Glorious as a summer full of golf might be, there invariably comes a time each season when I need a break from the game. Fortunately, that usually coincides with my annual trip to the Davis Mountains in West Texas to commune with that vast, rugged country as well as my cowboy kin. The weeklong retreat involves quite a changeover, as I trade my golf visor for a Cattleman cowboy hat and my FootJoys for a pair of Lucchese boots. In time, I even tend to develop something of a twang.
I might also ride a horse during that getaway and maybe even rope a steer. And the only range I step on there is the one upon which the deer and the antelope famously play.
... my time in West Texas allows me to value some of the same things that feed my love of golf.
To be sure, I miss my golf during that stretch. But having completed a few dozen rounds since May – the majority of which I walked – my tender back and sore feet are grateful for the layoff.
Besides, I know I will be getting back into the game in fairly short order.
I also like how my time in West Texas allows me to value some of the same things that feed my love of golf.
Start with the scenery, for the natural beauty of the Davis Mountains – which includes the highest peak in the Lone Star State (Mount Livermore) and some of the biggest skies on God’s green earth – is as stirring as any setting I have ever seen in golf.
Then, there’s the history of a place through which the Butterfield Stagecoach once stretched and Pony Express riders braved renegade Indians, vicious outlaws and Mexican banditos as they ran their routes. I also cherish the stories of the pioneers who came here, such as my great-grandparents, John Zach and Exa Means, who settled in these hills in the late 1880s and fashioned a good life for themselves and their children under the most difficult of conditions.
It’s not St. Andrews, I know. But I feel the rich heritage of this place as viscerally as I do that ancient burg on the North Sea.
The camaraderie among cowboys is quite similar to those who play golf together, whether it is working cattle together in pastures that are hundreds of acres in size and full of canyons and draws and rocky outcroppings or just sitting on the porches of our cabins on starry, starry nights, and getting caught up. We call that practice “visiting,” and it encourages the sort of story-telling and soul-bearing that one often finds during a round of golf.
I’ll be happy to tee it up again when I get back home. But at the moment, I am in no rush to do so.
John Steinbreder
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