Hooves & Heritage: Motion at the Arizona State Fair

Native American Rodeo • Phoenix, Arizona • Photographs & reflections by Ladee Kalenik Rickard

There’s a sound the arena keeps for itself: the thud of hooves, the rattle of a gate, that hush a crowd takes just before the chute cracks open. These photographs were made at the Arizona State Fair during the Native American Rodeo—a kinetic blend of sport and story where heritage rides straight through the dust. Presented by Desert Diamond Casino West Valley, the event draws Indigenous cowboys and cowgirls from across the Southwest to compete, celebrate, and carry tradition forward.

Rodeo and photography share the same heartbeat—timing. Miss the moment by a breath and the story is gone.

Event notes & stats

Schedule: Two performances daily across a two-day program (afternoon & evening).

Events: Bareback riding, saddle bronc riding, bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping, ladies barrel racing, ladies breakaway, and more.

Attendance (Fair-wide): Recent editions have exceeded 1.4 million visitors overall.

Added money: Recent Native American Rodeo purses have included roughly $16,000 in added money across events.

Update these numbers with the official results page once published by the Fair.

Image One — The Moment of Flight. A bronc arcs high and the rider separates—motion trails tell the truth of speed. I worked a slightly slower shutter so the energy writes itself into the frame while the arena holds as context.

 

Image Two — The Eight-Second Battle. The speckled bull launches; the rider braces with one hand to the air. Background figures fall to blur so the subject stays clean—muscle, dust, danger.

Image Three — Grace Under Speed. Barrel racing is precision in motion—accelerate, carve, explode to the line. I left open space ahead so the horse can visually run into it; the faint ghosts behind are the rhythm of the run.

The craft: composition in a moving arena

Shutter as narrative. I leaned on slightly slower shutter speeds to let motion draw itself—ghosted legs, dust plumes, and those elastic seconds where the body is still deciding whether to land or fly.

Place as anchor. I kept the background legible—rails, banners, spectators—so the images don’t float free of the fair. Context matters; it holds the story together.

Edges and direction. Subjects ride the rule of thirds with room to move into. Our eyes follow the line of travel, which keeps the frame breathing even when the action is mid-burst.

Color & tone. Dust-warm earth, denim blues, leather browns—Arizona’s palette. I protect skin tones and let the arena stay rich, not muddy.

Heritage in motion

The Native American Rodeo is athleticism and lineage in the same breath: families who have lived with horses and cattle for generations, riders who carry community pride into the arena, and new competitors finding their seat in the saddle. It’s not only a show—it’s culture moving at full speed.

Collect the series

Prints from this series are available as fine-art editions. If you’d like one for your wall—or a gift for the rodeo fan in your life—explore the links below.

Links coming soon 

Photographs & text © Ladee Kalenik Rickard • LadeeTravels.blog

Tempe, AZ - Moulin Rouge at Gammage — and My Art on the Walls!

Thursday night was one for the books. I had the absolute pleasure of seeing Moulin Rouge at ASU Gammage, and from the very first beat, I was swept into the glittering, heart-thumping whirlwind of music, passion, and pure theatrical magic. The songs are still dancing in my head!

But what made the night unforgettable wasn’t just what happened onstage—it was what surrounded it.

All around the theater, four different galleries were filled with my Paris-inspired artwork—about 35 pieces in total. From the view above the ticket booth to the hallway near Portal 10, my photographs of rooftops, street cafés, churches, and markets—each a captured memory from the City of Light—were on display for all to see.

To stand among those works during a show that celebrates the spirit of Paris? That was a high point in my life. Truly. Seeing guests stop, smile, and snap photos of the art filled me with gratitude and a deep sense of joy. I also ran into two coworkers, Lynn and Tami, and was so pleased to tell my story.

So if you're headed to Moulin Rouge at Gammage, be sure to look around before the curtain rises. Paris is in the building—in more ways than one.

Tempe, AZ A Tiger Named Richard Parker, and the Power of Storytelling

Reflections on Life of Pi at ASU Gammage

From the moment the curtain rose at Gammage, I was transported. The lighting, set, and overall mood immediately immersed me in Pi’s world - a space where family, community, and cultural backdrop mattered. It wasn’t flashy or loud; it was deeply rooted, quietly establishing the emotional and spiritual landscape of the story.

The puppetry in Life of Pi was nothing short of remarkable. The animals were not just convincing - they were alive with presence and purpose. Richard Parker, the tiger, was especially unforgettable. His movements, expression, and behavior were so nuanced that he became a character as real as Pi himself. His evolution through the story, including the eerie and unexpected shift when he took on a French identity, left me both intrigued and unsettled.

One moment continues to linger in my mind: when Pi retells his story, replacing the animals with people. The shift was jarring, emotional, and masterfully done. That duality - between myth and memory, survival and sorrow—was profoundly moving. It challenged me to reflect on the purpose of storytelling and the truths we choose to carry.

The themes of Life of Pi came through with clarity and power. Survival, faith, and the human need for narrative were woven through each scene, each interaction. I especially appreciated the treatment of religion - not heavy-handed, but gently interwoven with Pi’s identity, giving light to what can often be a weighty conversation.

Though I hadn’t read the book and only had a loose sense of the plot, the story surprised me as it unfolded. Visually stunning, emotionally rich, and thought-provoking, Life of Pi is a production I would recommend to all audiences. It’s more than a play—it’s an experience of wonder, belief, and the strength of the human spirit. 

Sedona - Lunch at The Table at Junipine — A Taste of Tranquility and Flavor

Tucked away beneath a canopy of green, with flower boxes blooming and the sound of the creek just beyond the railings, we found ourselves at The Table at Junipine. The setting itself is a breath of calm—rustic wood beams strung with soft patio lights, cool mountain air, and just enough charm to make you forget about the rest of the world for a while.

We settled in on the shaded patio, surrounded by the hush of oak and pine, and turned our attention to the menu. Every dish sounded like a thoughtful creation, but I couldn’t resist the Slide Rock Sliders - a trio of mini burgers, artfully presented with a generous helping of double battered fries.

For my slider selection, I chose a culinary tour across flavor profiles:

– The Big Greek, with fig spread, goat cheese, bacon, and balsamic glaze—an elegant surprise of sweet and savory.

– The Apricot Club, blending Swiss cheese, bacon, apricot aioli, and frisée lettuce for a slightly tangy, slightly smoky delight.

– And the Spicy Vortex, where jalapeños, sriracha aioli, and house-made slaw danced together on a cloud of heat and crunch.

Each bite was balanced, unexpected, and genuinely exquisite. The buns were soft but held up perfectly. The patties were juicy and seasoned just right. But let’s talk about those fries—crisped golden with the lightest touch of herbs and seasoning, possibly the best I’ve had in Arizona. I’d come back for those fries alone.

There’s something about sitting in the cool shade, sipping coffee, and enjoying a meal prepared with this much care that makes you linger a little longer. We did. We watched the hummingbirds flit near the hanging baskets and let the afternoon unfold gently.

Whether you’re staying nearby or just passing through Oak Creek Canyon, The Table at Junipine is a must-stop. Come for the scenery, stay for the sliders—and don’t skip the fries.

Note: Sliders are mix-and-match, limited to two orders per party—but trust me, you’ll be tempted to order more.

Grand Canyon, AZ - The Kaibab Suspension Bridge

 

The Kaibab Suspension Bridge

Looking Down from the Rim

I stood at the South Rim. The sun was high. The sky was blue and empty except for clouds in the distance. The wind came up from the canyon slow and dry. You could hear your breath. And nothing else.

There was a marker there. Bronze and black. It spoke of the Kaibab Trail Suspension Bridge. Built in 1928. Mules crossed it. Hikers crossed it. Supplies went down and hope came back up. The bridge had no glory. It had grit.

Engineers carried the steel down the canyon piece by piece. They brought mules to do the hauling. Strong mules. Patient men. A team of Mohave laborers helped build it. It took courage and silence and the kind of work that burns the hands. They strung the cables over the river by hand. One hundred and sixty feet above the Colorado.

The bridge hangs there still. Black steel against red stone. They say you can hear it creak when the wind kicks.

I looked out from the edge. Tried to see it far below. Too much light. Too much canyon. You catch a glimpse, maybe. But only if you know where to look.

A sign caught my eye. White with bold black letters. No Drones Allowed. I smiled. The canyon doesn’t need buzzing things. It doesn’t need looking down from a screen. You stand on your feet. You see with your eyes. That’s how it’s done here.

They don’t give awards for bridges like that. But this one has them. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It earned it. It still stands.

I took a step back from the edge. The rock was warm. The river was far. The bridge was waiting, hidden in the folds of the gorge, doing its job. No fanfare. Just steel and silence.

Grand Canyon, AZ - Yavapai Geology Museum

 

At the Yavapai Geology Museum

On the Orange Route, Where the Rock Speaks

You take the shuttle. You get off when it slows and the driver nods. There’s a path. You follow it. It’s quiet. Pine trees creak. The wind smells of dust and sun.

The museum is not large, but it stands like it belongs. Stone and glass. Built to stay.

Inside, the air is cool. There are maps, raised and rugged, with shadows in the folds. You touch one. It feels like memory. You trace the Colorado River with your finger. You see where it cut. Where it kept cutting. It always cuts.

There are layers—painted and labeled—telling the age of things older than time. You learn the names: Vishnu Schist. Coconino Sandstone. Bright Angel Shale. They sound like poems but are heavier than prayer.

And then the windows.

The whole canyon opens like a secret kept too long. You look out and stop thinking. The rock rolls out in red and rose and ash. The far wall is clear. The space between is deep and alive.

People stand at the glass and say nothing. A child points, but does not ask. A man stares as if he’s trying to remember something he never knew.

You stay longer than you meant to. There are benches. You sit. The light moves. The shadows shift.

This is the place to learn what can’t be taught. The canyon speaks if you are quiet. And here, you are.