While the majority of Calgarians eagerly await the arrival of Stampede, ten days of intense partying, I feel only anxiety and dread. After almost 18 years in the food business in Calgary, rising before dawn to make hundreds of gallons of coffee, and serving thousands of pancakes and sausages, the thought of Stampede turns my stomach into knots. It was only because my son Liam turned 19 this week that I forced myself to go back for a few days. It wouldn’t be too bad; Stampede started late this year, and I would be able to get in quick and fly off into the sunset without having to eat a single pancake or feeling compelled to yell “Yahoo!” This was do-able. Unfortunately, Jordan wasn’t so lucky. He would have to stay behind and work.

            Stepping off the plane in Calgary was like walking into a bad western. Everyone was dressed in denim and leather. The entire terminal was festooned with western blankets, cowboy paraphernalia, and straw bales. In fact, the entire city is knee-deep in straw bales. Red Stampede pennants flutter at every major intersection, storefronts and office-tower windows are painted with “Howdy Pardner” and “Yahoo!” and retailers have gone over-the-top with western-themed displays. There must be miles and miles of rough-cut fencing. Whether these are intended to corral wild horses or party-goers is debatable.

             For businesses like our catering company, Stampede also means the biggest sales period of the year. At our shop, cases and cases of sausages, bagged eggs, and portion juices are being thawed and readied for the days ahead. A huge pot of our “special recipe” baked beans bubbles away. Large garbage pails of pancake batter are being mixed for the first of many early, early mornings. It means 20-hour work days and batter-covered boots. Syrup and straw seem to find their way into your hair and uncomfortable places in your clothing; you either stick or itch. Our breakfast crew, arriving in the wee hours of the morning to start making coffee and baking sausages, will cross over with our evening staff, still cleaning up from a late night fajita party. It isn’t unusual to find Jordan sleeping at his desk, hat tipped rakishly over his face.

            As I walked through the downtown core I sensed that the atmosphere was saturated with anticipation of the arrival of the herds of tourists with lots of tourist dollars to spend. On the pedestrian mall, vendors were beginning to set up their displays of “genuine” native blankets and jewellery; pin traders ready to do brisk business; sausage and soft pretzel wagons emanated delicious smells; buskers were tuning up their fiddles. Everyone is eager to get the show started. You really don’t need to go to the fair grounds to witness one of the greatest shows on earth.

            Others are just excited with thoughts of pancake breakfasts, or the parade, or rodeo, or midway rides, or dancing the two-step til dawn to one of the many fabulous country bands that will soon be playing in every saloon and Irish pub. Tents are going up in every available space outside bars and restaurants, to take advantage of this week-long party. You would never know that this is a town still struggling with the fact that the Flames and the Conservatives both lost. It is ready to bust loose at the first refrain of “Cotton Eye Joe.”

            And then, all at once, I realized, with some embarrassment, that my island clothes didn’t “suit” Calgary, and I felt like I was in one of those bad dreams where you find yourself suddenly naked in public. I had thought I could remain an indifferent observer of the silliness, jaded as I was from so many years of the service side of Stampede. I suddenly felt out of the loop, wishing I could get back in again.        

            Later, as I looked out from the window of the plane at the amazing Calgary skyline, juxtaposed with the magnificent Rocky Mountains, I found myself rethinking my hasty retreat. Perhaps I could have brought my western boots and stayed a few days longer; maybe just for the parade, a country band or two, and a ride on the roller coaster. I sort of liked being in a city where parade morning was treated like a stat holiday. And even though I personally have sat with the kids through rain, snow (yes, snow!) and blistering heat, it is common knowledge that “it never rains on the Stampede parade, never!”

            In the movies, the heroine would have had the plane turn around, and she would have ridden up (in a taxi) to stand by her man and his pancake flipper, but the reality is that someone had to come home to feed the cat! Perhaps next year.