handed.
He looked at it and asked if it was me. I said yes and he asked why I was afraid of this bridge jumping if I could swing on ropes over rivers. Well I hemmed and hawed and said “well that was a long time ago” and so on.
He laughed and said I must be a fake then. He said I should have a photo of me picking flowers or something. Not swinging over a river on a rope. Well that was a challenge that I had to rise to. (This is a guy thing.)
So I decided to jump. Now, I am not a stranger to jumping from cliffs, as when in the Canadian boundary waters area I have jumped off many a cliff. Many of them were very dangerous, but usually not as high and without an audience.  I mean that if I am going to kill myself in some totally stupid endeavor, I would rather do it without witnesses.
But here I was, on the spot and in front of people of a different culture whose, perhaps, first contact with a gringo was this occasion. What pressure!
By the way, one of the men who came to help with the broken down car- wearing nothing but a pair of white underwear- said “watch me” and walked to the off-limits part of the bridge and did a beautiful swan dive saying just before he dove, “Now don’t you try this, too dangerous.”
Now a real crowd was gathering and all on their feet. They put down their guitars, food and picnics, and were all watching me. I think maybe a bus disgorged a group of people whom their friends texted when they saw I might jump. Either that or they just came out of the woods.
In any case, I think I had as many observers as Evil Knievel when he tried to jump the Snake River Canyon on his motorcycle.
I stuck my head though the guard rail a few inches at a time, then my body while my hands clasped the steel tubing hard enough to leave my hand and finger prints.
I finally got my body hanging in space with only my feet perched on the inch or so wood planking protruding from under the guard rails. (Rather like the back of the ship scene in the movie Titanic).
This whole process took maybe 20 minutes and I was screaming almost the whole time. This no doubt added to the excitement and wonderment of the assembled multitude. I did note that a snow cone salesman with his cart had arrived and was making a killing at my expense. (No pun intended.)
Finally I was ready. I looked out and down and would have been amused if I had not been so afraid. I then made a proclamation. I said in my best Spanish, “Let us pray.” Then I jumped.
WOW, what a rush! I just crashed into the water feet first and went so very deep, not hitting anything but water. It seemed as if it took five minutes to get to the surface again. When I did, the masses were applauding. Yes, I did it.
I ended up jumping from the bridge five times, and a few times from the rock ledges. The water was so fresh, cool, and soft, I just loved it. What a feeling!
My wife, Donna, our friend Cindy and her mother sat at river’s edge while I jumped. They took some good photos, so there is proof that I really did do this. Everado, who had loaned me the now-broken-down car, showed up and reattached wires that had come loose on the bumpy road, and put in a gallon of gas from a reused milk jug. The car started, we packed up and headed for home while seeing a wonderful sunset. What a day!
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North

7/20/2016

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By John Wetrosky

The word "North" conjures up all kinds of images in a human's mind.  Words like Santa Claus, Eskimo, tundra, ice, polar bears, below zero, muskeg, musk ox, caribou, igloo, northern lights and more decorate the mind when you hear the word "north."  

"North" is an exotic word to many.  You'll see it starting to be used in this publication.  Our Neck of the Woods is published in the "north."  Not on some sunny California beach or Caribbean Island, it is written, edited and distributed in the "north".  
I grew up in "north"west Iowa.  Be it far from a natural pine tree or glacial lake, I still felt better knowing that the place of my birth had the word "north" in it.  Maybe that feeling came from the fact that I heard my parents and grandparents frequently mention going "up north" to get away from the awful Iowa July and August heat.  My dad had spent four years in India during WWII and he had nothing good to say about heat.  In fact, he liked to remember that all he could think of during one of those humid, monsoon days was a snowbank in the "north."  
Dad had visited the north country with a buddy before the war.  They had found a rustic cabin on a small lake somewhere north of Brainerd.  He forever remembered the cool night breezes, the fresh scent of pine and the sound of the water that lapped at the shores of that little lake.  I'm sure those thoughts kept him going during some of those Indian heat waves.  When he got back home, it took him sixteen years on the farm before I was deemed old enough to take care of milking the cows and taking care of the farm so that he was able to experience a real week away and he and the family headed "north".  
Little did Dad know that heading north of Brainerd at the peak of tourist season was a little chancy when it came to finding a place to stay.  Things had changed since his pre-WWII visit.  More people were now vacationing in the north.  With mom and four kids huddled in the 1959 Chevy, they drove from one resort to another only to find all of them full of vacationers.  The sun was beginning to sink in the west when he stumbled into a rest stop, still with no place to stay for the night.  Things were turning critical.  A car with no air conditioning, full of kids and a wife in the July heat was beginning to wear on all of them. They even had talked about possibly turning back and making the seven hour trip back home.
A man at the rest stop took pity on this carload of lost Iowegians and gave them a tip.  They might just find a cabin at a resort called Hoosier's Resort on Sibley Lake.  It was a long shot, but with no other choice, that's where this bunch of voyageurs headed with a trunk full of food, clothing and fishing gear.  They pulled into the sandy front yard and were met by a slender, well-built man by the name of Ernie Rush.  Soon Ernie's wife Cleta joined them.  Yes, they did have one two-bedroom cabin left and since the family had already exhausted all other choices, the deal of a week's stay was made.  For the next ten years the family vacationed in that little, bare-stud walled cabin with an outhouse out back.  
I must digress a bit here.  Thinking about the family hauling most of their grocery needs with them "up north," I have to relate a little story that circulates from time to time referring to my former Iowa cohorts.  It was said that we were so frugal that we used to take a live chicken along with us on these northern trips.  That permitted us to eat fresh eggs all week.  Then, on the last day of the stay, we ate the chicken.  I always chuckle when I hear that story.  I'm afraid it's closer to the truth than I like to think.
When the family returned from the trip, refreshed and with a limit of filleted crappies and bass, I was allowed to take the same trip.  I hooked up with my neighbor Norman and my cousin Bob and we were off.  None of us had been much farther north than the northern Iowa border and this might have just as well been a trip to Switzerland.  Dreams of huge walleyes and northern pike swam through our heads on nights before our trip.  
We were welcomed by Ernie and Cleta as we pulled into the resort.  Ernie excited us by saying that the fish had really been biting.  If there is anything sweeter than honey to a fisherman, those words are it.  We excitedly unpacked our gear into the little cabin, rented a 5 horsepower outboard motor, hooked it onto the white painted wooden boat and headed out on a lake we had never seen.  The smell of the pines, the smell of the fresh water, the sound of water splashing against the side of the boat were all new to us.  We knew we were "up north."  It was a completely different environment than the one we had grown up in.  
The next morning dawned foggy.  One couldn't see across the lake at five a.m.  Suddenly there came a sound that I thought might be a moose.  It was a long, wavering sound with a trill at the end.  Whatever that sound came from I told myself it must be BIG!  It was the first time I had ever heard a loon call.  When I first spied the low floating bird in front of the cabin I had a hard time believing that a bird could make such a loud, haunting, long call.  There were no loons in Iowa.  They only flew over in the dark of night heading for the "north."  
Long story short, I and my family ended up moving to the "north."  Selling the farm enabled us to purchase a small resort and it is still operating, mostly to seasonal renters.  The cabins feature bare stud walls, no Internet, no Wi-Fi.  We do have a sandy beach, water lapping at the shoreline, loons calling and flying overhead and a walleye or two in the lake. We don't have polar bears, igloos or musk ox, but we have a beautiful piece on this spinning earth.  
I live "up north."  I'm not going anywhere.  
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Summer sunsets

7/18/2016

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By Jen Salvevold
PhotoJENic Photography

Pinks, blues, lavenders, oranges and yellows…wrapped into one scene. It’s truly one of the most beautiful occurrences: a summer sunset. How can one not be in awe of our evening displays? So quick, yet so powerful. How blessed is the last light before the dark? And we watch, knowing every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn.

Some say sunsets are proof that endings can often be beautiful too. Or that the sun loved the moon so much he died every night to let her breathe. Isn’t that profound? A sunset brings us to things more Godly, spiritual and philosophical. There is an inner peace about it all. I don’t believe there is anything negative to say about a sunset, except that we have to watch it go away. But within that, we know it comes back every evening. It’s like a wink from the earth. A little reassurance that it’s time to rest, be thankful, and live life to its fullest the next sunrise. To start over and do this thing called life, better every day.

Carl Rogers was quoted on acceptance of natural beauty. How a sunset and humans have so much to show if we just watch with open minds. He said:

“People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be.
When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying,
‘Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.’
I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch with awe as it unfolds.”

A sunset makes us see and feel beauty everywhere. Sometimes it may be alone, sometimes shared with someone special. Everything in that moment becomes more vibrant and begins to make sense. Natural beauty becomes custom for those that want to see it. Take those evenings and photograph, paint, feel, heal and allow it to touch your soul. Remember, there’s only one sunset. And it’s been going around the earth full circle for billions of years. Eventually everything connects. Appreciate, and shine your light on the world.




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The "Old Man" of the River

7/14/2016

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By Kat Beireis

           No, it’s not me. Well not yet it isn’t. But I would love to be able to match his longevity for living, and for spending time with our river up north. He’s a skinny man, even more so now than he was the first time I saw him fishing on the river. It’s funny looking back at that first time I met him, and how I told Grandpa that I’d met an old guy on the river who knew how to catch those big steelhead.
           I figure I was probably around 10 when I stopped to talk to him for the first first time, and that would have been pretty much put him at 64.
           I am today 36. Boy, does that ever mess with your head, knowing that I considered him to be the “Old Man” when he was 64. Now I like to see 64 as still being a younger “Papa.” It’s all about perspective.
           Actually, I’d seen him many times before I finally gathered up the courage to stop and ask if he would mind talking with me. I’d seen him carrying those big fish pretty much every time we passed on the road, but after trying my luck for several years I’d yet to land one myself, no matter how hard I tried.
           So one afternoon when I was walking the trail I saw him sitting on the edge of the riverbank, just enjoying the water flowing by. I said ‘hello’ like usual, and kept walking…But this time I stopped and asked if he would mind teaching me how to catch one of these fish. He reached down by his leg to pull up the stringer that was tied to a small tree…it had two big steelies on it. He asked me if I meant one of these, and smiled at me.
           He told me to have a seat next to him, and asked me to hand him my fishing rod. I handed it over, and he pulled my line back and let it go so that it made a snapping noise. I’ll never forget what he said, “First thing you need to do is get rid of this rope.” Rope? I felt my face turning red…Rope? I was just using 14-pound test and these fish could easily go more than that, so I figured it was the right choice. It was the same line I used in the summer fishing for bass in the lily pads, so I thought it was good. Nope.
           He told me that he only uses 6-pound test, and sometimes only 4-pound if the river is running low and clear, since these fish are “line shy.” Then he told me I needed to get a more flexible fishing rod, so that I could let the fish bend it when I was fighting them on the line. He said he didn’t think he could hook one with what I was using, and then he made a few casts using mine to see if a fish would hit. None did.
           Then he switched to his own rod, and just like that he had a fish on. He handed the rod to me so that I could feel what it was like to fight one. He didn’t carry a net, but since it was my first fish he landed it for me using the one I carried, and I had my first steelhead ever. Well, I didn’t hook it, but I got to bring it home to show grandpa and grandma.
           I think he got a bigger kick out of my excitement than I did, and I couldn’t thank him enough. So, on my way home from that trip I stopped at Ideal store and bought myself a new rod and some 6-pound line to go with it. I just couldn’t wait to get back up there to our river to catch all those fish. I spent all the money that I had worked hard for by raking out those weeds in the lake for grandma just so I could buy that rod.
           But try as I might, I still didn’t hook one on my own that year, or the next. So when I saw my friend, I told him so and he asked me to show him how I was fishing. He gave me some more pointers, and taught me how to tie up my own spawn bags for bait (cheesecloth with salmon eggs) instead of using the store-bought kind. He said that they hit the natural ones so much better, so another trip to the store and I had what I needed to get ready and try again.
           The years rolled by, and every spring you could find me on that river trying to put those lessons to use…and then it happened; I hooked a fish all by myself. It was a good day, and I started having more of those good days. Now, over 26 years later, I find myself letting more of those fish go than the ones I keep, and it is a rare day when I don’t hook into them- assuming they’re in the river that is. See, they’re only there for a few months each spring, and I’ve grown to look forward to the snow melting since that’s when they start.
           One of those seasons four years ago, I saw my friend there on a day when it was raining and not really all that warm out. It’s true you’re wearing waders and a rain jacket, but it wasn’t a day for the fair weather fishermen to be out. I asked him why was he out on such a day, when he could pick any day he wants to fish? He told me that his wife had passed away that winter, and he was having a lonely day.
           He said the river was the only place he could find peace, and then he laughed and asked me, why was I there on such a day? I told him I was just doing what he taught me and we both laughed. I tried not to let him see my eyes tearing up, but he did…and we shared our first hug that day. My eyes are doing it again just remembering…
           Well, today I went up for my first trip this year. Even though it was still early and there weren’t many fish in the river yet, I still managed to land two of them. Several guys asked me that day if I thought there were any fish in the river, since they hadn’t seen or caught any. I just smiled…remembering those days when that was me, before the “Old Man” took me under his wing.
           I walked back downstream that evening for another go at it, and who do I see gingerly making his way into a nice spot on the river? Yep, the “Old Man.” I saw him from a long way off, and watched him trying to make his way over a log to get to where he wanted to stand in the river. He was having a rough time of it, and then when he saw me coming he just sat down on the log instead.
           We said our “hellos,” and then he told me that he thinks his body is wearing out on him. He said he’d never moved so slow getting to where he’d walked from the parking lot, and that he was just too clumsy now. But then he said it was probably what he should expect, since he will be 90 years old this July. I laughed, and asked him if he knew how much I hope to be able to still walk our river when I’m going to be 90? How about 80…or even 70?
           I’ve got another 54 years to catch up to where he’s at now, and it’s pretty tough to imagine getting there. But this “young fella” (that’s what he calls me) has grown to love that river just as much as my friend, and now I’ve been asked by several young fellas of my own if I could show them how to catch a fish. I’m guessing they probably called me the “Old Woman,” too.
           After I walked further downstream, I laughed as I caught myself doing something I’d never have done those 30 years ago. Walking around a downed tree on the path. You go over them, not around. Least, I never went around them before. I literally laughed when I realized that I’m already on my way to becoming like my friend, and sometimes I take a timeout and sit to watch the river flow past, too. I used to set my alarm so that I could be the first one to reach my favorite spots, and now you couldn’t make me set the alarm…oh, and I quit carrying a net years ago, just like my friend. I learned my lessons well.
           I hadn’t even noticed that the changes were already underway, but now that I have it’s not even bothering me. If this is what it takes to become like the “Old Man” I met in my youth, I welcome the changes and thank my Creator for letting me live long enough for them happen to me. I wonder if one day I’ll be telling some new young person on the stream that I’m going to be 90 my next birthday. If I get there, I can guarantee I’ll remember my friend…and the tradition he passed on to this “young gal” all those years ago. I hope to see you again next trip my friend, and I hope to see our river for those next 54 years…


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Eight Seconds and Counting

7/11/2016

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By Kate Perkins
​Editor

Eight seconds might not sound like much, but on the back of a massive twisting, jumping, angry bull, it’s a long time. Rudy Borntrager is a professional bull rider-- the kind who stays seated on a ton of fury and doesn’t let go until the eight-second buzzer sounds.

Borntrager’s been riding bulls for 11 years. Every summer he and his family spend months travelling the country attending rodeos where Borntrager competes for both title and prizes. At the height of the season, they’ll attend a rodeo six days of the week.

He first rode a bull when he was 17 years old. Before that, he’d never been to a rodeo. When he watched bull riding with his brother, who was also into the sport, he became interested.

Borntrager grew up Amish and trained horses when he was young. He thinks that might have drawn him to the sport.

“You always get that feeling of excitement when you get on a horse that bucks and doesn’t throw you off,” Borntrager said. “I’m not sure if it was that or not, but it had that kind of resemblance.”

With the help of his brother and his brother’s buddies, with tips on what and what not to do, Borntrager rode a bull for the first time.

“I had no idea what to expect, it happened so quick. When the shoot came open to when I hit the ground, I do not remember the ride. It was just enough to get me a taste of it, and I wanted more of it,” he said.

His first ride was brief.

“I actually kind of landed on my head and got a concussion, the first bull I rode,” Borntrager said. “I got to feeling better and said to my brother, ‘I think I want to do this.’”

While he may not have lasted long on the bull for his first ride, he improved quickly enough to make it to the state finals in his first year of riding.

Bull riding is scored by two judges with a maximum of 100 points available. There are two judges, and each can award the rider up to 50 points. Of those 50, up to 25 are awarded for how well the bull bucks, and up to 25 are awarded for how well the rider rides.

In order to get a qualifying score, though, the rider must stay on the bull for eight seconds, and he must have one hand in the air. The hand in the air must not touch the bull.

An average score, Borntrager said, is from 80-85 points. “Above 85 and it gets to be a pretty good ride,” Borntrager said. His best score? An impressive 90.

Borntrager said bull riding means being ready for anything.

“One (bull) can go out and spin nice, and one can go out and play dirty tricks,” Borntrager said.

He said the feeling of bull riding is great, but even better is the sound of the buzzer when the 8 seconds is up. The physical aspect of bull riding is only part of the sport, he said.

“It’s a mental thing. If you have something on your mind or you’re worried about something… you’ve got to have a clear head if you want to be able to ride for eight seconds. It seems like if you don’t it can go in a bad way real quick.”

If it does go bad, Borntrager said that often the adrenaline carries bull riders through. After they get off the bull and hit the ground, they can be stepped on or run over. Often, though, they don’t even realize it until five to ten minutes later, when the adrenaline wears off.

After 11 years of riding, Borntrager has a wall of bull riding trophies and belt buckles, including the title of 2013 champion of the Midwest Bull Rider’s Association.

In addition to the excitement and adrenaline of bull riding, Borntrager said he likes the cowboy lifestyle, and the friends he and his family meet on the road. Just as he can’t let go of the bull, he’s also not letting go of bull riding.

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