I first got a taste for it in Eminence, Missouri. Riding a horse, that is, Western style. I also got a taste for the glorious Ozarks, a striking part of the world too often overlooked by, well, erm, everyone. The fact that it was sometimes hard to get a drink put a slight dampener on things. Too many wretched “dry” counties dotted about the two states I was criss-crossing – I’m told, almost 40 in Arkansas and 30 in Missouri. Can this really be true?
‘Swing the loop like you’re putting on a cape – you know, like Zorro,’ Lori said… as I got tangled up again
To Europeans, this is plain daft. I know we’re all terrible drunks, especially we Brits, but it’s nice to be able to get a proper drink whenever a thirst strikes. Just saying. If only to lift the spirits as you ponder life’s mysteries. I’m afraid a can of Coke doesn’t cut it. Happily, riding – sorry, horseback riding – also lifts the spirits. Dammit, I always get the American terminology wrong. The other day I told a New Yorker friend of mine that I’d been riding and she looked mightily puzzled. “Letter riding or horseback riding?” she asked.
I barely sit on a horse at home in Blighty. I’m too much of a city boy. But when I’m traveling abroad and my hosts ask if there’s anything I would like to do or if there’s anything that they can lay on for me, apart from the essential bottle, corkscrew, glass and a few Uber vouchers, I always ask to go for a horseback ride. If in doubt, hop on a horse.
I’ve had an absolute hoot as a result. Recent highlights include horseback riding along Walker Bay in South Africa with a bunch of hungover winemakers – one fell off, cracked a rib and laughed so much he threw up; striking out into the rugged high country of North Canterbury, New Zealand, along the Waitohi River, right up to the wonderfully named Hooligan Range, without seeing another soul for two whole days; getting straight off an airplane in Santiago, Chile, and my host giving me his patent cure for jetlag, which involved being plonked on a horse for a two-hour trek up into the foothills of the Andes while being plied with fine sauvignon blanc and merlot. Most exhilarating – and bizarre – of all was galloping along Cas-en-Bas beach on the island ofSt. Lucia, accompanied by a couple of spaced-out, spliff-smoking, dreadlocked Rastafarians. We galloped up and down until we were all so exhausted that we ditched saddles and clothes on the sand and swam for an hour with our mounts in the sea. I’m not sure who enjoyed it more: horses or riders.
It was at Cross Country Trail Rides in Eminence, though, that I first rode Western-style and realized we do it all wrong in Europe. Sitting on a horse in America is like sitting in a high-mounted, well-sprung, perambulating armchair. With long leathers/stirrups, a high back and tall pommel, a Western saddle is comfort incarnate. All that’s missing is a side table for one’s drink, although I guess if pressed you could get a nice man to jog alongside with some bourbon and ice.
CCTR is the biggest such operation in the US, with some 300 miles of old logging trails winding through those stunning Ozarks. Visitors come from every state, bringing horses in vast trailers (or hiring CCTR’s mules or horses) and staying on the 80-acre campsite playing at cowboys, watching the rodeos and chuck wagon races in the enormous indoor arena, spinning yarns by the campfire, eating their fill in the 1,800-seater dining hall and line dancing into the night. I rode Calgary for the day at CCTR. In Walker Bay it was Bob; in New Zealand it was Tacker; in the Andes, Magnum; and in St. Lucia, Scooby-Doo. As any gentleman knows, it’s only polite to remember the names of one’s partner, even if the liaison might only last a few hours and you might never see them again. Most recently I sat upon Shotgun at Arizona Cowboy College, at which fine establishment I had planned to spend a few days horseback riding, roping and ranching. Sadly, for a number of irritating reasons, time was against me, and although I was able to saddle up and ride on out in Stetson and boots and shout “yeehaw” as I had longed to, I was excused the livestock wrangling lesson, the bull castration (phew) and the steer branding.
For a couple of hours, though, I lived the Western dream just outside my new favorite town, swanky, sophisticated Scottsdale, the “West’s Most Western Town.” Here, in the rugged, cactus and mesquite-strewn Sonoran Desert, in the shadow of the Superstition Mountain range with its 1,000ft Weaver’s Needle, I met owner Lori Bridwell, senior wrangler, instructor and All-American cowboy Rocco Wachman and, of course, Shotgun. They promised I wouldn’t leave without learning something that I could boast about back home and so, before saddling up Shotgun, Lori taught me lassoing – or, as they call it, roping. Well, when I say taught me, she did her best in the time available. I got confused with the nomenclature of said rope which seemed to be divided into spokes, loops, hondos, slack, coils and tails. I tried to throw the damn thing at a static plastic imitation steer but, according to Lori, didn’t have enough spoke to balance my loop and almost roped myself.
“Swing the loop like you’re putting on a cape – you know, like Zorro – and throw it like a baseball, you know, like, erm, a baseball player!” she yelled as I got tangled up again. It took me 17 goes, but eventually I got the round bit of the rope around the horns of the patient plastic steer and tugged hard, imagining that I was wrestling it to the ground. “Yeehaw!” shouted Lori with relief. “I think I’ve worked it out!” I cried. “Let me try again.” “No, no,” insisted Lori, snatching the rope out of my hands. “Best to quit while you’re ahead, you’re a cowboy now, no question, congratulations, you’ve passed.”
I can now walk tall, real tall. I’m a cowboy. Sort of. A poor lonesome cowboy a long, long way from home…
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