Corralling cowboys

So my first introduction to the Rodeo Tavern was Chris' amazing photo of a cowboy sitting at the bar the last time she was here. Bullets in the belt and all. I hoped that I too would get to see real live yippee-ay-kayaying cowboys.

On the night we arrived (which seems like eons ago now), the volunteers we were replacing went out the tavern for their last night here. (Due to exhaustion and the unexpected overwhelmingness and sadness of finally arriving, Chris and I chose to sit on our front porch, look at the stars, and lean on each other; an oft-repeated ritual.) A little over and hour later they returned, dejected. They told us that the tavern was under new Mormon ownership and operating under very strict rules: you were allowed two drinks in your first hour there and only one per hour afterward, and the place closed at 9pm (8pm Arizona time). I think if they ever tried that on a Saturday night in Ottawa, there would be hell to pay.

This was sad news. The prospect of seeing cowboys was rolling off with the tumbleweed. Not to mention I was looking forward to having a place to get away to that wasn't on station grounds for a little break from the politics and people.

A few weeks later we went to send off the other volunteer left. We took off immediately after eating dinner to ensure we would have at least an hour there, postponing our dishwashing duties for when we returned. We drove the half an hour to get there, leaving the cool forest and going into the warmth of the desert night.

If you are ever passing through Rodeo and wonder where the tavern is, just go through town on Highway 80 and stop where you see the most pick-up trucks. There she'll be.

When we walked in that night, though, the place was dead. There were people in the back restaurant section, but at the bar it was only us and a couple dining on deep-fried something covered in fat and smothered in cheese.

And there, over the bar, was the evidence of the former volunteers' claim:


Well, it's not like we were looking to get sauced, but I did worry about what this kind of policy would do to the atmosphere. From what I could tell at that point, my fears were justified.

This was my only cowboy encounter:

"Git along lil' lady. This Tavern ain't big enough for the two of us."

That said we had a nice night. The bartender was really friendly and he told us that the bar only closes at 9pm if there isn't enough business to keep it open. And apparently there were busy nights. So we had our two drinks, paid the ridiculously cheap tab, contributed a twoonie to their bar of coins and went home to a pile of dishes and a whack of mopping.

Fast forward a few more weeks. We decide to venture out to the pub again on a Friday night with the new roommates and Shirley the cook who had recently given her resignation and no longer had to worry about drinking with the lowly volunteers. We walk in and holy jumpin' was it ever a different story. We drove down a little later than intended and were worried it might be closed or closing, but as we opened to door we were hit with the cacophony of music, pool balls smacking against each other and the unmistakable buzz of a half-drunk bar.

And there were cowboys.

How did I know they were the real thing? The quality of the cowboy hats, the dirt on the jeans, the red necks and the spurs on the boots. Oh yes. Spurs. There were also the dressed up cowboys who were taking their ladies out. They had freshly shaven handlebar mustaches, stiffly starched button-up shirts, and shiny belt buckles. I wish I had a photo of the one with his lady friend sporting a beehive. Weren't they just a sight.

We sat at the only table left - right in the middle of the action and took it all in; wide-eyed and all a-giggle.

And we got carded. Yes ma'am!

I wish had the clock running to know exactly how much time it took from us walking in the door and having one of them dirty working cowboys pulling up a chair and asking us if we had boyfriends. It felt like seconds.

The cowboy, Cley, told us how her grew up around here, but left to be a horse handler in various states. He came back to New Mexico ranchin' when his dad needed him to take up the business. He'd only been back at it for a couple weeks. Oh, and he has a kinda-sorta girlfriend. But she lives in Tuscon. And who knows whether they're really still together and yada yada yada. Hey, I'm an honest guy, he says.

Cley and his buddies were playing pool, being buffoons, and definitely drinking way more than one beer and hour (turns out the bar is being sued by a Mormon over a drinking and driving accident, but when the boss ain't around, the rule is relaxed).

Compared to the run-of-the-mill IT/bureaucrat suitor from home, it was a hilarious and welcome change. On my request, Cley took off one of his spurs and we passed it around. Kate tried it on her sandals, but it just didn't have the same effect.

Enter Carter. Cowboy #2. Now Cley acts very much like a frat boy out past curfew, whereas Carter was the stereotypical, raised-by-his-mama gentleman. A little cleaner cut, an expensive black hat, a well-groomed mustached that curved from his nose to his chin, and polite to a tea.

Before we knew it, I had Cley saddlin' up next to me and Chris was Carter's leaning post. I had to pinch myself. Were these guys for real?

Yes. Yes they were.

Chris and I are now avoiding each other's eyes to ward off a serious giggle fit and are trying to take their songs and dances seriously with little success. Cley tells me how he's the boss of the crew there tonight (including the "honorary Meskin") and Carter tells Chris about all the Rodeo magazines that have him on the cover.

One of the station staff was in the restaurant out back and as she left she leans over and whispers to me: "Don't fall in love too quickly!" *Wink*

Far from it. He's definitely built like a cowboy, but I think our inability to achieve marital bliss may lay in a difference of lifestyle and values. Chris asked Cley what he did when he saw a wolves in the area. He answered: "I shoot 'em!" We may be naive thinking about their endangered status rather than considering the stress of the risk to a rancher's livelihood. Though, he did say that it would be great to have wolves around for tourist photo ops. Photo ops? Get real.

Oh, and the crowning glory was when he bought shots of the vilest alcohol imaginable and then went out and threw up outside. Charming.

Anyway, the idea to go out horseback riding was brought up and they offered to take us out and gave us their numbers. We realize that this would mean putting up with the flirting and figuring out more creative ways to reject their advances, but horseback riding with a couple cowboys with each other there for safety sounded like a opportunity for hilarity and fun too good to pass up.

--

A week passes and it's Friday night again. We haven't called them. But we start to wonder: will they show up again hoping to see us? Curiosity and the desire for another fun night with the girls made us go back. My bet was that they would be there.

There were some familiar faces when we walked in, but no sign of our boys. It was looking like I would lose the bet. We sat down anyway, ordered drinks, and were having a nice quiet evening of chatting and playing bad country music in the jukebox that has likely not been updated in 50 years.

About an hour later, just when the bartender was saying they were going to close in half an hour, who walks in the door? You guessed it. Carter, Cley and... wait. Who's this. Meet Mindy. Cley's kinda sorta girlfriend.

This just keep getting better and better.

Turns out Mindy had come down for Memorial Day weekend to surprise her ranchin' boyfriend. From her comments and body language, it was clear she understood that she picked the wrong night (for Cley) to tag along to the bar. Apparently the boys had been talking about seeing "the Canadian girls" again all week and Carter made them go down to the tavern in the hopes of seeing us again even with the new unexpected female element. I was practically peeing my pants at this time, the situation was so funny.

So Chris got chatted up again to little success (again) and we listened to dirty jokes and laments that we never called. It was another memorably surreal night of cowboys and awkward sporadic my-girlfriend-is-right-behind-me flirting from Cley, who had by now earned the nickname Slime Bucket. Mindy was incredibly good-natured and nice and it was another memorable evening at the tavern. This time, you will be happy to know, I did not forget my camera.

Cley putting a tip in Ben's boot.

One dollar for the sexy spurs shot.

"Hey guys! Guys! Did you notice there are ladies takin' a picture of this??"
(What can we say? It's a nice belt buckle...)

"Actually, my name is Chris."

Hat exchange - Chris in Carter's fancy hat.

Carter looking lovely in Chris'.

Ben, on the far right, probably razzing Cley for his bad-timing girlfriend.

Chris, Meg and I, showing off our new hot t-shirts.

A quick tour of the place at the end of the night:

They should change this to "Beware of Lonesome Cowboys".

Last Friday night came and went and we didn't return to the Tavern. We also haven't called them. If we're feeling like a horseback ride is worth all that fly swatting, then we'll see.