Falice Chin: The ‘wild and weird’ Calgary Stampede

One of the true joys of the Calgary Stampede isn’t the pancakes or the rodeo or even the free swag—it’s the people-watching. And I should know. One of my first assignments as a rookie reporter at the Calgary Herald was to roam the grounds and find the raunchiest T-shirts and the most “what-is-even-happening” outfits on display. I’m talking about attire with deep philosophical slogans like “Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” or the ever-popular Daisy Duke crop tops paired with chaps that seemed to have lost all sense of structural integrity. It’s as if Las Vegas and Mardi Gras had a denim-clad baby after a one-night stand, and then that baby got hammered on Bud Light and tried to two-step. For 10 glorious days, it’s pure indulgent chaos. But it’s also where the most earnest folks you’ll ever meet belt out hymns, show off their agile border collies, or demonstrate the ancient Canadian art form of quilt making. It’s one of the few places on Earth where you can plausibly imagine a Mennonite a cappella group opening for Kid Rock. And somehow, it works. What’s truly bizarre—in the best way—is that there are no fences dividing the fringe from the family-friendly, except for the beer gardens. Everyone mingles. Everyone vibes. Nobody bats an eye. The Calgary Stampede is the only place I know where you can be totally politically incorrect and totally woke at the same time. Look no further than the longstanding participation of Indigenous communities as a prime example of this contradiction. Reconciling before it was cool For over a century, members of the Treaty 7 Nations have been offered space to march at the parade, set up their colourful teepees, cook bannock, hold powwows, and share stories in and around Stampede grounds. But this wasn’t just a happy accident. “The pioneers of the Stampede were so adamant that our Indigenous communities were involved, they went over and above the Indian Act,” said Anila Umar, a longtime Stampede volunteer and strategy committee member, on The Hub’s Alberta Edge podcast. The Indian Act, which came into power in 1876, made it illegal for First Nations people to wear regalia, perform ceremonies, or even leave their reserves without written permission. But, Stampede founder Guy Weadick wanted the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth to be more than just cowboys and broncos. He wanted the full Western picture. And that meant Indigenous peoples had to be part of it. So he teamed up with political bigwigs like Senator James Lougheed and the then-newly elected MLA R.B. Bennett, and lobbied Ottawa for a special exemption. This created a legal loophole that allowed Indigenous participants to publicly reclaim their identities at a time when doing so could land them in jail. Some people today would take issue with how they marketed the partnership back in 1908—urging visitors to check out the “Indians [before they] are gone.” But what emerged was a rare sanctuary—a place where Indigenous people could be seen, heard, and celebrated; long before Canada made any effort to reconcile with its past. For decades, that area was known as Indian Village, a name that raised eyebrows among outsiders. But many teepee owners on the site saw it as a historical artifact—evidence of an unusual and important alliance. In time, the space was renamed Elbow River Camp, which is rooted in land and language. Come one, come all That same spirit of openness extends far beyond the grounds. Western hospitality is practically the official Stampede condiment, most commonly served in pancake form. Across the city, churches, mosques, temples, and community centres’ pop-up line cooks serve free breakfasts to anyone who shows up. Even your dentist might be flipping flapjacks in the parking lot of a suburban strip mall. No RSVPs. No velvet ropes. People gripe that the Stampede is expensive, but where else can you freeload for 10  days straight, no questions asked, and walk away full of carbs and civic pride? So yes, comparisons to Mardi Gras, Vegas, or Oktoberfest aren’t totally off. But the Stampede is also a historical reenactment park, a cosplay convention, the Olympics, a corporate network event, and a trade show, all squished together with cowboy hats and a mild identity crisis. It’s weird. It’s wild. It’s deeply Calgary. And I wouldn’t change a thing.