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| The Tombstone Monument Guest Ranch - aka Margarita-ville |
Hank the Coyote Chasing Ninja
Allow me to clarify: I said there wasn't enough tequila in Margarita-Ville to get me on the dance floor. Nothing was mentioned of Tombstone NOR Pendleton.
I remain in the “winging” it mode of my adventure. I get the feeling the Tombstone Livery is not accustomed to such modes as winging it, playing it by ear or going with what the mood inspires. Cowboy Doug, a no-nonsense, keep 'em lined out sort of guy and owner of the Tombstone Livery reminds me of wagon-master Major Adams from Wagon Train. He had a plan and by golly we were all sticking with it or we could find ourselves another train. Major Adams prepared to take the Livery Guest Train on a trail ride to Tombstone Monument Guest Ranch by 2:00 PM. Details would follow. Lynn, Peter and I decided to check out Tombstone after chores and join them if we made it back in time.
I guess I hoped Tombstone would be different. A cool old ghost town harboring a few inhabitants and a self guided tour if you dare. A place you could ride your horse into – tie up in front of a dilapidated Oriental Saloon and order a whiskey. Something along the lines of Vulture City. My expectations of modern day Tombstone were shattered at the blaring sight of the Family Dollar.
Lynn parked in the designated parking lot for trucks and trailers. We walked through modern day Tombstone to Alan Street: the renovated and restored historic Tombstone complete with the Crystal Palace and the O.K. Corral.
Gift shops and tourist traps lined both sides of Alan Street. Stage coaches hitched to docile draft horses waiting to carriage tourists up and down the street. Streets kept pristine as evident by nylon poop catchers secured under each horses tail. Actors in period clothing vied for your attention on every corner: “Shoot out at the Orient in 20 minutes! Get your tickets here!” Ok – I'll bite...we bought our ten dollar tickets and took a seat for the show.
It was a cute skit. The actors did a great job. The lead reminded me of my son Blake, who should have been an actor. The skit shot me back to 20 years ago. My boss let me off work so I could attend the kindergarten premier of my youngest as the dancing snowflake. At age 5 he had the entire audience on their feet, stomping and cheering. Ten or 12 years later he would steal the show as Gideon in the high school play: “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” I think I might be getting homesick. I'm not ready to leave Arizona, but I realize I do miss my kids and grand-babies.
We shopped the various gift stores in historic Tombstone. I've been looking for a hat from the day I started mounted shooting. I've bought a half dozen of them and haven't been happy with any. I spotted my hat the minute we stepped into The Branding Iron – Quality Western Apparel. There it was on the very top shelf. Distressed blue/gray with a hint of brown dirt mixed in; believably the result of a stampeding herd of buffalo. Possibly the ugliest hat ever to sit a haberdashers shelf. I absolutely love it.
Lynn and Peter also purchased hats. Lynn's rancher-style flat brimmed straw hat complements her braided pigtails. She looks so stinking cute in it I'm surprised she didn't get carded later that evening. We shopped a few other stores before eating lunch at Big Nose Kate's.
The Livery Train had not left before we got back. I am typically not a fan of large group rides...but if we wanted to check out Margarita-Ville, it was understood you needed to be a part of the group. We'd go along on this first regiment, get a feel for what's what and strike out on our own another day.
I don't know how I have managed to take care of my own shit all these years without somebody checking, double checking and lecturing on the proper tack, trail etiquette and expectations of a guest frequenting a dude ranch. “Yes....I have a halter. Do you have a halter? I have an extra if you need one.” I am prone to sarcasm when agitated. Where did I put that fireball?
There was a specific order which we were to fall in line behind the Wagon-master. I've got Pete on a cranky mare that might throw one at you if you get into her personal space. I don't blame her – I was feeling much the same way. I'm taking up the rear – I don't care who died and made you Ward Bond. Where in the bloody hell is that fireball?
It looks like the show is about to hit the road...one more spew on the history of the area and we were off. The trail began in a wash. Many trails in these parts begin, end or consist entirely in a wash. The trail continued over rolling hills covered in creosote and thorny brambles. We dropped back into a wash passing by a couple old RR trestles. A pile up occurs as Major Adams instructed the members of the Margarita-Ville bound train to circled back on itself – giving everyone the chance to gaze upon a rock pile of pictoglyphs. I think that's what we were doing. I was busy trying to keep my horses nose from running up the backside of the poor horse in front of me. Even slow walking J'Lo was having to stop every few feet to keep space between her and the horse in front. Jack can't do sarcasm, instead he gnashes his teeth; an indication he's getting anxious or bored. Much more of this and I'm taking my small party and making a break for it. I have Tequila and Margarita mix back at the trailer.
The train of riders filed out of the wash and popped up onto a ridge. Ed Schieffelin's monument towers to the West. As a visitor to Tombstone, you can expect to hear the story of how Tombstone got it's name at least twice a day. Ed was part of a scouting mission against the Apache. Ed would often wander from the base looking for rocks. (I think I like this Ed fellow) The other soldiers warned Ed of the dangers of what he was doing. They scoffed that the only thing he was going to find wandering alone in the desert was his own Tombstone. Ed struck silver despite them. When asked the name of his newly filed claim, Ed chose “Tombstone.” Had Ed not come along when he did, we might be shopping at the Family Dollar in Goose Flats Arizona – the original name of the area due to the migration of geese that sometimes landed there. Thank you Ed. It is hard to envision Val Kilmer and Kurt Russel in their long black dusters and peace makers patrolling the streets of Goose Flats.
I may have over-packed for this trail ride. I have everything in my saddle bags from duct tape to dryer lint (fire tinder). Our train had barely gotten lined out before the trail intersected a 4 wheeler road... ending at The Tombstone Monument Guest Ranch. We could have walked the 2.3 miles to Margarita-ville and saved the hassle of saddling up.
A pleasant lady held the gate to a large corral where we were to tie the horses for the duration of our Visit. I started to walk toward the far corner of the corral to tie our horses. Major Adams suggested I tie up closer to an array of buckets used for...you guessed it – scooping any poop your horse might produce while you are bellied up to the bar. We came to a compromise and met halfway. I'd rather carry a bucket of poop a few feet more than have my horses in the middle of a wreck. When one blows...they all blow.
The dude ranch is built in the likeness of an old west town featuring themed guest rooms, a restaurant and the “Old Trappman Saloon.” As you walk through the swinging doors of the beautifully constructed Saloon, you step onto a glass covered 4x12 cutout section looking down into the original ranches root cellar built in 1870. Overhead a stunning copper ceiling canopies the cellar in contrast. No expense was spared when constructing the Tombstone Monument Dude Ranch.
The ranch came by it's nick name of Margarita-Ville when a group of guests of the Livery left for the day to go on a trail ride that lasted most of the day. Cowboy Doug quizzed his guests as to just how far they rode as their horses didn't appear to be breaking much of a sweat for being out that long. The guests fessed up to the ranch they'd stumbled upon that served a house margarita to beat all. Cowboy Doug said from now on, the only way his guests were leaving on a trail ride was to take him along. Thus, Margarita-Ville was born.
Major Adams gathered up his now very happy members of the Livery Train and exclaimed it was “Wagons Ho!” I am a slow drinker and this was a BIG margarita. I wasn't ready to go and feeling even more on the rebellious side with the addition of a good amount of Tequila. You aren't the boss of me! I'll get off this bar stool when I'm good and ready....and able. Evidently it takes exactly one margarita to get me lit up. Or was it two? It might have been 1 and part of Rogers...or did Roger drink part of my second one? Whatever. I wasn't ready to leave. Major Adams shook his head and smiled on his way out the door. He'd dealt with my type before: Un-tethered and out to prove they answer to no one for the first time in their life.
I'm pretty sure Roger drank at least part of my margarita because he had a lot harder time getting on his horse than I did. Roger is a recurring figure at the Livery and Margarita-Ville. The North Dakotan has spent the last 4 years wintering at the Livery. I'm certain Major Adams would not have let Lynn and I and Pete stay behind had Roger not volunteered to see us safely back....but he has to get on his horse, first.
I somehow managed to get my foot in the stirrup, at least. I'm not particularly tall and Jack is not
Meanwhile – Roger overcomes the struggle of climbing on his own tall horse...without spilling his margarita! Or is that my margarita?
I have figured out why cowboys are prone to drink. If they didn't, they'd probably get bucked off a lot more. Drinking relaxes you. We encountered obstacles leaving the Monument Ranch that normally would have scared the stuffing out of my horse. Jack strolled by a loose hay tarp flapping in the wind like it was no more than a leaf fluttering on the breeze. An enormous pink elephant floated by and the horses acted like it wasn't even there. Best designated driver ever: Jack dropped his head and carried me safely home without spilling a drop of my margarita OR Roger's.
Lynn, Pete and I were getting ready for an evening in Old Tombstone to check off a bucket list item: Order a whiskey in Tombstone. I was in my trailer trying to mask the appearance of 30 days on the road when I heard a blood curdling scream coming from Lynn. “GET THE #$%! OUT OF HERE!” Until that moment, I hadn't heard Lynn utter so much as shit if she had a mouthful of it. My dogs sounded like they were killing somebody or something. I feared someone had got too close to my trailer and they'd gone berserk. I opened the door the same moment Hank come to the end of his leash like a bullet...breaking his leather collar. He shot past me after two coyotes that had come clean up to our front door. He came back when I hollered for him and sat between my feet all haired up and snarling. I didn't know that dog had it in him. I've never seen him so much as look at anything cross-eyed. We aren't sure what brought them so close to camp. They could have been chasing a bunny or maybe they thought an old dog like Shade on the end of a leash would be easy prey. I am thankful that Hank – The Coyote chasing Ninja – came back when I called. Coyotes will lure a dog out and then kill them.
Big Nose Kate's was standing room only. We didn't feel like waiting for the dinner crowd to thin out so we wandered the streets of Tombstone after dark. The sounds of “The Town Too Tough To Die” played across the wooden boardwalk beneath your boots like a pianist hands on ivory keys. Gone was the “touristy” feel; an atmosphere of authenticity in it's place. Tormented spirits of Tombstone's past walked beside you...longing for another chance at a life cut short by a quicker draw or a hangman's noose.
We found an open table at the Oriental Saloon. The band 'Night Life' was setting up to play at 8:00 PM. I checked an item off my bucket list and ordered a Pendleton and Coke for me, a Miller for Pete and lemon water for Lynn. I can count on one finger how many times I've walked up to a bar and ordered my own drink. There was no room in the suitcase for my self-conscious when I packed for this adventure.
More people filtered in as the band began to play. Couples stepped on the dance floor that had obviously danced together for years. A younger crowd arrived as the night wore on. Couples spun and tossed their partners in the air, between their legs and over their backs. Just watching gave me motion sickness.
I have almost as much rhythm as a corner post. I genuinely do not like to dance. People seem to think that is strange or that I just don't want to dance with them personally. It's not that at all. I wouldn't like it if Gerard Butler drug me onto the dance floor. Not true. I'd learn to break dance for that Spartan. At any rate – it's just not something I enjoy. I go so far as to avoid situations where dancing may occur to keep from coming across as rude. However, part of the purpose of this trip is to step outside my comfort zone and try some things I otherwise would not.
Roger from the Livery joined our table and bought a round of drinks. For some odd reason, Whiskey has little or no effect on me. You would think that oddity would squelch the assumption of my Native American heritage. It does not. I get asked at least once a year what tribe I'm from. A couple years ago while visiting my daughter in Oklahoma, a native American woman asked me what tribe I belonged. I asked her what tribe she thought I belonged..she answered Cherokee. So be it. I am Cherokee. Now when people ask what nationality I am, I tell them I am half Cherokee, half Gypsy and 100% American.
After three shots of Pendleton, Roger convinced me to get out on the dance floor. I apologized in advance for any damage that might occur to his person...in particular his feet. I tried my best to follow. I could do this thing if I could lead. Follow, not so much. I don't get it. I think I'm getting it – a half dozen or so steps flow pretty well and suddenly your dance partner changes gears and what...you're expected to read their mind? There is no rhyme or reason to it. Two step my ass. Two steps in this direction, three steps in that direction ...12 steps and a hope and skip over yonder. Stick to the plan, people! Forget the “spin” thing. I can almost anticipate when I'm supposed to twirl but what about when they decide to twirl themselves? Was I supposed to participate in said twirl? They break contact and leave you hanging out to dry while they do their little twirl thing...their hands weirdly appear behind their back. Do I grab the hand or ...wave back? I need another shot of Pendleton.
We danced for a couple of hours before calling it a night. I can say I didn't hate it. It went better than I expected. As far as I know, Roger sustained little or no injury as a direct result of my dancing skills. I had successfully stepped outside my comfort zone and more importantly...nobody died.
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