Chris LeDoux 

Wednesday, March 9, 2005, began like any other day. At that time in my life, I was nearing the end of my studies and preparing to graduate from Southern Utah University. My classes finished around noon, leaving me with an open afternoon. With a bit of time on my hands, I decided to go shopping for a new chest of drawers.

I climbed into my Chevy S-10 and headed south on Main Street in Cedar City, Utah. The remnants of a recent snowstorm still lingered—mounds of snow piled along the sidewalks, slowly surrendering to the early spring sun. As was my habit, I tuned the radio to KONY Country as I drove. A Chris LeDoux song came on, and without thinking, I reached over and turned up the volume. As the song faded out, another Chris LeDoux track began to play. That was unusual. Hearing one of his songs on the radio was a rare treat; hearing two back-to-back was almost unheard of. In that moment, I felt a sinking in my chest. Something wasn’t right.

When the second song ended, the DJ came on and confirmed what I had already begun to fear. Earlier that day, Chris LeDoux had lost his battle with a rare form of cancer—cholangiocarcinoma.

Chris LeDoux was, in every sense, a man’s man. Whatever he did, he did with humility, grit, and unwavering dedication. He wasn’t born with extraordinary gifts, but through sheer hard work and determination, he made himself extraordinary. He was an acclaimed sculptor, a world champion bareback rider, and a legendary country music artist whose songs spoke directly to people like me—people who knew something about hard work, dusty fields, and wide-open spaces.

His music was a constant companion throughout my youth. I spent countless hours working on the farm with his songs in my ears—songs that spoke of digging and tamping postholes, stretching wire tight, and irrigating alfalfa fields. His lyrics captured the rhythms of a life I knew intimately. And even now, as I’ve traveled farther and wider than I ever imagined, I hear his voice in the places I visit—from Spokane to Manhattan, Salt Lake to Seattle, north to Billings and the Yukon River, and south to Fort Worth and San Antonio. His songs continue to connect me to places and memories that shaped who I am.

I had the privilege of seeing Chris perform live dozens of times. He was always gracious, always genuine. He remains the finest performer I have ever seen. Twenty years have passed since his death, but his music and his example still ride with me.

On his final studio album, Chris recorded a song called The Ride. In it, he spoke of meeting death with courage, dignity, and grace:

Well, I know some day farther down the road

I’ll come to the edge of the great unknown

There’ll stand a black horse riderless

And I wonder if I’m ready for this

So, I’ll saddle him up and he’ll switch his tail

And I’ll tip my hat and bid farewell

And lift my song into the air

That I learned at that dusty fair

Sit tall in the saddle, hold your head up high

Keep your eyes fixed where the trail meets the sky

And live like you ain’t afraid to die

And don’t be scared, just enjoy your ride.

Thank you, Chris, for living an exemplary life, and for teaching this cowboy from Castle Dale, Utah, so much about hard work, humility, and grace—through your songs, your example, and the way you carried yourself.

Good ride, cowboy. Good ride.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM