How Kristal Puente built a bull riding show on the Navajo Nation
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PINON, Ariz. — Harsh winds swept across the rodeo grounds, kicking up dust that blurred everything in sight. Behind the chutes, riders pushed through the crowd searching for their bulls.
A cook hurried to knead dough as a line of customers waited for Navajo tacos. Two bulls in the corral locked horns until a cowboy whipped them apart.
A cook hurried to knead dough as a line of customers waited for Navajo tacos. Two bulls in the corral locked horns until a cowboy whipped them apart.
Amid the chaos, 21-year-old bull rider and show organizer Kristal Puente ran across the arena, her snap-front shirt providing a flash of red in a sea of blue jeans.
In a sport dominated by men, Puente is carving out her own place, not just as a bull rider, but as one of the few women organizing rodeo events on the Navajo Nation.
One moment she was confirming the rider list with the announcer; the next, she was hauling a saddle across the field for the winner. A thin layer of sand coated her cheek, but she was too busy to wipe it away.
It was a familiar sight. Two summers earlier, I had met Puente for the first time.
It was a familiar sight. Two summers earlier, I had met Puente for the first time.
Video: Ziyi Xu, Rocky Mountain PBS
Two summers ago
That day was cloudy, and I was lost, just a mile from her house. I should have known better than to trust Google Maps on the Navajo Nation. After crossing a deep wash, I finally spotted a horse corral. Puente stood there in a gray hoodie, tossing hay bales over the fence.
I was filming a documentary about female bull riders and spent several weeks with her and her family. She had graduated high school and was training horses while figuring out her next step. One of her dreams was to study veterinary medicine.
Puente grew up in a large family, with four brothers and five sisters. Many of the kids still live with their parents on the ranch. That summer, the house was full of nieces and nephews, and it took me days to learn everyone’s names.
Rodeo ran deep in the Puente family. Her father, Chris, was a saddle bronc rider. One of her brothers, Raylando, made it to the Professional Bull Riders, the NBA of bull riding, before a shoulder injury ended his career. Their living room walls were covered with photos from rodeos, and trophies lined the shelves. In the family’s hogan, trophy saddles were stacked to be as tall as Puente.
That summer, Puente and I traveled across New Mexico and Colorado for bull riding shows. During the week, she practiced on barrels or rode steers at her neighbor’s ranch.
“I want to give a good name to my family,” she told me more than once.
Even though she knew the odds of making it to the PBR were slim, she fought to stay on the bulls for eight seconds. She wanted her community to know that not only the Puente boys could ride, but the Puente girls too.
Puente’s father once discouraged her from riding bulls, believing it was “a guy’s sport, not a lady’s.” But after watching her dedication, he changed his mind.
“There are a lot of ladies competing with the guys at the same level now,” he said. “I’m proud of her. She’s doing something.”
That same summer, Puente bought a yellow bucking bull named Sriracha, after the hot sauce because of his temper. He was her first step toward becoming a stock contractor.
Two years later
A lot has changed in the past two years. Puente sold Sriracha to her younger sister, though he still lives in the same corral. She didn’t go to college, but applied for a job at an equine center.
Most notably, she became a mother to a nine-month-old girl, Talaya.
When I arrived at her home the night before the show, Puente and her parents had just returned from a big grocery run for the concession stand. She looked exhausted.
After a quick hello, she started unloading boxes of drinks and bags of flour from the truck.
Her younger sister, Kirstin, was at the kitchen table drawing a poster: $10 for adults, $5 for kids. One of her brothers, Kurt, spray-painted a larger sign with a cowboy logo that read, “Puente Bull Ride, 12 P.M.”
At around 9 p.m., Puente and I drove two hours to pick up custom made saddle straps for the next day’s winners. They were engraved with “Puente, 2nd Place Winner, 2025.”
I woke up around midnight for a glass of water. Puente, her mom, and one of her sisters were still in the living room, going over the final details for the rodeo. I was too tired to pick up my camera to capture the moment.
Showtime
By 7 a.m., the house was already stirring. Puente was the first up, shaking everyone awake. The kitchen buzzed as she and her mom chopped vegetables. Her dad asked if she needed porta-potties. She nodded.
Luckily, he knew a guy — two units for $100, a good deal.
Soon, the whole family was in motion. They loaded tables, tents and stock trailers. At the corral, her father, brothers and nephew wrestled Sriracha into the trailer.
“Alright, Talaya, let’s go!” Puente said, strapping her baby into a carrier. By 8:30, they were on the road.
If you’ve ever been to a rodeo on the reservation, you’ll know that if the event’s scheduled for noon, it won’t start before 1:30. Riders come early. Spectators take their time.
By 2 p.m., 52 riders lined up for the grand entry, greeted by cheers from the crowd. Everyone removed their hats for a prayer and the national anthem — sung in the Navajo language.
I had planned to film Puente’s experience as the organizer, but I could barely keep up. She leapt over fences faster than I could climb them.
“If I’m being honest, when I started planning six months ago, everything stressed me out,” she said.
She’d ordered custom-made buckles from Mexico for the first-place winners, but they got stuck in customs. Like bull riding itself, running a show required constant balance and quick thinking. When a spur strap went missing, she wasn’t sure if she’d misplaced it or handed it to the wrong person.
“I just didn’t want to make a fool of myself,” she said. “But despite everything, I feel pretty proud of myself.”
It was her second show. Last summer, only 11 riders came, and the audience was sparse. This year, the arena was packed. She spent $2,050 and made $550 — not much, but still progress.
By 5 p.m., everyone was exhausted. One of her brothers, who had worked the chutes all afternoon, fell asleep sitting in a chair. Back at the house, the family gathered outside in a circle, watching the sunset in silence, muscles aching.
The next morning
I planned to interview Puente after the show, but she was too drained to speak. The next morning, while she fed her baby, we finally talked.
“I actually don’t plan to put my daughter on a bull,” she said. “Now that I’m a mom, I understand what I put my parents through.”
I remembered asking her the same question two years ago — whether she thought bull riding was dangerous. Back then, she’d shrugged, talking about it as if it were second nature.
“Rodeo used to mean family to me,” she said. “Now, I’d say it means having fun. I have my own little family now. I haven’t really introduced rodeo to my daughter yet.”
One thing hasn’t changed: her goal to give the Puente family a good name. Her parents once hosted rodeos, and now she’s carrying that tradition forward.
“I’ll see you next year,” she said, waving goodbye.
Type of story: News
Based on facts, either observed and verified firsthand by the reporter, or reported and verified from knowledgeable sources. To read more about why you can trust the journalism of Rocky Mountain PBS, please visit our editorial standards and practices page.
Based on facts, either observed and verified firsthand by the reporter, or reported and verified from knowledgeable sources. To read more about why you can trust the journalism of Rocky Mountain PBS, please visit our editorial standards and practices page.