The quarter-horse is a huge part of Amarillo's history
...Amarillo, a historic cow-town that has transformed itself into a smiling and sun-washed fusion of the old and new West.
Even in Texas, it’s not every town that boasts a colorful remuda of quarter-horse statues in its public spaces.
“Is that horse waiting to cross the street?” Nick wanted to know, pointing to one of the statues at a downtown Amarillo, Texas street corner.
Nick and Laura had joined me and my wife, Melissa, for a friends’ getaway to Amarillo, a historic cow-town that has transformed itself into a smiling and sun-washed fusion of the old and new West. It always rustles up just the right combination of culture and class, rust and dust to make happy short-term cowboys of the most citified dude.
Like Nick, for example, who unlike Laura, Melissa and me is an East Coast tenderfoot.
The quarter-horse is a huge part of Amarillo's history
Cold beer cools you off after the “Burger from Hell” at Coyote Bluff Café
Lunch is served at Coyote Bluff Café
For Nick, everything is a new experience in Amarillo, a city of 200,000 in the short-grass prairie of the Texas Panhandle that is home to—among many other interesting attractions—the World Championship Ranch Rodeo, a plucky strip of old Route 66 that is still very much alive and open for business and the American Quarter Horse Hall of Fame, the sponsor of those horse statues around town along with Center City of Amarillo.
We explained to Nick that no, he couldn’t mount up for a saddle-selfie, then offered him some authentic Texas food at the Coyote Bluff Cafe instead.
Stepping from the supernova-bright Texas sunshine into the tiny puddle of cluttered darkness that is the Coyote Bluff Cafe, our eyes gradually adjusted and we took in the beer signs, Old Texas mementos and posters devoted to quirky culture icons like the Three Stooges.
Only in Amarillo. You can feed your Texas habit elsewhere, but Amarillo is where you have to go to really pull on the boots and walk the walk.
Nick did so by challenging the jalapeno-loaded “Burger from Hell” but quickly surrendered, guzzling his ice-cold beer in great, desperate gulps as his eyes watered and cheeks flushed red. Then he swore the burger was the best he’d ever had and went back for more. Now that’s Amarillo.
Who could remind her that this wasn’t actually her family’s old camper?
Step inside and take a look around
A tear drop kit at the Jack Sisemore Traveland RV Museum
We spent the next few hours making our way through the shortgrass scrubland along the rim, our heads swimming with scents of honeysuckle and agarita bushes, crocuses and prickly cactus.
Nick was still wiping his eyes as we wandered through the newly redone Canyon Exploration building, a Greyhound terminal repurposed as an arts mecca. Amarillo’s well-regarded orchestra makes these old walls sing with Symphony Underground events, and we found a display of Mondrian-ish color-block paintings that made an interesting contrast with the 1949 Art Deco building’s curved lines.
“Imagine the stories this old building has seen,” Laura said as we left, patting the Greyhound-blue porcelain bricks. “Kids getting on buses ’cause they want to see Dallas, Houston, the world. And then coming back years later when they decide what they really want to see is Amarillo again.”
That’s Amarillo, too.
We sorted through lost treasures at Alley Katz Antiques, where Melissa couldn’t resist a great price on a beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie School lamp. Then we made a trip to the Jack Sisemore Traveland RV Museum, goggling at blocky Winnebagos and teardrop pull-behinds—then Laura squealed and clambered into a ’76 Argosy.
“My grandparents had one just like this!” she chirped, plopping herself down on the fold-away seats. “Gosh, we covered a lot of miles in this thing on summer breaks,” she sighed and patted the plastic upholstery.
Who could remind her that this wasn’t actually her family’s old camper?
We eased back to the present with a couple of shopping stops at two of Amarillo’s many quirky shops specializing in rustic chic. Laura grabbed a pair of Daisy Dukes and a Born and Raised Texas T-shirt from the English Rose Boutique, and Melissa couldn’t say no to a maroon Fireside Dreamin’ soft poncho from Small Town Gypsy. She said it reminded her of summer camp.
Nick and I sat outside under a spreading live oak happily marinating in the musky floral scents drifting by on the Texas breeze. I told him the dry, dead looking stuff on the oak limbs was actually “Resurrection Fern,” that would spring to life after a rain in a time-lapse photography rush.
For dinner we hit Crush Wine Bar & Deli, a hipster-y place with the kind of down-home air you get when neither the staff nor the diners take themselves too seriously.
“I’m a fan,” Laura moaned, reeling in a crusted trout served over roasted grapes and Brussels sprouts. I was busy with my own duck confit eggrolls, and Melissa and Nick were deep in a smoky Maal Wines Malbec that smoldered with notes of chocolate, cherry and licorice, but we all nodded enthusiastically.
The stars come out and darkness falls in Palo Duro Canyon State Park
The stars come out and darkness falls in Palo Duro Canyon State Park
Dramatic rocks form “The Lighthouse” at Palo Duro Canyon State Park
The next morning Nick finally got to mount up, with a trail ride wrangled by Cowgirls and Cowboys in the West, an operation on the edge of the colossal Palo Duro Canyon State Park near Amarillo that gives folks the opportunity to go horseback trail riding along the rim of Palo Duro Canyon.
Known as the Grand Canyon of Texas, Palo Duro plunges into the Panhandle flatland like an upside down mountain range, and we spent the next few hours making our way through the shortgrass scrubland along the rim, our heads swimming with scents of honeysuckle and agarita bushes, crocuses and prickly cactus.
Laura, a birder, pointed out western meadowlarks and lark sparrows flitting between rawboned juniper and hackberry trees, then diving over the edge like the daredevil crop dusters you’ll see skirting power lines beyond the Amarillo town limits.
Beyond, we could see for miles down the canyon’s gypsum and sandstone cliffs, the valley floors pale green with sumac and sage as though in a watercolor plein air painting. The dusty rose colored rock formations known as “Spanish skirts” for their colorful flaring shape looked like dancers caught in mid swirl. In the distance the imposing “Lighthouse” rock pillar pointed skyward like a monument to the eternal Texas struggle between stubborn stone and scouring wind.
That evening, at our reserved campsite in Palo Duro Canyon, we watched the vast cornflower blue sky gradually kindle into a coral, orange and purple twilight as our dinner cooked on a crackling campfire. The evening air was thick with the aroma of Joshua trees and the rising chorus of nighttime crickets, as well as the occasional creak of our cooler opening.
Only in Amarillo could we be doing this, living a Western movie for real. Paper plates toppling with bean-sopping cowboy cornbread baked in a cast-iron pan, alongside runny beans, juicy burgers and steaks served popping and sizzling in their own delicious juices.
As the sky turned black and a myriad of stars twinkled to life overhead we could also see the warm glow of Amarillo’s city lights beyond the pitch-dark canyon.
“Now this is living,” Nick murmured as Laura snuggled against him in the chilly desert air.
“This is Amarillo,” I said, “And that pretty much says it all.”
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