Far, far from the swagger of Monument Valley; far from the abstract patterns of Bryce, far from the twisted tortured sculptures of Zion and the vertigo of Angel Point. The hogs of Red Ridge far, far behind you.
A full circuit of the Grand Canyon and I was so tired I couldn't keep my my eyes open. Saddle-sore and weary we pulled into Williams and went for something to eat and drink and were given a flyer for a Wild West Show and a train ride to the Grand Canyon's southern rim; the worlds biggest hole in the ground.
The train was an attractive idea having driven 1,500 miles in less than a week and it would be nice to let someone else drive, but a Wild West Show? A Wild West Show? My 10-year-old boys heart began to beat a little faster. I'd been indulged with a horseback trek through Monument Valley and could still feel the hand of John Wayne on my shoulder and could hear that drawl in my ear; 'Aaawh, A Wild West Show? Goddam, Pilgrim!'
After agreeing to go, we collapsed into bed and woke with the dawn and puzzled over the surly breakfast service (you'd've thought we'd made her start early), and made our way through the railyard to the showground, by which stood an honest-to-God smokestack train. All that was missing was Casey Jones polishing the gauges.
After getting directions to the 'bleachers' by a surprised looking usher who arrived just after us, we took our seats, halfway up and started watching the cowboys practicing with the lassos and their quick-draws.
I checked my watch, thinking it a bit rum that no one else was here for the start and my wife was worried that the train ride would be cancelled if it were just the two of us, but I had the time to reflect on what exactly was the attraction of the Wild West and cowboys?
Part bildungsroman and part picaresque: I'm fairly certain its attractions used to be confined to men of a certain age, but as its appeal has broadened, its base has diminished as other genres have flourished, backed with special effects. But the Virginian? Alias Smith and Jones? The High Chaparral? And that's before you come on to the films. Who is the archetype, the idealised knight of the range? John Wayne in the two Rios and the Searchers? (or, anything, really). Clint Eastwood as the Man With No Name? Alan Ladd in Shane? James Stewart in The Far Country? The deconstruction of the myth in anything by Sam Peckinpah, it even survived parody emerging unscathed from Blazing Saddles.
Open spaces, freedom, self-reliance, Manifest Destiny and individualism (all tropes that have been appropriated by big-budget, special-effects driven sci-fi films).
But though those themes may shift and creak like an old saddle as you age, the relevance of cowboy films stays with you in later life. Just like piles, alcoholism and existential angst.
But the increasingly slitty-eyed looks from the 'ornery hombres below, along with the muttering and pointing prompted my wife to comment 'they look irritated' quickly followed by a gasp as one of them (wearing a black hat of course), threw down his lariat, marched over and climbed the bleachers in the sudden silence which was broken only by the 'ker-ching, ker-ching, ker-ching' of his spurs. He stopped on the row below us, planted one foot on the boards by our feet, thumbed back his hat and fixing us with a beady eye, drawled: 'You-all know the show don't start for another hour?'
Startled, we both looked at our watches then held them out. Both showed 9 o'clock (one showing plus five to FICO, for all your aviation professionals). He laughed and in a more kindly tone asked if we'd come from the east and were no doubt unaware we'd crossed a time zone?
Reddening, we said we were. He laughed again and said as we weren't local it was of no account; we wouldn't be the first and no doubt wouldn't be the last. But having heard our voices, we wouldn't mind the observation that we weren’t from round here? Where did we come from? Our answer was apparently mighty interesting; he introduced himself as Chuck and asked would we mind if he sat awhile and chewed the fat? It would be nice to talk to some non-American tourists and swap yarns.
So we told him what roads had led us to this place, what we had done and what we had seen. Like any good listener he drew our story out of us, where we were from, what we did and what news of the far, far world.
But if it were not too impertinent I asked, who was he and what trails had led him to this charming, but frankly rustic setting?
Well son, he began, that's three or four tales in themselves. He had grown up on a shit-kicking farm in Iowa and had always wanted to see the ocean, so had joined the Marines. He told us of NATO in the Seventies, practicing amphibious assaults on the coast as far apart as Greece and Britain (depending on the paranoid assumptions of Soviet advances). There followed the years in the L.A.P.D.'s mounted division and the feel of horseflesh awakening in him the interests in the myths of the American West, when in retirement he had settled here and ran the show as a hobby.
We talked about Dodge City and I told him of my town, Horsham, at the height of its cattle droves in 1881 when it had 120 bars to Dodges 13 with 40 murders to Dodge's dozen.
Chuck looked around at the crowds who had come in by now and were goggling at us he gave me a sly look, said it was time to get into character, and we'd have a chat again real soon, before turning around and heading down to his partners, his spurs ring with a rhythmic ‘ker-ching, ker-ching’.
'What an interesting man', said my wife. I sprawled back, elbows propped on the back rest and popped a toothpick in my mouth and muttered a laconic ‘Yup’ as the show started, oblivious to the looks from our fellow spectators. The show followed a simple script. A bank robbery, lots of shooting (with blanks) and increasing curses for their as-yet-unnamed and unseen confederate.
'Dagnabit, where is he?' cried one 'villain', throwing down his lasso.
'Ah cain't see him nowhere'. This with a theatrical hand shading the eyes peering around the stands.
At this point a small nasty suspicion started to grow in my head.
'Chuck, put your looking glasses on and tell me if you cain't see him up there'.
'Why hang on there old hoss, let me cast my gaze around..... Why I do believe I can see him'.
Oh dear.
'WHY LOOKY THERE! UP IN THE STANDS! IT'S MAH OLD FRIEND, ENGLISH BOB!
My wife was turning her head this way and and that looking for 'Bob' before noticing the 200 pairs of eyes focusing on me.
'Oh dear', she muttered.
'Bob, get your ass down here! Don't make me come fetch you now!'
Cursing under my breath I made my way down to the circle of grinning cowboys, where under cover of them berating me and picking a fight, Chuck whispered in my role in my ear. All I could come back with was a hissed ‘I hate you'.
'Now, don't be a spoilsport son, when I give you the signal, just say the following words..... "mutter, mutter, mutter, Pecos"'.
So we went through the traditional dance of the western shootout, one of the 'villains' warning the others of English Bob's notorious speed on the draw; that he was so fast it would look like he had nothing in his hands, me facing the half dozen others spread out in an arc before me.
Chuck stepped forward and said: 'So, English Bob, you reckon you can take on me and mah boys' as he gave the signal and in my best Dick Van Dyke accent retorted: 'I'm the rootingest, tootingest, six-gun shootingest cowboy west of Peckham'.
His jaw dropped, and he said: 'Why Bob, surely you mean the Pecos? Don't try to foolerise me, I'm from the South'.
Getting into the spirit of things I called back: 'Well, fan mah brow; I'm from the Sarf too'.
Grinning now, he said: 'South of what, suh?'
'Sarf of London', I said and dispatched the villains.
The show ended and they jumped to their feet to pass the hat around the audience and we saluted each other and I returned to my wife.
Later as we walked away from the train into the sunset, in my mind I could hear 'ker-ching, ker-ching, ker-ching'. My wife looked at me and said 'You're swaggering again'. An invisible hand rested on my shoulder and its owner whispered in my ear.
I turned to my wife, thumbs in belt buckle and weight resting on one hip and drawled 'Aaawh, the hell I am'.
June 2018
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