Mexican Horsemen Ride High at Rodeos

Manuel Escobedo, atop a galloping palomino, thundered alongside a fleeing steer and seized its tail barehanded. But the steer slipped his grasp and dashed off, its dignity intact.

“No luck for Manuel Escobedo,” an announcer boomed in Spanish over loudspeakers to a few dozen spectators in the grandstands. Escobedo, disappointed that the steer had not fallen, trotted off while a ragtag brass band pumped out an energetic Mexican march.

It was a scene straight out of a Mexican rancho. One would never guess that this was really Saugus, just three miles up a canyon road from a burgeoning suburban housing tract.

Whitewashed Ring

But for six months, 20 to 30 horsemen have gathered each Sunday afternoon at a whitewashed riding ring in San Francisquito Canyon to test their horses and their skills in the classic Mexican rodeo or charreada .

For just a few hours, Saugus is transformed into Zacatecas, Durango or Jalisco, all Mexican states rich in the traditions of the Mexican cowboy or charro . The weekly events are a chance, said Escobedo, “to conserve our Mexican culture.”

The arena was built along San Francisquito Canyon Road a year ago by Leonardo Lopez, an Encino resident and owner of a chain of Mexican restaurants. Originally from the Mexican state of Durango, Lopez, 39, also heads an association of charros, which includes horsemen from the San Fernando, Santa Clarita and neighboring valleys.

The ring has become a regular stopping place for some of the 27 other charro associations in the state. For a $6 fee, fans can cheer and jeer the charros and listen to a brass band or mariachis. A few extra dollars buys beer and tacos. Those unwilling to pay sometimes park their trucks on a nearby bluff and, standing on the roofs, watch the proceedings from afar.

The rodeos have not gone without criticism. Some neighbors have complained about the band music that fills San Francisquito Canyon each Sunday. Some spectators have blocked driveways with their cars or dumped litter.

“Some of them are pretty careless about throwing away their beer cans,” said Linda Cullen, who lives on the 80-acre Lady Linda Ranch next door. But, Cullen added, Lopez has responded to the complaints. “It’s improved since they first came out,” she said.

On a recent Sunday, the ever-present announcer promised a sparse crowd that “these charreadas are 100% Mexican.”

Pork Simmering

For the most part, that’s true. Spanish was the language of the day, and the tempting aroma of carnitas-- pork simmering in a big black caldron--overpowered the smell of corrals.

But the charreadas , through an appealing mix of American mass culture and Mexican tradition, offered reminders that this really was Saugus. Two fans in the grandstands recorded the competition on videotape. A little boy twirling a lasso wore a Western shirt, chaps--and a Boston Red Sox cap. While most charros swigged Budweiser, one sipped Perrier.

The events in the charreada , however, have not been changed and differ from those in American rodeos. While cowboys ride bulls and broncos one-handed for a maximum eight seconds, charros use two hands and hold on until they give out or the animals give up.

Only Mexicans perform the coleadero , a feat in which points are awarded for sending a charging steer tumbling with a yank on the tail. The points vary, depending on where and how the animal falls down. Charros can even lose points for a bad performance. The scoring is so complicated, the charros said, judges often keep an open rule book at their side.

Animal activists have branded the coleadero and other charreada events as inhumane to animals. But on a recent Sunday in Saugus, the steers seemed to be winning.

Manuel Escobedo was the fourth charro to fail in the coleadero . Seven more tried without success. Some never touched the tail. “Zero points for Ruben Gutierrez,” blared the loudspeaker.

The 12th rider up was Fernando Lopez, the 11-year-old son of Leonardo Lopez. Perhaps by accident, or perhaps as a joke, he was sent after the largest steer of the day, a muscular animal of mottled brown and black. He held the tail briefly before letting go.

Fernando later recalled that once, at a different charreada , a steer actually went down after he tugged its tail. “That was luck,” he said. “It tripped over something.”

Fernando would have no such luck on this day. It seemed that neither would anyone else. The steers outwitted three riders after him.

Finally, charro Rodrigo Barunda snatched a steer’s tail and wrapped it around his outstretched right leg. The steer pulled right, but Barunda pulled left. The steer went down and the crowd cheered. Even the spectators on the nearby bluff applauded.

It’s hard work. Risky, too. “They can lose fingers,” Escobedo said. In the world of charros, “Everything is dangerous.”

Family Tradition

Escobedo, like most of the charros , is originally from Mexico. A ruggedly handsome man of 42, he learned to ride on a ranch in Zacatecas. As his father had taught him, he is teaching his own son, Esteban, 10, to rope and ride. “He rides well,” he said with satisfaction.

The lure of the charreada is understandable for Escobedo and other Mexican immigrants. The rodeo is the national sport of Mexico and charros have been long celebrated in songs, movies and on television. So, just as the charreada transforms Saugus into a slice of Jalisco, the weekly event also transforms ordinary men into the dashing Mexican equivalent of John Wayne.

Consider Gerardo Gandara, 29, a native of Zacatecas living in Sylmar. During the week, he is a truck driver. But on horseback, the stocky man is surprisingly agile and graceful, completely in control. The tiny crowd cheered as Gandara skillfully roped a sprinting mare.

It’s doubtful that the Saugus charros perform to hear the roar of the crowd. The grandstands could hold more than 100, but sometimes just 60 people attend. Sometimes 40.

“Sometimes, nobody,” said a guard at the gate.

Friendly Competition

The small crowd does not discourage the riders. “This is nothing more than practice,” Escobedo said. And, although the announcer awarded points for well-performed feats, nobody kept score. “This is a friendly competition,” he said.

To be sure, the state’s charro associations sometimes compete for titles. But, often enough, they ride just for the sake of riding. James H. Nottage, chief curator of the Gene Autry Western Heritage Museum in Griffith Park, said charros traditionally have savored their sport not for awards, but for the demands it places on man and beast.

In the 1800s, Mexican cowboys in California sometimes would rope grizzly bears “as a matter of sport,” Nottage said. “Of course, it was a very risky competition.”