April 9th, 1983: On a warm spring evening overflowing with the promise of new life, my father prepared for what may have seemed like just another bull ride. Rolling into town with his young pregnant wife, drawing the rankest bull on the ticket that night, hoping to shoot the moon and go home flush with much needed cash. The Spokane Coliseum played host to the drama on this night. A leaky, aged, and storied institution, the arena filled with an aroma of fresh dirt, steaming manure, and the uniquely sweaty bond that exists between man and animal that so dominates the history of the West. Elvis played here once, and sang How Great Thou Art before launching into a cover of Johnny B. Goode. Even the King had to pay tribute. For most in attendance that evening, the familiar, customary sights, sounds, and smells culminated in one long held tradition of blood and guts. Rodeo. Not that bull riding is ordinary, or even for ordinary men. The sheer amount of skill, passion, and dumb luck it requires is almost staggering. As far as professional sports are concerned, the closest sibling to bull riding might be professional poker or mountain climbing or big wave surfing. Though failing to finish in poker seldom leads to your downfall. The desire to strap oneself to the back of a 2000-pound horned caged animal writhing with fury and hate and testosterone has always seemed a bit foolish. A desire that resonates with me as a father of 3 is to do whatever it takes to provide for my family, especially in hard times. My father was no stranger to hard times, raised in rural Montana on a struggling cattle ranch, coming to adulthood in the turbulence of the 1970's, unable or unwilling to keep a job long term while yearning to create a space and a place of his own for his young family. Bull riding was his passion, and he was good at it-PRCA rookie of the year in 1979 but never made more than $5K in a single year doing it. If this were a Hollywood movie, the music would start to change. The story began with a quiet version of Country Roads, and as the lights come up and the arena fills up, the mood shifts to one of expectation and anticipation. The rough sound of Hank Williams Jr "A country boy can survive" has replaced the crooning, hippie vocals of John Denver and the volume has picked up. The snorts of bulls and horses, the clang of chute gates, the chatter of the crowd, and the quiet murmur of somber cowboys preparing to ride fills the stadium. Rodeo pickup men and bullfighters make their way into the arena like medieval Knights or Roman gladiators preparing for battle. There are only a few moments in our life that can swing the future-dramatically move the pendulum and the trajectory of our decisions and the impact on our futures so fully, so definitively, that nothing will ever be the same after that moment passes. For my family—especially my mother Patricia, my sisters Jennifer and Christine, my brother Joseph, and for me, this night was one of those moments. They never feel like Hollywood says they should, there's no soundtrack playing in the background, no dramatic one liner with punctual delivery, no scripts feverishly poured over to ensure things go according to plan. There's just life, and when, and where, and how it happens. Most importantly, there is never a why, as much as we search for it. There's simply a what. The why never comes. What happened that night has become a legend, at least in our family. A 40-year legend this year, and the story still matters to us. It matters to cowboy Poet Paul Zarzyski, a true friend of my father's who immortalized his last ride in his poem "All this way for the short ride." And to artist Tom Russell, inspiring a song of the same name that's been performed countless times across the globe as Tom and Nadine have continued to spread the story of my father's last ride to millions of listeners of folk and cowboy music for the past four decades. We are forever connected and grateful to these two artists. To participate in Paul's poetry and Tom's music is the closest experience I've ever had to time travel. Somehow their passion, their art, and the truth transports the listener back through time and space to the exact moments of what happened, feeling the heart-beats of those present, imagining the smells, the sounds, the joys, and the fears, all wrapped up in the package of a well written, passionately performed, gut wrenching poem and song. Hurts so good. The crux of the night is this: my father drew the bull Pow-Wow, a 2000-pound White brahma bull with large horns and an even larger reputation. He was downright mean and nasty, and damn tough to ride. I will never know what my father's thoughts leaned towards that evening, but the memories I have of him before a rodeo always had him putting on his gridle and gear with a smile, like he was getting ready to go to work at a job he loved. He loved rodeo, he loved his family, and he loved Jesus. Maybe Coors too. Somehow, I imagine it just like that, just like another day on the job doing what he loved. I say that because the other odd jobs he had never seemed to make him smile like he did when he was traveling with his family to a rodeo. I remember rolling through Las Vegas at night when I was about 4 or 5 on the way to Houston, looking out the window and seeing the neon electric cowboy. I remember standing at the ocean for the first time and seeing sea turtles and driving across Texas in a two-tone Chevy pickup and tiny camper. I remember going as a family to Edmonton Alberta sometime before the Spokane trip and eating bologna sandwiches in the camper in the parking lot before a rodeo. Most of all, I remember the last words my father said to me as he left with my pregnant mother for the Spokane trip after reminding me to look after my two younger sisters while we stayed at my grandparents in Hamilton, Montana. It was a beautiful spring day. All of us kids were taking turns eating the honeysuckle flowers my grandmother had planted all along the side of her home. When it came time to leave with my mother, he simply said "Goodbye, Son" and walked down the sidewalk to the green Pontiac. Kinda like Elvis saying TCB-taking care of business, baby. TCB. Goodbye son. I'm off to work and I will see you when I get back. TCB. Except I never saw him again. Pow-Wow came out of the shoot full tilt, spinning like a 2000-lb top. My dad held on for dear life, all 5'7'' and 150 lbs of him fighting against gravity, muscle, torc, and fury. At some point in those milliseconds, that crazed bull must have realized he'd finally met his match. Two immovable objects locked in a cosmic struggle for the 8 second buzzer, and no one was flinching. LIke an old west shootout at the OK Corral, my dad was Wyatt Earp and Pow-Wow was all the ruffians. No one was backing down. That bull kicked so high in the air in an attempt to remove my father that he caused himself to completely flip over as his horns hooked into the dirt and possibly the floor underneath and his back legs carried over his body, landing himself on his back with my father still attached. My mother, 8 months pregnant with my little brother, all the while watching in the stands. The hushed crowd prayed in silence, as did my mother, for his life. My mother, never one to mince words, knew in her heart that he was gone and had ridden his last ride. My brother was born two weeks later. He’s Joseph Michael after my father. He’s as tenacious about life as my father was about bull riding, a true warrior for the things that matter. He carries the spirit and legacy of our family like a champion. The bull fighters and paramedics rushed to the aid of my father to no avail. He was pronounced dead at the local hospital from internal injuries. The catholic priest who knocked on my grandparent's door early the next morning was accompanied by my uncle Steve as they gave us the news. My grandmother was never the same after that yet remained one of the most amazing human beings I have ever known. Having lost a child of my own just after childbirth, I had just a taste of what she experienced and can only imagine the pain of losing a child you raised into adulthood for 28 years. I don't blame rodeo. No one in my family does. Or the bull. Or my father. It would be easy to blame all three, but life is rarely that simple. My grandmother died in an auto accident many years later. I don't blame cars. No one gets out of here alive; death will come for us all. We are invincible until we die, then we aren't. Life is a gift and should be lived as such. Take no one and nothing for granted, because there are no guarantees. A wise man once said not to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow can worry about tomorrow. Live each day as your last without regret. Live with passion, live with focus, and keep the first things first. Family, faith, and focus on the future you dream of. Whatever comes, take it head on and do not be afraid. Those are lessons I learned from my father in the 8 years I was able to know him on this earth.