MEN BEHAVING BADLY.

The pressure we chaps are under these days it’s no wonder we need to let out hair down every now and then. It’s just that some of us choose to let it down in rather unusual ways…

THE CITY SLICKER

Tenderfoot my arse. Every bit of me is tender, from my saddle-sore backside to the knee I’ve crushed against the gatepost leaving the paddock. And for this I have to get up at 4am and act like I’m having fun. Right now I’d gladly swap this parched, dry and dusty Arizona prairie for home on the range back in Tottenham (although red lizard skin boots, Stetson and Trigger might look a bit daft on the High Street). But it’s just a temporary gripe. I might be more Charles Hawtrey in Carry on Cowboy that Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter, but to be honest pardner, being in the deepest, wildest West is bloody marvellous.

And let’s face it, I’m not alone in feeling a tad out of place at The Horseshoe Ranch on Bloody Basin Road, Arizona (we might not be the real McCoy but, hey, you can’t argue with the name). With me on this first morning’s cattle drive are Doug, Debbie and their son Joshua. Doug’s an ex-social worker and church minister in Seattle, a city more famous for Kurt Cobain than cowboys. The trip to the working ranch, owned by retired engineer Dick Wilcox, is their present to Josh for his 12^th birthday: “We didn’t just want to take him to a movie, we wanted to make our own movie.” Only time will tell if this piece of escapist cinema turns out to be a comedy or a tragedy.

Right now the villain of the piece is Shorty, my horse. That’s Western humour for you – a horse called Rowdy would be a quiet beast, and Shorty, well, he ain’t. Mounting him is like slinging your leg over the Empire State, except that keeps still. No sooner have I stuffed a boot in his stirrups than Shorty decides he’s off home – and he doesn’t mean Tottenham.

Mike, a Wild Bill Hickock lookalike, and one of the three wranglers keeping a professional eye on us four saddle virgins, soon brings my charge into line. Even more reassuring, though, is that another one of the wranglers is called Jesus (if Shorty’s antics require divine intervention at least I can holler out for instant help). The third pro is 21-year-old Chris, an excellent horseman who addresses everyone as either “Sir” or “Ma’am”. Respect, that’s what me and my aching arse need.

Seven hours later – after directing around 60 head of cattle to a water hole – we dismount, groaning quietly, to inspect strained thighs and sore bums. All this, we’re now told, is a mere warm-up for the big cattle drive the next day. We are to collect strays and take them to the main 350-head herd, before driving them 12 miles across wild terrain back to the Horseshoe. There, they’ll be in grazing heaven until sold for slaughter.

Could this be enough to turn you into a breast-beating vegetarian? Well not quite. All that hard work and Western air means later this eveing, massive charcoal-covered ribs are devoured noisily. Between chews, Mike regales us with tales of previous holiday guests who castrated a bunch of bulls and roasted their ‘prairie oysters’ for supper. I suddenly come over all nostalgic for the local KFC.

Next morning, we throw back mugs of pure caffeine and prepare for a long hard day in the saddle. Six new guests had arrived late the previous night: Irl and Gail Rosner and their four pals. It’s getting more like City Slickers with every twirl of my lasso. One of the new guys – a surgeon with a constantly harassed expression – has his mobile phone glued to his ear. “One of my patients,” he explains, “isn’t doing so well. I wish I hadn’t called, I’ll only worry now and spoil my trip.”

We’re joined by serious-looking dudes led by the charismatic Dean Cameron – former owner of The Horseshoe – with sidekicks Bob and Jeffrey. There’s a touch of Steve McQueen about Dean: narrow ice-blue eues, quietly dignified. As the sun begins to warm the land, we set off for the day’s doggie chasing. And today is going to be a good day, because joining our party is Charlotte, Dick’s 24-year-old daughter, a wrangler par excellence and Calamity Jane to my Desperate Dan. At dawn I’m already impressed with her rising trot, but by the afternoon, when she’s killed a four-foot rattlesnake with a rock and held it high for my camera, I’m totally rapt.

“You’re too close! You’ll scare ’em!” yells Bob, as we approach the collective posteriors of several hundred heifers. No allowances are made for we amateurs. I lead Shorty further out, and Jeffrey offers me a chew. Expecting something minty and refreshing, I’m horrified as he produces a small plug of sooty-looking black substance. In Tottenham this would merit a stop ‘n’ search from the local rozzers. But this is more potent than any street-dealin’ drug. It’s chewing tobacco. It would be impolite to refuse, so I take a pinch, squeeze it into a messy wad, and pack it between my lower lip and gum . The sensation is like inhaling a complete pack of 20 Capstan Full-Strength in one go.  My brain leaps into overdrive while my belly badly wants to bale out. Jeffery laughs and urges me not to swallow. As if I would.

“You’ll git sick,” he informs me. “Jest spit it.” A thin stream of inky-black sputum emanates from his mouth in demonstration. When he’s not looking I remove the sodden lump, but still pretend it’s there by throwing him “Mmmm-lovely” looks.

Bob gallops up and introduces me to his dog, Ringer – half mongrel, half coyote: “Dog part’s real good at rounding up the runaways, but the Coyote part wants to eat ‘em.” Bob – who resembles Kenny Rogers – implores me not to write about his ‘cussing’, which is strange since everything that comes out of his mouth is pure Western innocence. He even winces occasionally at some of my colloquialisms. “Easy boy,” says his expression, “there’s lay-deez present!”

Get him on to citified pretend-cowboys – fake spurs and neckerchiefs – and Bob smiles and shakes his head. “Next time you see one of those guys with a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate,” he wryly remarks, “just tell him it’s a tombstone for a dead dick.”

Dean trots over and directs us to leave the herd and move nearer the ranch. At times, I’m riding perilously across streams, rocks and boulders at 45-degree angles, until we reach the ridge of a massive hill. Any pain is suppressed by the glory of the views and the success at rounding up these errant cows.

I feel I’ve shed my city skin, swapped the closed-in complexity of London for a vast panoramic freedom. In fact, we’ve all done more than that – we’ve dipped a soft city toe into dirt-kicking, macho existence. It feels reeeeal good.

It’s so simple for Christ’s sake. A horse, a hat, a pair of boots a few plaid shirts, and that’s it. A pick-up could carry your whole life and  leave enough space for a small cocktail cabinet.

But maybe I’m so taken because I’m just a temporary visitor. Long term, I suspect it’s not a career prospect for yours truly. I might envy the cowboy’s terrain – their vast skies and long-limbed cacti – but it’s lowly paid and utterly solitary.

At the end of the ride, we’re positioned at the vita; points to prevent the cows filtering off. Finally we head them all into the corral, bristling with pride at Bob yells the magic words: “Good work, cowboys!”