If Wilbur Field—that 1.9-acre lawn south of Wilbur Hall—could talk, it would tell tales of hosting intramurals, faculty-student softball games, and football face-offs between the Stanford Daily and the Daily Cal. It would claim bragging rights as a spring-quarter sunbathing spot, a launching pad for community fund-raisers, and a site of cultural celebrations from Blackfest to Holi to Cesar Chavez Commemoration. It would recount fun in the sun as students sang along with Phish or Train at Rinc-a-Delt, let loose on Slip ’N Slides coated with Jell-O, and cuddled up to therapy llamas. In 2008, university officials put up a parking lot, but they didn’t pave paradise—they rebuilt the field on top, and student traditions continue to take root there. Here are a handful of Wilbur Field’s most wacky and wonderful happenings.
Flights of Fancy
For anyone who turned their gaze upward on November 16, 1976, the usual sunny Stanford sky was punctuated by hot air balloons drifting down toward Wilbur Field. To raise awareness for their new organization, members of the Stanford Hot Air Balloon Club borrowed two aircraft from locals and offered free rides to students. In the next and final year of the event, organizers charged $0.25 per ride, welcoming the community to enjoy an aerial view of campus from wicker balloon baskets. “Upwards of five balloons participated in the well-attended event,” reported the Stanford Daily.
Betting the Farm
With nothing but a cow named Mrs. Cloverdale and the grassy expanse of Wilbur Field, in 1989, Stanford women’s crew set out for the second year in a row to raise funds to support its season. The team members ran across the field with ropes, dividing it into 900 equally sized grass patches. For $3, Bovine Bingo bettors could select a lucky square upon which they surmised Mrs. Cloverdale would deposit her dung. On February 11, hundreds of students, faculty, and staff crowded around, waiting anxiously as the cow was released to wander the field. After she did her doody in a square of grass, the winners split a $1,000 jackpot. Bettors in nearby squares were treated to consolation prizes, including dinner, roses, and hot-tubbing.
Not Exactly Varsity
Seated atop their trusty two-wheeled steeds, pairs of students clad in medieval armor prepared for battle. Armed with six-foot lances of padded plastic tubing, they stared each other down through their visors, which looked suspiciously like modified bike helmets. When the whistle blew, they pedaled toward each other, trying to maintain their balance whilst knocking their opponent off their bike seat. ’Twas bicycle jousting, the quirkiest athletic contest to take root on Wilbur Field in the 1980s. Other eras brought Mayan Ball (1970s); footbag, aka hacky sack (1990s); hurling (2000s); and Quidditch (2010s).
Frog Feat
In 1991’s Operation Lilypad, 14 Trancos frosh aimed to break the Guinness world record for longest-distance leapfrog. They worked in round-the-clock shifts—four hours on, eight hours off—and a new pair jumped in every 15 minutes to circumnavigate Wilbur Field. By Day 4, they were behind pace, citing sore knees, ankles, and lower backs. Students from other dorms even started placing money on which day the leapfroggers would call it quits. “It’s not easy being green,” the Daily lamented. But after 10 days, the fab 14 silenced the doubters, surpassing the 1,000-mile mark and smashing the previous record of 888 miles. Operation Lilypad raised about $5,700 for Creative Adventures Learning Center, an afterschool program in East Palo Alto.
In a Rush
“In the old days,” wrote the Daily in 1995, “sorority rush was conducted in a group of big white tents which were set up in the middle of Wilbur Field.” Stanford sororities were unhoused from 1977 to 1998, and banned for more than three decades before that, but the “old days” to which the 1995 Daily refers appear to have been 1990 through 1994. That first year, the empty tents were left without overnight security, making them the perfect target for a certain kind of person: an exit-sign thief. The bandit made off with all 14 signs and one fire extinguisher, costing the Intersorority Council around $3,500 in replacement fees. Additional rush saboteurs, in the form of fraternity members, cut the lock on the sprinkler system’s controller, drenching sorority actives and rushees. The Daily took note of the latter stunt in an article about impending campuswide water rationing that promised “empty fountains, browner lawns, and shorter showers.”
Karis Chen, ’28, is an editorial intern at Stanford. Email her at stanford.magazine@stanford.edu.
