Calistoga Classic

So much for gettin' down home.

The three riders wore identical shirts patterned after "Old Glory," and each carried a flag as they cantered around the large ring, trailed by a local honoree borne along in an open landau carriage. They circled the arena, came to a stop in the center, and someone said nice things about the dignitary-for-a-day, after which an ambitious little girl sang her overly distinctive rendition of the National Anthem. And then, during the opening ceremonies of the Calistoga Equestrian Classic, we became unavoidably aware of "The Voice."

She dressed the part she really seemed to hold in life, that of a pretty upvalley 30-something who attended pleasant parties on weekends, and this day she covered herself in a stylish loose dress of earth tones, the fabric hinting of Indonesia. And when we'd heard her conversing with friends while she circulated around the "hospitality" tents, the voice nicely fit everything else about her. But now, holding center stage, the mistress of ceremonies let her accessories do the talking.

The standard headgear for the working cowboy is a simple, whitish straw hat of the Western configuration, which with age and exposure browns to a hue that evokes images of bad teeth. Certain rural types treasure those hats as badges of ranchy authenticity, and you can tell them most especially by the distintively tortured shapes assumed by their signifier of choice, usually defined by up-curled brimsides, the front and back turned dramatically down. A band of rawhide around the crown, dangling small feathers behind, completes the look. It is a remarkably ugly look, so you can imagine our surprise as we noted that this lovely woman had donned one of her own hideous examples of the hat while performing her duties as presenter.

Then she started speaking, abandoning the voice of her life for a strange, Southern-like accent that drifted uncomfortably between Dolly Parton and Scarlett O'Hara. We winced in embarrassment for some minutes as she drawled on, wondering aloud to our companions as to this juxtaposition of supreme hickdom over the refined world of competition horse jumping.

Joe Montana and family held the seats of honor, and the obligatory recognition of their involvement brought the man and his wife out for a memento and a smattering of applause. The Montanas are an equestrian family, and their two daughters would be competing; we've heard that wife Jennifer helped organize the event in earlier years, and they continue to maintain their support.

But we were distracted, almost unable to absorb anything said over the public address system; we were paying too much attention to "The Voice."

Her duty done, the offender sauntered into our territory and we inquired from whence that accent had come.

Neverneverland, she said, smiling.

Never, never again, we thought, frowning.

It gets hot in Calistoga in mid-July, and the temperature still exceeded a hundred degrees by the time of the 6:30 start of the evening's program. Even so, shade provided sufficient relief, and earlier in the day we took the opportunity to investigate the relatively cool stables behind the fairgrounds. Dozens of horses had been moved in, various riding concerns marking their territories with signs and banners. Girls in riding boots fed and watered their own steeds while Mexican retainers ambled through putting out hay or prepping tack for their own big-operation employers. The horses stood uneasily in their stalls, alternately nervous and curious as a result of the new surroundings and the dumb-animal awareness that they were soon to perform.

All other things being equal, size, obviously, helps in these things, and in that barn we saw some of the largest horses we ever encountered, more than a few standing six feet tall at back level. Up until a couple of decades ago, most jumpers tended to be retired race horses, fast, youthful animals which would seem to have the requisite athletic ability. But thoroughbreds are cursed with skinny limbs, rendering them vulnerable to injury in the ups and downs of jumping. That explained the many European bloodlines that would be cited during the performance, especially Hanoverian. Hybrids are the new favored brand; farm horses from Europe, descendents of the specially bred war horses of medieval knighthood, are now crossed with thoroughbreds, resulting in purpose-built steeds of imposing stature and strong, thick ankles--or whatever they're called on a horse.

The Calistoga Equestrian Classic, a jumping competition now a decade or so old, spans several days, ending early Sunday afternoon. General admission costs $30, a seat in the tents lining the arena $75. Most of the latter were sold as part of group tables, and old friends gathered around their lavish picnic spreads enjoying the activities accompanied by dynamic conversation, idle gossip and general goodfellowship.

Meanwhile, the general admission seating consisted of a couple of bleachers, capable of seating about a hundred people, though many fewer than that appeared in evidence. They faced the sun, by then hanging low enough in the sky to sear their retinas even as it baked them with a direct, unrelenting heat that may have approached 110 degrees. As for edibles, there was always the snack bar; but that seemed to run out of food within 15 minutes of the event start, and drinks were depleted within another 15.

We contemplated this brutal segregation as the show began with a gymkhana auction, the point of which, apparently, was to bid on which team of rider and horse you most liked the look of; you didn't get to take anything home, but you did get to bestow a couple of grand to charity. A score of riders galloped around one or two at a time, spotters haranguing the crowd, needling tight-fisted friends into committing some money on this or that entry.

Then came the competition. A dozen or so jumps of different heights and approaches studded the arena, the circuitous route winding in, out and around the obstacles. We discovered through the color commentator/announcer that it had actually been designed by someone, which should not have been a surprise; we'd assumed that they were more or less randomly positioned without too much cerebration. Blessed ignorance. Competitors had 86 seconds to navigate the course, those doing it fastest without knocking anything over the relative winners, with other places in the results determined by some formula combining time and penalties.

In the minutes leading up to the first ride, we noticed an obvious competitor nearby, and asked if he had a strategy.

Yeah, said Josh, I start at the beginning, make every jump and finish the course as fast as possible.

An open man of easy grin, he'd come down with his wife from Port Townsend, Washington, where they board horses and offer lessons. He started riding as a toddler, gave it up as a teenager, and got back into it 10 or 15 years later, ultimately managing to turn it into an all encompassing life he obviously enjoyed. They'd traveled to Calistoga just for the event, their version of a short vacation, camping out at the fairgrounds.

The initial entrants completed the course in 75 to 80 seconds, a few making it through with no penalties, but things soon became more inconsistent. Horses that seemed to fly over everything effortlessly would suddenly balk at a last moment, upsetting their riders, and throwing some off into the barriers, though not injuriously. Typically, they saved themselves by hanging onto the reins so they'd land on unsteady feet, usually facing their non-performing mounts. That's what happened to Josh's wife, weeks of anticipation reduced to 40 seconds of aborted effort. No one got more applause than those who didn't succeed, but had tried. The horsewise crowd knew how difficult it was, all your skill and training dependent on the moods and whims of big, flighty beasts.

Sean Wordley, a 31-year-old from New Zealand, exhibited no similar problems. He and his horse moved as one, the strides perfectly matched to an optimal approach, and unlike most others, there was no apparent hesitation before a jump, no detectable missed step, merely a single unit that glided over the heights as easily as it navigated the flats. His time of 69 seconds remained unequaled, and he would win the night's laurels, worth $10,000.

He lives somewhere south of the San Francisco peninsula, and the week before he'd won at Pebble Beach; he would win another $25,000 the next day when the Classic finished. He wasn't getting rich, he said, but he paid his expenses and had found a dream niche as a professional athlete in an obscure sport, a feat not easily pulled off.

We're not oldtimers at this event, but we hear it wasn't always of such a stature as to attract the likes of Wordley; in the old days, 10 or 15 years ago, it seems prizes were modest and nominal. Only locals showed up, and locals won. It was less glitzy, perhaps, than when the Montanas became involved, but the Classic rewarded the horsemen of Napa County and the surrounding ranchlands, while making the public at large feel welcome. That isn't the case anymore.

As so often happens when the charity fund-raising machine kicks into gear, prices go up along with the amenities; but the most insidious effect is to create a gulf between the insiders associated with the event and the paying customers. Never have we seen a more blatant example than at the jumping competition. As so often happens at these affairs, a large proportion of those sitting at the nice tables in the shade had been comped, while most of those roasting in the bleachers paid $30, an amount of money that would buy a decent seat at a rock concert, a good play, a sports event. So wretchedly were they treated one wondered if they sold such tickets only to remind everyone else of their lofty membership in the clique. When the event announcer--a man with a voice distinctly resembling that of the newsman Kent Brockman on the Simpsons--called the crowd's attention to the bleacher folk, he actually asked if it was hot enough for them. Then he had the gall to ask them for a cheer, which they dutifully supplied in the 100 degree heat. The spectacle, as a matter of fact, perfectly mimicked something you would see on the Simpsons, with all its class-cruel absurdities.

We don't suggest that the Montanas were in any way responsible; they just wanted to support a local charity. They demonstrated a patient grace with everyone we saw approach them, and their kids--observed throughout the late afternoon and beyond--revealed themselves to be well-mannered and considerate.

No, it was just the grinding inevitability of the fund-raising industry, a product of the women who lunch and arrange for their private parties to be paid for by pawning them off as charity events, unwitting outsider proles paying the cost.

The shame is especially acute in this instance, since horse culture has been all but exterminated in the public realm in the Napa Valley, ever since the self-styled animal rights fanatics harrassed the county fairs into abandoning rodeo. We used to enjoy the secret Mexican rodeo in American Canyon, but that succumbed to new houses a few years ago. Now there is nothing left, except the Classic.

A few days afterward, we met a woman where we ride, at the Easy Way Ranch in the Carneros District. As soon as we broached the topic of the Calistoga event, she took off on it.

It used to be fun a while back, then it started getting fancy, she said. I got free tickets last year, but it was miserable out there in the sun, and then they ran out of food and drinks. I'm never going back.

We know just how she feels.

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