Indian Country Bars
My advice: never go into one.
Several years ago, Mike, Steve, and I wandered into a bar in Parker, Arizona after a hot morning of dove hunting. With the temperature hovering around 110', the seductive pull of a tavern with cold beer and icy air conditioning was to strong to resist.
Parker is adjacent to the Colorado River Indian Tribe reservation. When we entered the bar, it looked like a lot of indians had decided to have a pool tournament on this day, one of the hottest of the year. Trying not to look out of place with our pale faces, we meekly sat at a table and quietly sipped some beers. Within fifteen minutes, a huge indian had taken the fourth chair at the table and accepted a beer from our pitcher.
The conversation with the large indian soon veered into the strange and bizzare. He was a Vietnam veteran suffering from the effects of Agent Orange. He made his own arrows. He had used said arrows to pin his son-in-law to a tree after the son-in-law mistreated his daughter.
The correct response at this point is to nod politely, finish your beer and make a hasty exit. However, my fellow palefaces had other ideas. They started asking him about good dove hunting spots. Naturally, these secret locations were available in exchange for money. A deal was made, and we all piled into my van. I let it be known that I would drive them to our dove camp, after which they were free to continue with Steve's vehicle.
That they did, and our hunting party was agog at what would happen next. While we were eating dinner, Steve's rig drove past, heading back to Parker. We couldn't see who was inside. Was it was the same trio who left? Or just Steve and Mike? Or the huge indian by himself? Images of Steve and Mike pinned to trees with handmade arrows entered my mind unbidden. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to eat.
About 9:30, Mike and Steve returned, Mike drunker than a marine after a year at sea. The story slowly came out. The indian showed them several doveless stretches of desert and farmland after receiving the money. They dropped him off at his trailer, drove back into Parker, and ended up at a Mexican restaurant where they drank long and deep.
Steve has a great story about a bar he frequented in the 1970s in Willow Creek, near the Hoopa Indian reservation in northern California. This bar contained nothing that could conceivably be used as a weapon. Drinks were served in plastic or styrofoam cups. Tables and chairs were bolted to the floor. Ashtrays were screwed into the table tops (back when smoking was allowed in California taverns). Naturally the pool tables had no cues or balls.
So travel carefully, and watch out for those home made arrows.
My advice: never go into one.
Several years ago, Mike, Steve, and I wandered into a bar in Parker, Arizona after a hot morning of dove hunting. With the temperature hovering around 110', the seductive pull of a tavern with cold beer and icy air conditioning was to strong to resist.
Parker is adjacent to the Colorado River Indian Tribe reservation. When we entered the bar, it looked like a lot of indians had decided to have a pool tournament on this day, one of the hottest of the year. Trying not to look out of place with our pale faces, we meekly sat at a table and quietly sipped some beers. Within fifteen minutes, a huge indian had taken the fourth chair at the table and accepted a beer from our pitcher.
The conversation with the large indian soon veered into the strange and bizzare. He was a Vietnam veteran suffering from the effects of Agent Orange. He made his own arrows. He had used said arrows to pin his son-in-law to a tree after the son-in-law mistreated his daughter.
The correct response at this point is to nod politely, finish your beer and make a hasty exit. However, my fellow palefaces had other ideas. They started asking him about good dove hunting spots. Naturally, these secret locations were available in exchange for money. A deal was made, and we all piled into my van. I let it be known that I would drive them to our dove camp, after which they were free to continue with Steve's vehicle.
That they did, and our hunting party was agog at what would happen next. While we were eating dinner, Steve's rig drove past, heading back to Parker. We couldn't see who was inside. Was it was the same trio who left? Or just Steve and Mike? Or the huge indian by himself? Images of Steve and Mike pinned to trees with handmade arrows entered my mind unbidden. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to eat.
About 9:30, Mike and Steve returned, Mike drunker than a marine after a year at sea. The story slowly came out. The indian showed them several doveless stretches of desert and farmland after receiving the money. They dropped him off at his trailer, drove back into Parker, and ended up at a Mexican restaurant where they drank long and deep.
Steve has a great story about a bar he frequented in the 1970s in Willow Creek, near the Hoopa Indian reservation in northern California. This bar contained nothing that could conceivably be used as a weapon. Drinks were served in plastic or styrofoam cups. Tables and chairs were bolted to the floor. Ashtrays were screwed into the table tops (back when smoking was allowed in California taverns). Naturally the pool tables had no cues or balls.
So travel carefully, and watch out for those home made arrows.