From Camo to Combines: Trading Kevlar for Cowgirl Boots in Lind

Last Thursday, I was packing my large green duffle bag and brushing sand out of my boots after a week of frolicking—yes, frolicking—in the southern Idaho desert during National Guard duty. I was sunburned, dust-covered, and dreaming of a long shower, when my phone rang.

It wasn’t a call for R&R, or even to ask if I’d made it out alive. No, it was an editor assignment—one I didn’t realize would involve dust, denim, and the wildest bunch of folks this side of the Mississippi who crash farm equipment on purpose.

That’s how I traded my camo uniform for Wrangler jeans, my combat boots for square-toed cowgirl boots, and the military’s chaos for something even more unpredictable: the Lind Combine Derby.

Now, if you’ve never heard of the Lind Combine Derby, let me paint you a picture. Imagine every kid who ever crashed their Tonka trucks in a sandbox grew up, got their CDL, bought a combine, and said, “What if we smashed these things together... for sport?” Add beer, barbecue, and small-town pride, and you’ve got yourself the country Olympics—in the best way possible.

By Saturday morning, I had my cowgirl boots laced up and my camera in hand. After a quick coffee and a few parking-lot gymnastics to find a spot, I hoofed it into downtown Lind for the parade. The streets were packed—kids, grandparents, grown men grinning ear to ear while tossing candy from trucks like they were Santa Claus in June.

Combines rolled down the road like celebrities. Race cars from the trial runs followed close behind. And just when I thought it couldn’t get better, the smell of barbecue wafted through the air. Rollin’ Coal BBQ catered the park’s annual feast, and while the line was long enough to register as its own parade float, I found salvation under a nearby canopy where the pies lived.

Let me be clear: if you’ve met me at any public event, you already know I will drop everything for pie. And thank the dessert gods, Steve and Kim Schofstoll of the Lind Calvary Assembly Church had a table full. With their young helpers, Ramon Rangel and Trazayma Leal, I secured a cold slice of Dutch apple heaven and restored my will to keep reporting in 80-degree weather.

Then came the derby itself.

By 2 p.m., the time trials were in full swing. I found myself lingering in the pits, making fast friends with the guys responsible for clearing the arena between heats. Naturally, they dared me to drive one of the insane all-terrain vehicles that pushes tractor tires around like a toddler rearranging furniture. I may have bunny-hopped that beast a few times, but I held my own. For someone who’s only driven stick on a ranch a handful of times, I didn’t crash into anything important... just my pride, maybe.

And then came the Powder Puff heat—the women’s race.

Let me tell you, ladies, y’all did not come to play. If there’s ever a time I felt a real pulse, it was when one of the female drivers came around the arena turn, locked eyes with me, and aimed her combine-sized anger right at the tire I was using as my personal shield. Thankfully, before I could make peace with my maker, another woman came flying in from the side, crashing into the first and sending her in the other direction. Angels may have wings, but mine wore a yellow flag and went by the name Steve Lincoln.

As the dust settled, the real stars of the show rolled in: the combines.

Local legend Grady Gfeller of Colfax made an entrance so dramatic it could’ve upstaged Russell Crowe in Gladiator. Riding atop the Whitman County combine “Search & Destroy,” Grady emerged through a fog of smoke like a conquering hero—spinning a hot pink bra above his head with absolute gusto.

Unfortunately, his performance ended quicker than his entrance. Grady’s machine tapped out early in both his heats, but spirits stayed high—perhaps due to the beer, the brassieres, or the fact that half the crowd had their cheeks sore from laughing all day.

By the end of the night, I’d swapped war stories for dirt-track tales and fallen just a little bit in love with the controlled chaos of rural America’s version of NASCAR... but with farm equipment.

The Lind Combine Derby isn’t just country—it’s country with a capital 'C' and a whole lotta heart. It’s a place where bras are trophies, combines are weapons of joy, and no one cares if your boots are dusty, as long as your smile is genuine.

To the folks in the pits, the drivers in the arena, and everyone who shared their humor, pie, and hospitality—thank you. You reminded me that home isn't always where the military sends you. Sometimes, it’s in the dust cloud behind a John Deere, the laughter of a beer garden, or the roar of a combine smashing into another on a summer Saturday.

Until next time, Lind—save me a slice of pie and maybe keep one of those vehicles warmed for me. I’ve got a new skill to practice.

Click or tap me!