Lessons Learned and Travelin’ Tales

[SilverLocks]

Lessons Learned and Travelin' Tales

I have a set of rules for our travels in cowboy shooting.

1. There are certain places I simply will not stay. I will not stay at the Red River Inn—or any motel where the doors open to the outside.
2. If the hotel or motel has a number in its name, I will not stay.
3. If there are chairs or other furniture from the thrift store sitting outside the rooms, I will not stay.
4. Never, ever take accommodation recommendations from Pony Soldier.

Perhaps you're curious about the origin of these rules. If so, grab a cup of coffee—or a double whiskey—and read on.

 

There once was a cowboy shooting range known as the Bar 3. The tales of the action and fun at that range are known far and wide, and for good reason. The matches were legendary, hosted by the legendary T Bone Dooley, whose highest priority was making sure everyone had fun. Folks who attended the annual Comin' At Cha planned their accommodations, meals, costumes, and entertainment all year long.

 

What made the Bar 3 special was T Bone's remarkable ability to bring people together for a cause.

 

I attended my first—and only—match at the Bar 3 for one of those benefit matches. Being new to the sport, I was still learning about cowboy shooting. Everyone welcomed me and encouraged me to relax and simply have fun.

Most of those folks barely knew me before the final day of the match.

By the end of that day, however, I had become infamous.

 

Because the Bar 3 was located near the small town of English, Texas, accommodations were scarce. Clarksville was the nearest town with a motel. Please pay close attention to the word motel. It plays a central role in this tale.

The Red River Inn, a small local establishment, offered a roof over your head, a bed, and an indoor bathroom—the bare necessities. It certainly wasn't a five-star hotel. In fact, I'm convinced the only stars it could claim were the ones on the police cars that regularly circled the parking lot. The nightly rate was low, and there was probably a good reason for that.

The Red River Inn earned a permanent place on my "Do Not Stay" list.

You may wonder how we ended up there.

 

We blame Pony Soldier.

 

His description, while admittedly vague, somehow failed to trigger any alarm bells in my head. We booked a room for two nights.

 

When we arrived, the best thing I could say was that parking would be convenient.

Picture a roadside motel straight out of the 1960s—a single-story building with rooms wrapped around the office on three sides. Each room had one door and one window. There was no swimming pool, no vending machines, and probably no refunds. We had no choice but to make the best of it.

We took our key—with its bright orange, coffin-shaped plastic key tag—and unlocked the door to what would be our home for the next two nights.

At first glance, the room appeared clean and utilitarian.

The color scheme could best be described as Walt Disney on LSD.

The carpet looked original to the building. The furniture appeared to have been rescued from at least five other hotels before they went out of business. The polyester bedspreads crackled as I ripped them off the beds and tossed them into the corner. I had no desire to inspect them under a black light. Some things are simply better left unknown.

Fortunately, the sheets were clean and free of tiny livestock.

By this point, I was already planning my revenge on Pony Soldier.

Our first night passed uneventfully. We rested from the drive and prepared for a full day of shooting, shenanigans, and socializing.

 

The match was everything I'd hoped it would be. I met many people who would become some of my dearest friends. T Bone knew exactly how to entertain a crowd of folks who loved playing cowboy, celebrating the Old West, and shooting. By the end of the day, we were exhausted. All we wanted was a hot shower and a good night's sleep.

 

Sunday morning arrived, and it was time to pack the car and head home after the final day of shooting. 

Mind you, we had firearms and equipment that weren't about to be left in the car overnight, so packing took a while.

 

It was barely daylight. Clarksville was still asleep. Birds had just begun their morning chorus. Everything was peaceful.

 

Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by loud pounding on the door of the room next to ours.

The motel manager was demanding that the occupants vacate immediately because the room had "not been paid for."

His vocabulary became considerably more colorful after that, but I'll spare you those details.

Moments later, the door swung open.

Out staggered a gentleman in a state of partial undress, clutching what remained of a twelve-pack of bargain beer. He made a hasty retreat to the east.

Seconds later, a woman—slightly more dressed but carrying an enormous purse overflowing with her worldly possessions—departed in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, the motel manager continued providing colorful commentary about their stay and suggestions regarding any future visits.

Who knew Sunday morning checkout would include live entertainment?

As it turns out, we weren't the only audience.

Two fellow cowboy shooters, Rio Concho Kid and Ben Scalped, had witnessed the entire spectacle. The four of us stood there laughing while trying to finish loading our gear. It was a morning none of us would ever forget.

 

Being both a storyteller and an amateur comedian, I simply had to share the tale with my newfound friends.

So I did.

Complete with sound effects.

 

And pantomime.

 

Our posse took considerably longer to finish the day's shooting because everyone kept laughing. The jokes multiplied with every stage as I regaled them with the unforgettable story of what became known as The Red River Rendezvous.

 

Sadly, the Bar 3 has since closed.

I hope someday someone will revive it and create new events worthy of standing alongside the legend of Comin' At Cha.

 

Our friend Rio has also passed away.

But like the Bar 3 itself, he lives on in the stories we continue to tell around the loading table, at the campfire, and wherever cowboy shooters gather to laugh about the adventures that happen between the shooting stages as much as the ones on them.

 

[SouthwestShooter]

Frigging great story.  You get my vote for the Mark Twain award for comedy.

 

Windy 

[Coosie]

I’ll second the red river inn. Similar input, but not pony. 

[Hoss]

The Inn At Mexia near Old Fort Parker sounds about like that. One night my Pard Verdadero (RIP) heard from room above us what he described at “commercial activity “. Lots of footsteps, followed by bed squeaking, followed by footsteps. All night. 

[Dantankerous]

Ma, great story! Loved it! Very well told in a wonderful Twain-ish prose. 

 

And yes, you should absolutely blame Pony. 😀

[Griff]

In the way back early days of SASS, I attended the first match held at a new club/venue outside near 29 Palms, CA.  I forget many of the particulars of this match, but it produced TWO very memorable episodes...  I don't know if you've ever been in 29 Palms during August, but suffice to say, summer temps approach nearly unbearable.  To counteract against the summer heat, my wife & I along with several other couples attending the match decided to adjourn to a nearby motel that boasted a pool.  It also had a built in soaking/sittlng spa like pool next to the larger swimming pool. 

 

Episode #1:  The 1st day's shooting was drawing to and shooter's were straggling back to their camping/parking after shooting the last stage of the day... temps during that part of the were recorded as 118ºF in the shade, and in that part of the country there is virtually no shade, a Joshua Palms cast relatively little of that commodity.  During this period of cowboy action shooting, there were very few gun carts around.  Most folks slung a bag or other conveyance to tote their ammo and accoutrements from stage to stage,  My wife had finished earlier on our last stage and headed back to our car to get a drink from our cooler which I'd sat under the tailgate of our station wagon.  I slogged back, dripping wet, carrying my guns and our saddlebag full of our empty brass.  Focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other, while attempting to keep from falling down.  Ignoring all my surroundings.  I had to walk around 3 cowboys having a discussion out in the sun about something or other, seemingly intent of their disagreement.  I made it back to the tailgate and dropped my rifle, shotgun, and gunbelt & pistol in the back of the wagon, and reached for a cold water in the cooler.  My better half was standing there, looking back at the party of 3 cowboys, wiping off the accumulated dust, sweat using a kerchief she'd soaked in the little iced water left in the cooler.  As soon as I'd divested myself of my guns, and pulled off my buckskin shirt, she said... "you're a Deputy Sheriff, you need to go over there and break that up before it gets ugly, nodding in the direction of the 3 aforementioned cowboys.  As I turned and directed my attention to the trio, I began to understand that at least 2 of them were faced off with fists clenched and verbally challenging the other to throw the first punch.  One of the 3 was still wearing his guns, the other two were unarmed.  The two unarmed were well known to me a veteran shooters and generally mild-mannered gentlemen... so... unarmed, bare chested, I walked over, pulling out my badge wallet and stepped between the 2 would be combatants.  First addressing the cowboy I knew, I told him to back off and whatever "this" was, wasn't worth it.   I then turned to the newcomer and told him that what I'd witnessed so far was simple assault, or at the very least, challenging to fight, both simple misdemeanors, but still grounds for being taken into custody and charged.   Both then tried to argue their point of view, to which I replied... I will arrest both of you, right here, right now.  Don't push this... I told the one I knew to go back to his camp, and the other to get back in his motor home and not to come out until he'd cooled off.   To which, he retorted that... "...if this is what cowboy shooters are like I want no part of it..."  Whereupon he whirled around, climbed back in his wannabe Winnebago and proceeded to depart.  Unfortunately, he neglected to put up his awning and ripped it off against the arch of the entryway to the camping area.  The two cowboys had retired to their shade and proceeded to tell me what led up to the argument out in the sun.  Long story short, it was the noisy generator running the whole day, right next to their dry camping spot...   There is an epilog to this tale, that doesn't bear on the rest of the days' events.

 

Episode #2:   After having dinner with 2 other couples attending this match, we arranged to have a soak in the 10 person tub next to the swimming pool.  Four couples came out a little before dusk and proceeded to have a little adult libation and swap tales about the match so far and our expectations for the following day while soaking in the tub.  As we sat there ignoring the signs prohibiting alcohol in the pool area, I shared the above described incident and we collectively decided it ended appropriately.   As we laughed and joked and shared other stories about our shooting adventures, a tall, severe looking gentleman came out and proceeded to tell us all about the sins of alcohol and the lewd behavior he was a witness to and that we were all condemned to hell.  I believe that my wife & I were the youngest present, and we were in our late 30's at that point.   None of our discussion was in the least bit lascivious...  and even my well-known colorful language was being held in check!  The rest of the match was without incident.  

 

So... both camping at the range, and using motels can be fraught with adventure!

Edited August 8 by Griff