Ragtime Cowboy Joe (Clark, Muir and Abrahams)
Out in Arizona where the bad men are
And the only friend to guide you is an Evening Star,
The roughest, toughest man by far
Is Ragtime Cowboy Joe.
Got his name from singing to the cows and sheep,
Every night they say he sings the herd to sleep
In a basso rich and deep,
Crooning soft and low.
How he sings raggy music to his cattle
As he swings back and forward in his saddle
On his horse (a pretty good horse)
Who is syncopated gaited
And with such a funny meter
To the roar of his repeater.
How they run when they hear the feller’s gun
Because the western folks all know:
He’s a hifalootin’ scootin’, shootin’
Son-of-a-gun from Arizona,
Ragtime Cowboy…you talk about your cowboy…
Ragtime Cowboy Joe!
Ragtime Cowboy Bill
We’d like to blame it on the old adage ”When in Colorado, do as the Coloradans do,” but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate. Nope, Bill has always had a weakness for fancy cowboy shirts, might as well admit it. Must derive from some unknown past as a frustrated country music singer. But whatever the reason, there he was in the Estes Park western apparel emporium, The Moose House, carefully surveilling a wonderful shirt he had seen in the window. Manufactured by Scully, it was, a fine shirt of substance, a little heavy for the South, perhaps, but ideal for northern and western climes. It fit perfectly, of course, so he bought it. Then, Siobhan came across the room with a big black Stetson. Hats, as we all know never seem to fit exactly…always a little too big or a tiny bit too small. Not this time. The hat was constructed just for Bill. He bought that, too. Now, he was all set for Wednesday night’s visit to the Rocky Mountain Opry. More than set, really. In the Other Side Restaurant, adjacent to the Opry, one old cooter walked up, patted him on the shoulder and told him he was “really lookin’ forward to the show.” Later in the Twin Owls, another eatery, a little girl tugged at her mother and exclaimed, “Mom! Look over there—a cowboy!” Well, I did go to Oklahoma State, after all.
The Rocky Mountain Opry
Okay, I admit it—I’m a sucker for these places. I like the music, the crowds are enthusiastic and receptive, and everybody has a good time. The performers for this particular Opry are based in Arizona, a little hamlet outside Mesa called Apache Junction, where they play nine months of the year. In July, they pack up their gear and head for Colorado for three months, playing Wednesdays through Saturdays in Estes Park and the rest of the week just down the road in Colorado Springs. The operation is properly called Barleen’s Rocky Mountain Opry and is managed by the Barleen twins, Barbara and Brenda, following in their founder father’s bootprints. Both girls also perform with the Opry, Barbara doing vocals and playing strings and keyboards, Brenda vocals and percussion. There are usually eight or nine musicians on stage and they can do about everything. There are about seventy instruments spread out on stage and believe me, they use about all of them. A couple of members of the group excel at both strings and horns, not something you run into every day.
You can buy your tickets for the Opry anytime before or during the day of the performance. At five-thirty, an hour-and-a-half before the show, you are allowed in to place your tickets on the table of your choice, thus reserving the spot. Many oprygoers then meander over to the next-door restaurant for dinner. One ticket buyer asked an Opry employee at the door, “If we don’t have tickets anymore, how will you know who is who?” The employee looked back at her with a savvy wink and said “Oh, we’ll know!” We had no doubt they would.
I was a little disappointed when the music started. The band went right into an Al Hirt number and followed up with a couple more jazz tunes, not what I was expecting but well-executed. By the time they finished the third number, I was willing to listen to whatever they threw out there, which turned out to be a solid group of country songs, a couple sung by a cast member who looked and sounded more like Willie Nelson than Willie does. After that, a little old time rock and roll. These people were really good. After awhile, Bobby Van Rooy, who travelled for three years with the Righteous Brothers, came out and sang a couple of songs. To me, this was the high point of the evening. The guy has a great voice and, I would argue, something more important—the ability to manipulate a song perfectly, nuances, inflections, emphases all in the right places. It was perfect. I have listened to a roomful of people following John Clay in Road To Mingus. I have listened to Janis Joplin sing old Odetta songs in my living room. I have languished at a West Village joint with Mike Garcia and listened to the Greenbriar Boys perform one of the great midnight sets of all time. This was just as good. There are a minuscule number of times in our lives when, allowed to be any other place in the world, we would still choose the place we were sitting. This was one of them. Then, just for the hell of it, Barbara Barleen, who had previously displayed a mean fiddle in the classic Devil Goes Down To Georgia, grabbed the mike and belted out a spectacular operatic number. It was stunning. I didn’t know whether to cry or jump up on the stage and hug her.
Now, it was time to move from the sublime to the ridiculous. George Staerkel, sort of the host for this affair, who can sing about anything and play most instruments—and who was, for awhile, a lead singer for an old band called The Tokens (the only band ever named after Brooklyn subway currency)—trotted out the old Tokens hit, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, which, in its time, was one of the most overplayed songs ever. You remember—the song with all the Wimowehs. No matter how you feel about the song, it does have a unique beginning and when Staerkel hit that first note it was like being jolted back decades in a back-to-the-future car. If you get the impression we might be having a good time, you are correct in spades. Who could know that out in tiny Estes Park, Colorado, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, a crew of musicians this formidable was holding forth? I talked to the steel guitar player, Chris Kennison, during intermission while we were both outside cooling off. He admitted it was a remarkable pairing of talents, talked about what a comfortable feeling it was to reach middle-age and beyond and have the comfort of settling down with a family and a secure job and getting to still have all this fun every night. “I feel like a kid,” he said. “I feel like I’m cheating somehow and, sooner or later, God’s gonna find out. Til then, though….”
So, if you’re ever in the mountains and the sun is going down, or if you’re in the desert on the other side of town and you see a sign a-blazin’ in the blackness of the night and you need a little booster to help carry on the fight….well, drop in to your friendly neighborhood opry. There are great musicians hidden everywhere, waiting to be discovered. Maybe you’ll catch lightning in a bottle. We sure as hell did.
Aye, There’s The Rub!
After a reasonable amount of hiking and trooping through the streets of Colorado, a reasonable person might start looking for a massage parlor, and we are nothing if not reasonable people. We eventually chose Affinity Message and Wellness, right on the riverwalk, an operation presided over by owner Kim Coffey and her faithful Indian companion, Vanessa. Kim has been in the business a long time and has seen her fair share of difficult challenges so she got Siobhan and her frozen shoulders. I got the kid, and a big kid was she, an ex-athlete with a no-nonsense demeanor. If you were a harsh reviewer of massage technicians, you might call Vanessa “The Punisher.” She will ask you about how deep in the tissue you would like to go and you might seriously consider your answer here before spouting off something like “as deep as you want,” like silly old Bill did. This gives Vanessa carte blanche to attack and work out all of her anger issues while she kneads. Vanessa will bring tears to your eyes and not necessarily tears of gratitude, either. You will not necessarily be all that sad when your nice massage is over. Although, I will have to admit, when you are done you will realize a new meaning for the word “loose,” since Vanessa will have wrestled away every knot, every crimp in the line. If Vanessa did exorcisms, the devil would find a new line of work. On a scale of one to ten, I would give Vanessa a sparkling ten for effectiveness and I would give her a minus one for pity.
Next up, an evening dinner at the Twin Owls, so named for a nearby mountain’s rock formation resembling same. The Twin Owls is probably the best restaurant in Estes Park. We had dinner there with Siobhan’s business associate, Eric Jorgensen, who drove down from Colorado Springs for the occasion. Earlier, we had visited a stocked-to-the-gills western wear shop called The Twisted Elm, where Siobhan obtained a long black dress with a hand-painted yoke, the work of an artist from Grand Lake, of all places. After all, when you are in the company of Ragtime Cowboy Bill you have to work hard to keep up appearances. Dinner was great, topped off, of course, by the little girl so thrilled to see a cowboy. I thought to offer my autograph but Siobhan dragged me off. We repaired to our digs at Stonebrook to rest for our final hike on Friday, the last day in Estes Park.
Alberta Falls
To get to the Alberta Falls Trail, it’s back to the Bear Lake trailhead, then only a matter of following signs south for Glacier Gorge and Alberta Falls. The hike is relatively short and the falls are rewarding, which makes this trail very popular and well-travelled. The last real day of vacation always makes me a little sad and reflective, sad that it’s almost over and appreciative for the time and closeness spent with your partner doing untypical things, seeing the world from another perspective. The daily grind blinds us to all the wonders that are out there, waiting to be explored. Business, however good, is a harsh mistress and a ravenous devourer of time, our greatest gift. We tell ourselves it’s not easy to get away, to deviate from the daily humdrum, but it’s really not all that hard or expensive. You just have to decide to do it and let the chips fall where they may. The years are dwindling, good health is not guaranteed, these opportunities will not last forever. To quote the old philosopher: “Get out in that kitchen and rattle them pots and pans!”
Nederland
If you’re one of those people who are always wondering where all the hippies have gone, well, we’ll tell you. They’ve all gone to Nederland, Colorado. Nestled in the heart of the mountains a mere 17 miles from Boulder, the town is very pretty, very funky and full of dope. Well…marijuana, at least. And not just that silly medical marijuana, either. In Nederland, they can sell the stuff just for fun. Colorado’s enlightened population has seen fit to legalize the weed—and guess what? A chasm has not opened in the earth and swallowed up this vale of sinners. Nope, matter of fact, everybody seems to be having quite the time. The politicians, of course, are trying to tax the stuff to death, proposing gangapreneurs pay up to $5000 just to apply for sales licenses. Operational licenses will cost anywhere from $2750 to $14,000 and those who want to sell both medical and recreational pot will have to pay double. Eek! We’re kinda wondering why someone would claim to be anything other than a “grass for fun” shop, which would enable them to sell to everybody and avoid the double licenses, although medical marijuana buyers will probably pay lower taxes. Anyway, despite the annoyances, everybody in Nederland seems to have a smile on his/her face and nobody is sweating the small stuff. Maybe there will be a hippie revival. Maybe all the old hippies out there will descend on Nederland and recreate the Summer of Love. Maybe the rock entrepreneurs will start printing up posters again celebrating the big concerts. Maybe Victor Moscoso will come out of retirement. Gee, I better go get the blacklight room ready at the New Subterranean Circus. Peace/Love, y’all.
Denver
We’re back in Big D the day before our flight out at 7 a.m. Staying at the Hyatt House, a wonderful hotel hard by the airport. Since the airport is surrounded by nothing, the hotel provides a van to whisk its guests to dinner at a variety of restaurants down the road. During the afternoon, we made our way into Denver. The desk man at the hotel said we would probably enjoy the 16th Street Mall, downtown. He gave us printed directions which led us to Colfax Street. We drove 75 miles on Colfax Street, finding nothing. We went through several incarnations of the alphabet on the street signs. I mean, once you’ve gone through everything from A to Z, you should actually be somewhere. Uh uh, not on Colfax Street. We went through the alphabet twice more and stopped for help. The guy at the minute-mart told us Colfax Street was “the longest street in the country”. “No shit,” we said. After another run through the alphabet, we finally found the 16th Street Mall. I would like to report, after all the difficulty of finding the place, that it was a sterling market place full of wondrous shops and eateries. It was not. Just another collection of expensive real estate with the expected chains. We did find a nice place to eat called the Yard House and Siobhan bought a half-price orange purse. We found a much faster way back to the hotel, which leaves one to ponder.
There were no seedy hotels this trip, no deviant bikers of Montana. But the park was rich and varied, the towns we visited and stayed in were colorful and friendly. We experienced the AHA! Moment in tiny Fraser and the Wallet Miracle in Grand Lake. We visited with Larry, The Friendly Ghost, we heard great music and refreshed at the trough of Nature and Change. All this was made possible by the Pathogenes stewardship of Stuart Ellison, who maintained a steady ship and by horse care personnel Lark and Autumn. It’s over now but trips like this are never over. Just as you anticipate them for months before you go, you remember them years after you leave. Coloradans are proud of their state and it is important to them to be thought of as “nice guys”. We love Colorado and while we were out there, not unlike Will Rogers, we never met a man we didn’t like.
The Twin Owls. You See Them, Don’t You? Sure You Do….
Ragtime Cowboy Bill In Dubious Surroundings
Visitor Center, Nederland
Alberta Falls Trail
Bill And Gal Pal Flossie At Twin Owls
That’s all, folks….
.
Out in Arizona where the bad men are
And the only friend to guide you is an Evening Star,
The roughest, toughest man by far
Is Ragtime Cowboy Joe.
Got his name from singing to the cows and sheep,
Every night they say he sings the herd to sleep
In a basso rich and deep,
Crooning soft and low.
How he sings raggy music to his cattle
As he swings back and forward in his saddle
On his horse (a pretty good horse)
Who is syncopated gaited
And with such a funny meter
To the roar of his repeater.
How they run when they hear the feller’s gun
Because the western folks all know:
He’s a hifalootin’ scootin’, shootin’
Son-of-a-gun from Arizona,
Ragtime Cowboy…you talk about your cowboy…
Ragtime Cowboy Joe!
Ragtime Cowboy Bill
We’d like to blame it on the old adage ”When in Colorado, do as the Coloradans do,” but that wouldn’t be entirely accurate. Nope, Bill has always had a weakness for fancy cowboy shirts, might as well admit it. Must derive from some unknown past as a frustrated country music singer. But whatever the reason, there he was in the Estes Park western apparel emporium, The Moose House, carefully surveilling a wonderful shirt he had seen in the window. Manufactured by Scully, it was, a fine shirt of substance, a little heavy for the South, perhaps, but ideal for northern and western climes. It fit perfectly, of course, so he bought it. Then, Siobhan came across the room with a big black Stetson. Hats, as we all know never seem to fit exactly…always a little too big or a tiny bit too small. Not this time. The hat was constructed just for Bill. He bought that, too. Now, he was all set for Wednesday night’s visit to the Rocky Mountain Opry. More than set, really. In the Other Side Restaurant, adjacent to the Opry, one old cooter walked up, patted him on the shoulder and told him he was “really lookin’ forward to the show.” Later in the Twin Owls, another eatery, a little girl tugged at her mother and exclaimed, “Mom! Look over there—a cowboy!” Well, I did go to Oklahoma State, after all.
The Rocky Mountain Opry
Okay, I admit it—I’m a sucker for these places. I like the music, the crowds are enthusiastic and receptive, and everybody has a good time. The performers for this particular Opry are based in Arizona, a little hamlet outside Mesa called Apache Junction, where they play nine months of the year. In July, they pack up their gear and head for Colorado for three months, playing Wednesdays through Saturdays in Estes Park and the rest of the week just down the road in Colorado Springs. The operation is properly called Barleen’s Rocky Mountain Opry and is managed by the Barleen twins, Barbara and Brenda, following in their founder father’s bootprints. Both girls also perform with the Opry, Barbara doing vocals and playing strings and keyboards, Brenda vocals and percussion. There are usually eight or nine musicians on stage and they can do about everything. There are about seventy instruments spread out on stage and believe me, they use about all of them. A couple of members of the group excel at both strings and horns, not something you run into every day.
You can buy your tickets for the Opry anytime before or during the day of the performance. At five-thirty, an hour-and-a-half before the show, you are allowed in to place your tickets on the table of your choice, thus reserving the spot. Many oprygoers then meander over to the next-door restaurant for dinner. One ticket buyer asked an Opry employee at the door, “If we don’t have tickets anymore, how will you know who is who?” The employee looked back at her with a savvy wink and said “Oh, we’ll know!” We had no doubt they would.
I was a little disappointed when the music started. The band went right into an Al Hirt number and followed up with a couple more jazz tunes, not what I was expecting but well-executed. By the time they finished the third number, I was willing to listen to whatever they threw out there, which turned out to be a solid group of country songs, a couple sung by a cast member who looked and sounded more like Willie Nelson than Willie does. After that, a little old time rock and roll. These people were really good. After awhile, Bobby Van Rooy, who travelled for three years with the Righteous Brothers, came out and sang a couple of songs. To me, this was the high point of the evening. The guy has a great voice and, I would argue, something more important—the ability to manipulate a song perfectly, nuances, inflections, emphases all in the right places. It was perfect. I have listened to a roomful of people following John Clay in Road To Mingus. I have listened to Janis Joplin sing old Odetta songs in my living room. I have languished at a West Village joint with Mike Garcia and listened to the Greenbriar Boys perform one of the great midnight sets of all time. This was just as good. There are a minuscule number of times in our lives when, allowed to be any other place in the world, we would still choose the place we were sitting. This was one of them. Then, just for the hell of it, Barbara Barleen, who had previously displayed a mean fiddle in the classic Devil Goes Down To Georgia, grabbed the mike and belted out a spectacular operatic number. It was stunning. I didn’t know whether to cry or jump up on the stage and hug her.
Now, it was time to move from the sublime to the ridiculous. George Staerkel, sort of the host for this affair, who can sing about anything and play most instruments—and who was, for awhile, a lead singer for an old band called The Tokens (the only band ever named after Brooklyn subway currency)—trotted out the old Tokens hit, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, which, in its time, was one of the most overplayed songs ever. You remember—the song with all the Wimowehs. No matter how you feel about the song, it does have a unique beginning and when Staerkel hit that first note it was like being jolted back decades in a back-to-the-future car. If you get the impression we might be having a good time, you are correct in spades. Who could know that out in tiny Estes Park, Colorado, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, a crew of musicians this formidable was holding forth? I talked to the steel guitar player, Chris Kennison, during intermission while we were both outside cooling off. He admitted it was a remarkable pairing of talents, talked about what a comfortable feeling it was to reach middle-age and beyond and have the comfort of settling down with a family and a secure job and getting to still have all this fun every night. “I feel like a kid,” he said. “I feel like I’m cheating somehow and, sooner or later, God’s gonna find out. Til then, though….”
So, if you’re ever in the mountains and the sun is going down, or if you’re in the desert on the other side of town and you see a sign a-blazin’ in the blackness of the night and you need a little booster to help carry on the fight….well, drop in to your friendly neighborhood opry. There are great musicians hidden everywhere, waiting to be discovered. Maybe you’ll catch lightning in a bottle. We sure as hell did.
Aye, There’s The Rub!
After a reasonable amount of hiking and trooping through the streets of Colorado, a reasonable person might start looking for a massage parlor, and we are nothing if not reasonable people. We eventually chose Affinity Message and Wellness, right on the riverwalk, an operation presided over by owner Kim Coffey and her faithful Indian companion, Vanessa. Kim has been in the business a long time and has seen her fair share of difficult challenges so she got Siobhan and her frozen shoulders. I got the kid, and a big kid was she, an ex-athlete with a no-nonsense demeanor. If you were a harsh reviewer of massage technicians, you might call Vanessa “The Punisher.” She will ask you about how deep in the tissue you would like to go and you might seriously consider your answer here before spouting off something like “as deep as you want,” like silly old Bill did. This gives Vanessa carte blanche to attack and work out all of her anger issues while she kneads. Vanessa will bring tears to your eyes and not necessarily tears of gratitude, either. You will not necessarily be all that sad when your nice massage is over. Although, I will have to admit, when you are done you will realize a new meaning for the word “loose,” since Vanessa will have wrestled away every knot, every crimp in the line. If Vanessa did exorcisms, the devil would find a new line of work. On a scale of one to ten, I would give Vanessa a sparkling ten for effectiveness and I would give her a minus one for pity.
Next up, an evening dinner at the Twin Owls, so named for a nearby mountain’s rock formation resembling same. The Twin Owls is probably the best restaurant in Estes Park. We had dinner there with Siobhan’s business associate, Eric Jorgensen, who drove down from Colorado Springs for the occasion. Earlier, we had visited a stocked-to-the-gills western wear shop called The Twisted Elm, where Siobhan obtained a long black dress with a hand-painted yoke, the work of an artist from Grand Lake, of all places. After all, when you are in the company of Ragtime Cowboy Bill you have to work hard to keep up appearances. Dinner was great, topped off, of course, by the little girl so thrilled to see a cowboy. I thought to offer my autograph but Siobhan dragged me off. We repaired to our digs at Stonebrook to rest for our final hike on Friday, the last day in Estes Park.
Alberta Falls
To get to the Alberta Falls Trail, it’s back to the Bear Lake trailhead, then only a matter of following signs south for Glacier Gorge and Alberta Falls. The hike is relatively short and the falls are rewarding, which makes this trail very popular and well-travelled. The last real day of vacation always makes me a little sad and reflective, sad that it’s almost over and appreciative for the time and closeness spent with your partner doing untypical things, seeing the world from another perspective. The daily grind blinds us to all the wonders that are out there, waiting to be explored. Business, however good, is a harsh mistress and a ravenous devourer of time, our greatest gift. We tell ourselves it’s not easy to get away, to deviate from the daily humdrum, but it’s really not all that hard or expensive. You just have to decide to do it and let the chips fall where they may. The years are dwindling, good health is not guaranteed, these opportunities will not last forever. To quote the old philosopher: “Get out in that kitchen and rattle them pots and pans!”
Nederland
If you’re one of those people who are always wondering where all the hippies have gone, well, we’ll tell you. They’ve all gone to Nederland, Colorado. Nestled in the heart of the mountains a mere 17 miles from Boulder, the town is very pretty, very funky and full of dope. Well…marijuana, at least. And not just that silly medical marijuana, either. In Nederland, they can sell the stuff just for fun. Colorado’s enlightened population has seen fit to legalize the weed—and guess what? A chasm has not opened in the earth and swallowed up this vale of sinners. Nope, matter of fact, everybody seems to be having quite the time. The politicians, of course, are trying to tax the stuff to death, proposing gangapreneurs pay up to $5000 just to apply for sales licenses. Operational licenses will cost anywhere from $2750 to $14,000 and those who want to sell both medical and recreational pot will have to pay double. Eek! We’re kinda wondering why someone would claim to be anything other than a “grass for fun” shop, which would enable them to sell to everybody and avoid the double licenses, although medical marijuana buyers will probably pay lower taxes. Anyway, despite the annoyances, everybody in Nederland seems to have a smile on his/her face and nobody is sweating the small stuff. Maybe there will be a hippie revival. Maybe all the old hippies out there will descend on Nederland and recreate the Summer of Love. Maybe the rock entrepreneurs will start printing up posters again celebrating the big concerts. Maybe Victor Moscoso will come out of retirement. Gee, I better go get the blacklight room ready at the New Subterranean Circus. Peace/Love, y’all.
Denver
We’re back in Big D the day before our flight out at 7 a.m. Staying at the Hyatt House, a wonderful hotel hard by the airport. Since the airport is surrounded by nothing, the hotel provides a van to whisk its guests to dinner at a variety of restaurants down the road. During the afternoon, we made our way into Denver. The desk man at the hotel said we would probably enjoy the 16th Street Mall, downtown. He gave us printed directions which led us to Colfax Street. We drove 75 miles on Colfax Street, finding nothing. We went through several incarnations of the alphabet on the street signs. I mean, once you’ve gone through everything from A to Z, you should actually be somewhere. Uh uh, not on Colfax Street. We went through the alphabet twice more and stopped for help. The guy at the minute-mart told us Colfax Street was “the longest street in the country”. “No shit,” we said. After another run through the alphabet, we finally found the 16th Street Mall. I would like to report, after all the difficulty of finding the place, that it was a sterling market place full of wondrous shops and eateries. It was not. Just another collection of expensive real estate with the expected chains. We did find a nice place to eat called the Yard House and Siobhan bought a half-price orange purse. We found a much faster way back to the hotel, which leaves one to ponder.
There were no seedy hotels this trip, no deviant bikers of Montana. But the park was rich and varied, the towns we visited and stayed in were colorful and friendly. We experienced the AHA! Moment in tiny Fraser and the Wallet Miracle in Grand Lake. We visited with Larry, The Friendly Ghost, we heard great music and refreshed at the trough of Nature and Change. All this was made possible by the Pathogenes stewardship of Stuart Ellison, who maintained a steady ship and by horse care personnel Lark and Autumn. It’s over now but trips like this are never over. Just as you anticipate them for months before you go, you remember them years after you leave. Coloradans are proud of their state and it is important to them to be thought of as “nice guys”. We love Colorado and while we were out there, not unlike Will Rogers, we never met a man we didn’t like.
The Twin Owls. You See Them, Don’t You? Sure You Do….
Ragtime Cowboy Bill In Dubious Surroundings
Visitor Center, Nederland
Alberta Falls Trail
Bill And Gal Pal Flossie At Twin Owls
That’s all, folks….
.
