They're still among us

I used to race horses in Wyoming. For 50 or 100 miles at a time, my best friend, Scooter, and I were the kings of the trail. He was my horse, I was his boy. On my first 50 mile ride, my old friend Jack told me once that adventure doesn't start until something goes wrong. 6 years later, I knew I was onto something when the transfer case in my truck blew out halfway through my month-and-a-half long journey through the rodeos in the American West, or as I like to call it, home. 

The rodeo circuit had always been a dream journey of mine. Pure grit, enough dust to fog up your trucks air filter, and more colors than a sundog in a Nebraskan sunrise. Each night was a new crowd where every face seemed familiar. Rodeos are bred from chaos, and photographing them isn't always easy. One of my heroes, Sam Abell, once photographed the Crow Fair Rodeo on the Crow Reservation in Montana. What he said about the rodeo rings true for me: "Late in the day I realized the rodeo was taking my photographs, not the other way around." 

Being by yourself for months on end, transporting from rodeo to rodeo, living in the confines of your drivers seat, its not easy. I suppose thats why Cowboys choose to do it best. The way of life molds you, it certainly molded me. By the end of the trip, I was satisfied if I only had to drive 6 hours instead of 10 after a rodeo. 

The following are moments I was lucky enough to stumble upon and some of the stories brave enough to let themselves be found. Notably, these photos mean more to me than any I've ever taken. From Josie dressing in her Shoshone regalia next to her paint horse, to the metric ton of dust Lane and his horse threw up at dawn in Lander, WY - these images each have their own intimate story. These intimacies are what I crave, the stories are a dash of me trying to give the world a new perspective of inspiration.