Things I’ve learned since moving to Montana:

    —Cattle guards are NOT men standing watch over cows.

    —The Elkhorn Hot Springs Resort is NOT in Jackson, Montana. The Jackson Hot Springs Lodge IS in Jackson and is the maker of the aforementioned potato soup (see my last column).

    —Sheridan, Wyoming is NOT in the northwest portion of the state (see my first column). People of Sheridan, WY:  Please stop calling me!

    —A visit to Cousins Candy Shop in Virginia City is NOT appropriate after three rum and Cokes at the Bale of Hay Saloon.

    —Elk calling does NOT involve a pickup line such as “Hey baby, I lost my number. Can I have yours?”

    —A European Mount is NOT a private affair between a French man and woman who really really love each other.

    —Montana’s Biggest Weekend is NOT a gathering of plus-sized cattle guards (see number 1).

My foray into Montana’s Biggest Weekend began late on Thursday night as I was fixing myself a snack. I heard music and singing coming from the nearby fairgrounds, and I realized it must be the karaoke contest to be held over multiple evenings.

I sat at my kitchen table to listen to renditions of Patsy Cline and Hank Williams, but the song I kept hearing over and over was Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman” with its repeating chorus of “Hell yeah!” Each time the chorus repeated itself, the crowd got louder and louder until I found myself in my darkened kitchen joining in. Hell yeah.

Part of the big weekend, of course, is the massive sale at the Patagonia Outlet store. After hearing stories of near-stampedes and lines of people wrapping around the block, I armed myself with a large diet Coke and prepared for the worst.

I was glad to find I had entered the store at an apparent lull, and though I really had to suck in my stomach and turn sideways to make it through most of the aisles, I made it through the experience without groping someone mistakenly.

On Saturday morning, I hit the Beaverhead County fairgrounds (fabulously clean toilets, by the way) with a large coffee and cinnamon roll (thank you, concession people….you rule!) and discovered what it is that I love most about Montana so far. Having never been to a 4-H horse riding event, I found myself wondering what I was watching. Little kids were riding wildly bucking calves, and the kids didn’t seem to mind being tossed off like rag dolls!

So I approached a family and asked if they wouldn’t mind adopting me for an hour so I could ask questions about the arena events. And these folks were great! They explained all the intricacies of calf riding, pole, barrel, keyhole, and breakaway events, as well as stake racing. I am lucky that such kind and generous Montanans took me in and didn’t even laugh when I asked what a quarter horse was.

Though I enjoyed watching the kidsride their enormous horses, I think my favorite part of Saturday morning’s events was watching the grown men try to corral calves into the chutes for the riding contests. All the calves would bunch together complacently at first until one rebel would break away and lead the pack into anarchy. After several minutes it appeared to me that trying to corral calves is as easy as nailing jello to a wall.

After the fairground events, I looked in on the poultry and bunny (said a quick prayer for Bugs—see my last column) exhibitions and discovered the second thing I love about Montana.TREMENDOUSLY talented kids live here.

A girl tending to her lamb was the same girl I’d seen riding like a maniac in the keyhole event earlier in the arena. Kids were placing frozen water bottles next to the bunnies to keep them cool, kids were feeding hungry, pecking chickens and ducks, kids were keeping the lambs clean. I was impressed by their hard work and creativity. The art exhibition proved these kids knew not only how to feed and care for their horses but also how to draw and paint them on white canvas.

On Saturday evening, I ventured out to the Wild Horse Calcutta event at the Elks Club. When I first heard of the event, I thought the auctioning of cowboys would allow me to either pick up a date or at least someone to vacuum my house. I was disappointed to find that the cowboys weren’t auctioning their services but their talents in the nextday’s Wild Horse Race.

Without the funds to buy into their potential earnings, I watched while the auction continued and saw that in a sea of cowboy hats and shiny buckles, I, in my khakis, t-shirt, and color-coordinated handbag, was distinctly out of place.

Feeling like a fish out of water, I attended Sunday’s rodeo where the Jaycees took care of my caffeine and nacho needs (Thanks, guys!). I was especially pleased to see that I could buy a bag of beer (cans of Bud in a clear, plastic bag). Alcohol in a convenient carrying case. I like it! And the blue on the Bud cans matched my shoes!

I didn’t feel out of place fo rlong. Native Montanans rescued me again when my seat mates took me under theirwings and told me what to expect at this, my first rodeo. This wise older couple described the events and vocabulary to me, and the man only spit up a little of his coffee when I asked what a steer was. His wife carefully explained that a steer was a boy cow who would never be a dad. Oh.

By far, my favorite event was the Wild Cow Milking where cowboys had to rope, stop, and milk a wildly running cow. Most were unsuccessful in this event but the ones who weren’t seemed very excited about the little squirt they managed to produce. Maybe another part ofthe contest could have been churning their little squirt into butter.

Though my first rodeo was loads of fun, I found the main difference between me and the native Montanans surrounding me was that I kept cheering for the cows that got away and was thrilled when the little calves would outrun the cowboys on their horses.

Similarly, I found it ironic at Saturday’s Patagonia-sponsored event in support of local natural beef that the burger-flipping stall was only a few doors down from the live cow stall.

I’ve never lived in a place where animals are so much a part of the consumer culture, and maybe the most important thing I’ve learned while living in Montana is that I’m glad to learn about animals in a place like Dillon where my questions only produce a small amount of spit up. Hell yeah.