The editor finds out that everything you’ve heard about the Lone Star state is true—most likely—and returns with the pictures to prove it.
Words and Images: Reade Tilley
When my girlfriend saw the white buffalo head hanging on the wall of the bar and asked how old the buffalo was, a local cowboy set his beer down, cleared his throat and told her: “Ma’am, that buffalo’s dead.”
It’s almost impossible to avoid hitting a few stereotypes and clichés on the road in Texas—and that’s a good thing. The laughter in the White Buffalo Bar in Marathon was “good natured.” The cowboy gave his answer “matter-of-factly.” And the sky overhead? You guessed it: “Huge.”
In two weeks of driving from El Paso to San Antonio and back through the heart of the state, we saw it all: guns, cowboys, horses, tequila, big hats, big smiles, great steaks and even a cop in sunglasses, who pulled me over on a dirt road in the desert just to say “hi.”
In fact, I was so overwhelmed by encountering everything I’d expected to find that it took a few days for me to understand that it was all real, and more importantly that it was all genuine. That, I came to learn, is the beauty of the state: No matter how tall the tale, if it’s told in Texas it just might be true.
Take for example, Rocketbuster Boots. A bona fide Texas story, and like so many in the state it begins with a couple of beers.
On a wintry night in 1989 in a bar in El Paso, a Virginia-born photographer named Marty Snortum met a homesick Italian-born German who owned a small boot-making company. A few drinks later, the guy trades his company for Marty’s 1953 Cadillac hearse, they toast with a bottle of tequila and Marty’s in the boot business. Trouble is, Marty doesn’t know much about boots except that he likes vintage styles. To find out more he calls Roy Rogers, who after all knows a thing or two. Coincidentally, Roy has a bunch of vintage boots he wants restored. Marty has a new factory with three or four people who know what they’re doing, and the rest is history.
Well, there’s more to it than that. But today people like Steven Spielberg and Tommy Lee Jones order Rocketbusters on a regular basis, so it’s safe to say that it all worked out.
Rocketbuster meticulously hand-makes custom-fit, custom-designed, vintage-style boots in the best tradition of “own one pair for life”—just like in the cowboy days, lemon wood pegs and all. Nevena Christi (Marty’s other half) manages the small company, maybe six people or so, in a brick shop downtown that’s as much a museum of cowboy kitsch as it is a boot factory (with a bit of Elvis thrown in). Racks of boots line the walls, along with an old-school pinball machine, posters, figurines and photographs—many of customers dressed as cowboys when they were kids. The big prize in the room: The Largest pair of cowboy boots in the world, built by Rocketbuster and certified by the Guinness Book of World Records. The stuff of cowboys’ dreams.
Just a few hours out of El Paso and you lose the radio, all but three stations. Hellfire cassette-tape sermons blare out on one and tinny country music shuffles across another, but the third is unexpected: KRTS National Public Radio out of Marfa. A couple from Austin moved there in 2006 and got it on the air. I roll the windows down and whole lot of not much hears the day’s news in a crisp British accent, courtesy of the BBC.
By the time we reach our next destination, in Big Bend, it’s dark. “Look for the historical marker, turn right at the illuminated Texas flag and then drive a few miles down the dirt road.” The man on the phone who gave me directions sounded relieved I was in a Jeep. The road isn’t terrible, but you wouldn’t want to take it too fast and we’re late for dinner. We get there, slip in about halfway through the meal, enjoy roasting marshmallows afterward, have a quick drink and then head to bed.
When I wake up and can properly see where we are, I am astounded.
If, as many Texans seem to believe, heaven bears any resemblance to their state, it will look more like Cibolo Creek Ranch than any other part. From horseback, leaning back in the saddle and pausing to take in the view, it’s simply stunning. Vast swaths of grass covering rolling hills, a couple of Oryx relaxing not 100 feet from us (“where the antelope roam,” indeed), and a sky big enough to make you feel small and exhilarated at the same time.
Tucked away on 30,000 remote acres in Texas’ southwest corner, Cibolo Creek Ranch offers a luxury resort experience beyond comparison. During our stay, I felt as if we were guests at a friend’s home, not patrons of a resort—and that’s no easy trick.
The working ranch consists of three restored forts, originally built in the 1800s by one of the West’s earliest cattle barons. El Cibolo is the main lodge. La Cienega, a smaller fort 30 minutes from the first, can be rented out for private occasions. And the third, La Morita, is truly remote, with only one bed. The last is reportedly a favorite of Mick Jagger, and I can see why: Pure isolation. No electricity, which means oil lamps and cooking—unless you prefer to make the journey to El Cibolo to eat.
The painstakingly restored forts are all designated historic sites and are beautiful. The rooms are as luxurious as any you’ll find, old-school adobe ranch style with corner fireplaces, white walls, thick wooden shelves (ours contained a nice selection of books), comfortable furnishings and elegant appointments.
With the forts, Ranch owner John Poindexter is restoring the land as well by planting native grasses, which were done-in over the years by overgrazing and the influx of other vegetation. The scrub brush that covers so much of West Texas is not, in fact, how the land used to—or is supposed to—appear. Seeing the elegant, rolling grassland at Cibolo Creek Ranch is a glimpse of the area’s past, and hopefully one of its future as well. Other historical efforts include keeping longhorn cattle and American buffalo; protecting elk, Peregrine falcons and other wildlife on property; and even hosting a couple of camels—the latter a nod to an experiment by the Army in the late 1800s. The experiment didn’t work out, but it did influence an amusing moment in the movie “Ride the High Country,” in which a cowboy wins a horse race on a camel.
There’s no restaurant for miles, so three times a day all guests eat together at large tables. The food is amazing; honestly, I’ve never had better huevos rancheros in my life. All the requisite activities are here—horseback riding, ATVs, a spa, pool, gym, hunting, etc.—but it’s the destination itself that makes this resort special. Whether it’s the history, the fresh air or the excellent food, there’s an invigorating sense of energy about the place. I’m missing the Ranch from the moment we drive out the front gate.
Out of Presidio, we skirt the Mexican border for a few hours until we come to Chinati Hot Springs, located in the Chihuahuan Desert. It’s about as remote a place as I’ve visited in the United States (accessible by vehicle). Native Americans used to come here, whether for ritual healing purposes or just to soak tired muscles depends entirely on who you talk to. In the 1930s the Kingston family built a handful of cottages and tile baths and opened for business. Today, it’s a basic operation at best—but that’s not to say it isn’t beautiful in its own way. Here, far from any city lights, the West Texas darkness is so complete the stars don’t even bother shining down, they just sit up there and look pretty—and there are billions of them. A soak in the 110-degree springs left me light-headed and with a pile of strange dreams. I thought it was just the heat, but on my way out the next morning the owner said something about lithium in the water. Who knew?
Another few hours along the border and we’re in Terlingua Ghost Town. Over the years, people have moved into the dilapidated dwellings, rebuilt walls and fixed things up. Subsequently, the Ghost Town is mostly populated. Ghost town or not it’s definitely full of free spirits, and nowhere is that more evident than at the local watering holes, La Kava and the Starlight Theater. La Kava is in an actual cave and must be a delight for the few who manage summers here, but I prefer the Starlight. So named because it originally had no roof (it does today), the Starlight serves some of the best food I’ve had in Texas and one of the best margaritas I’ve had anywhere. Wild boar sausage, elk, steaks cut to order and other beautifully prepared dishes offer an unexpected treat in this laid back environment. As for the drinks, the Starlight has a margarita called “The Scorpion” that comes with a little handmade Mexican metal scorpion in it. And if you don’t believe it can sting, just order a few and wait for daylight.
Just past the amazing Big Bend National Park, we hit Marathon. Besides the aforementioned White Buffalo Bar, there’s a soda fountain that serves me the first real Coca Cola I’ve had in ages. A few squirts of syrup in a glass followed by a bit of soda, and suddenly I know why the world fell in love with this drink. It’ll be tough to go back to the canned stuff. On the way out, I can’t resist getting a chocolate malt.
No.1: Langtry, TX. I was hoping for more from the home of Judge Roy Bean, “the law west of the Pecos.” Bean’s famous saloon is stuck behind an unreasonably secure fence on the grounds of a visitor’s center and seems well out of place. Thankfully stories of the judge—who once found a pistol and $40 on a corpse, then took the pistol and fined the corpse $40 for being armed—are as vibrant as ever.
No.2: Alamo Village, a life-sized recreation of the Alamo and of a Western town. From John Wayne’s “The Alamo” to more recent films, the “largest working movie set in the country” has long hosted Hollywood cowboys. Less fun than I thought it would be. Great staff, though.
The girls in San Antonio dress up on Saturday nights. I thought there was an event to which the whole city had been invited, but in fact they just like to look pretty, in nice dresses and with hair that takes time. A young soldier walking with a date on his arm, shawl draped around her shoulders, in front of the old Majestic Theater downtown could have been a snapshot from the 1940s. And the River Walk, with its meandering stone paths and old trees along the quiet waters, at once Southern and Texan. What a lovely surprise, this city.
Abe Cortez of San Antonio’s Paris Hatters has fitted the likes of Bob Dylan, Germany’s ex-chancellor and even the Pope with cowboy hats. The shop is a town fixture, around since Abe’s family opened it in 1917. Today, Abe regularly works with celebrities, who like the fact that he custom-fits and hand-shapes hats right there in the shop, and that he keeps a large selection of the best quality hats in stock. I’m not sure how I got out of there without buying one.
I wanted to meet a gunslinger, and I found Bob Graham. The Four-time Fast Draw World Champion may be in his 70s now, but Bob can still draw and fire a pistol almost quicker than you can blink. No kidding: he was faster than my camera. At 9 frames per second, I could only get him with the gun in the holster, and then the gun out and already levelled. What happened in-between I couldn’t catch—and I tried many times.
Fast Draw is a sport in which competitors draw a pistol and fire at a target that sits between 5 and 21 feet away, depending on the competition. You face your target, hand hovering over your pistol. A voice says, “Set,” and 2 to 5 seconds later a light comes on. When it does, you slap leather. Bob tells me of a woman in Arizona who could have been the best ever, but she quit. “She’d be shooting 19s and 18s if I could work with her,” he says, and he means hundredths of a second. (The current world record is .208.)
The sport came out of the movies, quite literally. It started in the 1950s when Hollywood stuntmen, acting in the popular Westerns of the day, started wondering how fast they were. Now, Bob says, there are Fast Draw clubs all over the world.
Fast Draw guns are modified pistols. Barrels are bored-out and sleeved with aluminum to better handle the wax bullets competitors use. Actions are changed as well, and hammers are modified to accommodate preferred shooting style: thumbing or fanning. Thumbing is when a shooter draws, cocks and fires the gun with the same hand; fanning is when one hand slaps the hammer back as the other draws it.
“I’ve been in it since ’59,” says Bob, who modifies guns for competitors. “And in fact nobody knew how to fix the guns up. It’s kind of like Arnold Palmer: when he started playing golf, he started messing with the clubs; well I do the same thing.”
Too fast for my camera and a gentleman in every way, I’m glad to meet Bob Graham.
Three cowboys in Marathon warned me to stay away from Lubbock—“There ain’t nothin’ at all in Lubbock”—but I’m a Buddy Holly fan and I wanted to visit. Truth be told, they might have been right. I got in at the wrong time of day, went to a well-reviewed local cafe that was closed and ended my Texas trip eating dinner at a chain restaurant that is, of all things, Texas-themed. I think the people I met along the way would smile at this. They’d likely also offer a handful of dining alternatives should I ever find myself in Lubbock again.
As Bob Graham put it: “Texas people are friendly. Go to a small town around Texas and they’ll do anything in the world for you. That’s the kind of people I like to be around, and that’s why I still live in Texas.”
What a great last word on the state, I thought, as I shook his hand and turned to leave. Then he pushed the door back open and added, “Plus the nice warm weather.”
And he had a cowboy hat on. And a gun.
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