Music seeps through the door. It opens, and the band blasts. You cut past the tables — past the folks munching loaded tater tots and Tex-Mex egg rolls, folks rocking Stetson hats and jeans and even spurs. Bud Lights. Whiskeys. Waters. You push through the crowd to the night outside: bonfires, people everywhere, servers wheeling through the crowd, a bull ring in the near distance. And once you get your first drink, the raucous crowd starts to absorb you. Maybe you dance on the second stage, the one outside. Maybe you're already onto a second drink. In the end, it all flows to that bull ring — surrounded by teetering bleachers — where amateurs board live, hulking, fantastically pissed off animals and see how long they can stay on. And you remember the sights, sounds, and animals days and weeks later, as you're going about your work or maybe walking an urban world of glass and concrete. Getting out to the Buffalo Chip is experiencing the wildness left in our part of the West.