I’m as close to the action as it gets, standing with my toes pressed up against the outer perimeter of the half-mile dirt track. Surrounding me is the sound of thousands of spectators cheering on the fearless Indigenous relay racers astride horses at an all-out run. We’re hooting and hollering as they come around the bend, jump down from one horse, then leap onto another, which immediately breaks into a gallop. Few if any of us onlookers have ever participated in this high-adrenaline sport, but we’re all invested, because the electric energy emanating from the athletes—both human and horse—is absolutely contagious.
As a Native American horse girl who grew up in the Midwest, I’ve attended my fair share of rodeos. Still, I’ve never experienced anything quite like the Calgary Stampede. Dubbed the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth, the 10-day Western extravaganza combines the equine action of Cheyenne Frontier Days with the festive foods of the Minnesota State Fair with the twangy tunes of CMA Fest. But it’s the Indigenous aspect—integral since the event’s inception in 1912—that truly sets it apart.
Cowboy culture is cooler than ever, but it hasn’t always felt inclusive. Unsurprisingly I had a healthy dose of skepticism about the authenticity of the Stampede’s Native initiatives. After all, the Western world has a bad habit of perpetuating harmful stereotypes about Indigenous communities while also culturally appropriating our rich traditions, like using tribal iconography and donning Native-influenced designs. As many companies and cultural institutions increasingly scramble to incorporate diverse perspectives, there are both genuine and contrived initiatives emerging. (It’s quite easy to spot the difference between the two, because the legit projects are by and with us, instead of just about us.)
For a fully Native experience, I opted to stay at Grey Eagle Resort & Casino, owned and operated by the Tsuut’ina Nation, which is close enough to downtown Calgary yet outside the main bubble of the record-setting 1.4 million attendees here this year. Both days I Stampeded (yes, that’s a verb at the event), I took an easy 12-minute taxi ride to the 208-acre park in the heart of Calgary, Canada’s fastest growing major city, and popped into events like the rowdy Afternoon Rodeo, the entertaining Dog Bowl, and an evening Orville Peck concert on the Coca-Cola Stage (the latter two are included with your admission ticket, though some events are ticketed separately).
My first morning on the ground, I spotted a group of Native aunties wearing ribbon skirts and followed them over to Elbow River Camp, the longtime hub for all things Indigenous. As I crossed over the bridge above the namesake waterway (which farther upstream meets the Bow River, a confluence that’s long been a sacred gathering place), a feeling of familiarity and comfort washed over me. Views of the 26 proud and colorful Treaty 7 First Nations teepees came into my periphery. Sounds of jingle dancers prepping for the afternoon powwow hung in the air. The smell of bannock filled my nostrils, recalling all the times I’ve eaten and savored fry bread.
After serendipitously meeting First Nations Princess Margaret Holloway of the Stoney Nakoda Nation as she was off to perform her next official duties, I perused tent upon tent of handmade wares by talented Indigenous makers and snatched up some earrings from SACRD THNDR and Native Diva Creations to add to my ever-growing collection. I was beckoned into a teepee, where I listened intently as Blackfoot/Nez Perce cultural interpreter Lowa Beebe imparted historical context about how the Stampede’s present-day relationship with area tribal communities came to be.
“The legacy of the Stampede is that this became a safe space for us to practice our culture and put up our teepees,” Beebe said. She explained that upon signing a treaty with the Canadian government in 1877, the Siksika (Blackfoot), Kainai (Blood), Piikani (Peigan), Tsuut’ina (Sarcee), and Stoney Nakoda peoples ceded their vast ancestral homelands and were relegated to small reserves. Around that same time, parliament passed the Indian Act, aimed at assimilating First Nations communities into Canadian society through far-reaching cultural bans. Then in 1885, the Pass System was implemented, requiring that Indigenous people get written permission to leave their reserve. It would be decades before these prohibitive policies were lifted.
“We were segregated from society, and our culture was outlawed,” Beebe told me. “We were not allowed to leave those nations, to practice our culture, or to speak our language. Our children were taken to residential schools. Our people call it a cultural genocide.”
All those restrictions were in place in the early 20th century, when American cowboy Guy Weadick dreamed up the Stampede to honor Alberta’s ranching heritage (earning him his “father of Canadian rodeo” moniker). He insisted that the Treaty 7 First Nations be involved and lobbied for temporary exemptions allowing them to leave their reserves for the 10-day event. That first year, he invited more than 1,800 Indigenous people to lead the parade, camp onsite, and compete in the rodeo. Thus Elbow River Camp became their Stampede home-base.
“All of those [colonialist] policies and institutions were meant to assimilate us out of our culture, so it’s very powerful to celebrate the fact that we haven’t lost our traditions,” Beebe explained. “I also really commend the Stampede for constantly evolving their relationship with the teepee holders.” That’s the title for the people who return year after year to erect these symbols of Native resilience and to share their tribal traditions through storytelling, demos, and the like. It’s an honored role that’s been passed down through multiple generations, dating back to the inaugural year.
I carried that knowledge with me into the Saddledome—the 19,000-seat arena where the popular Flames pro hockey team usually plays—for the powwow, one of Canada’s biggest with more than 1,000 total participants. Tears of happiness rolled down my cheeks as I watched dozens of Indigenous dancers, singers, and drummers from all over North America joyfully showcasing their once-banned cultural practices in this massive space, a huge audience hanging on their every move.
This year, Alberta-born Piikani/Blackfoot actor Owen Crow Shoe served not only as powwow emcee but also as parade marshal, a prestigious post that’s been held by the likes of then Prince Charles, crooner Bing Crosby, and actor Kevin Costner. “It was a huge honor and responsibility to lead the parade this year,” he said. “It’s a real full-circle moment for me, because my family has been at the Stampede since 1985; I basically grew up here. I wanted to make sure there was as much Native representation as possible, so I requested for the Elbow River Camp riders to be right there in front with me—just how it was for the first parade.”
Looking around the event, I noticed thousands of fans from all walks of life—the performers’ friends, authentic cowpokes, urban cowboys, and local families—celebrating Indigenous excellence alongside me.
That’s what makes the Stampede so special for 21-year-old Jessee Vigen, who is a member of the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation. She traveled from Mandaree, North Dakota, with her family to race on their Awa Daa Hey relay team and also participate in the Lady Warrior Races, a single bareback lap preceding the relay races that debuted at the event last year. In her six years of racing, she has experienced the ups and downs of the sport, including sustaining injuries like a broken collar bone and a torn ACL.
But it’s well worth the risk. “Horses save so many Native people, especially teens,” she told me. “It keeps them on the red road and out of trouble. The Stampede relay races are really amazing for our youth, because it gives them something to hope for—to feel like you’re flying through the air at this big track with all these people in the stands cheering you on.”
Real representation is hard to get right, and today’s efforts at inclusion don’t make up for a long history of systemic racism and oppression across North America. But the Stampede showcases the importance of non-Native allies like founder Guy Weadick stepping up, and Indigenous collaborators like the Elbow River Camp teepee holders being heard. As planning for next year’s Stampede (kicking off July 4) gets underway, I am optimistic that the Native aspects will only continue to grow in magnitude and authenticity.
On my last day in Calgary, as the blazing afternoon sun gave way to cloud-covered evening, Vigen and I meandered over to a nearby paddock to look in on her horse: an 11-year-old mare named It Ain’t So Easy—or E for short, just like my dressage horse, Ethel. As Vigen and I laughed about the challenges of riding opinionated mares, I realized I’d found my people and my place at this massive event. It was about so much more than mere entertainment.
This year’s Calgary Stampede certainly wasn’t my first rodeo, but that feeling of close connectedness and community was an entirely new experience altogether.
