I love to talk about interesting subjects other than gambling when I am playing poker. We were in a game of Texas Hold'em when Randy, one of the players, said, 'You're a writer. Are you a Hemingway fan?'
I had to smile at the question.
'From my high school days to college, Papa Hemingway was my hero,' I said. 'In journalism class at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, PA., he was the writer we talked about and even toasted with our drinks. I loved his long sentences and descriptive phrases and the way he wrote about relationships between men and women. Does that answer your question?'
'That's more than an answer,' Randy responded. 'That's a review. You should visit his cabin. It's about six miles from Kohl's Ranch near Payson. You can rent a horse at the ranch and ride to the cabin. It's a spectacular country with great views of the Mogollon Rim which Hemingway wrote about in one of his books.'
One of the other players chuckled. 'Randy, you surprise me,' he said. 'I didn't know you were a reader.'
'There's a lot of things about me that you don't know, Joe,' Randy said.
I thanked him for the information. That night I got on the Internet and did a quick Google search on Hemingway and the cabin near Kohl's Ranch. It turned out Hemingway spent a lot of time at the cabin working on his books. He also went there to fish and hunt in the area which was rich in game and trout.
It was December. While the temperature hovered between 75 and 80 in the Valley of the Sun where I was living, the weather was cool with occasional snow flurries around Payson. The following Saturday I awoke at 6 a.m. and made the 80-mile drive to Kohl's Ranch.
The ranch is a rustic motor hotel that sits next to a sparkling stream filled with trout. It has spacious rooms at reasonable rates, good food, and a riding stable. I checked into a room, had a delicious steak dinner, and spent a restful night listening to the distant wails of coyotes in the tall pine country.
After breakfast the following morning, I headed to the corral. A Stetson-wearing cowboy named Shorty was tending the horses.
'I need two things,' I said, after introducing myself to Shorty. 'A horse with a good gait and directions to Zane Grey's cabin.'
Shorty blew on his hands. 'It's about a six-mile ride,' he said. 'I have a good horse for you, but you'd better be careful. Weatherman says a snowstorm is on the way. You could run into a lot of snow between the cabin and the ride back to the corral. If you run into a whiteout, just loosen the reins and give the horse a kick. He'll know what to do.'
The ride to the cabin was breathtaking in its beauty.
I followed the trail and passed tall pine trees. A deer with budding antlers broke out of the brush, startling my horse, and disappeared into the trees.
After a two-hour ride, I saw a cluster of buildings ahead. The cabin was a rustic building with a porch. As I dismounted from the horse, dark clouds moved across the sky and snow began falling.
I hitched the reins to a tree and walked up on the porch. Through the dust-covered window, I could see everything in the cabin just as Grey had left it. A bed, a table, chairs, and a desk. On the desk was an old typewriter. When I saw the typewriter, my heart quickened.
I stayed there for about 15 minutes just drinking in the atmosphere and the feelings. I could see how the cabin and the surrounding countryside could have inspired Papa to write stories about the Old West, gunfighters, the purple sage, and the other plots that filled his best-selling novels.
The snow was coming down harder as I unhitched my horse from the tree. Shorty was right. As I kicked the horse into a trot along the trail, I realized I was riding into a whiteout.
'Okay, old buddy,' I said to the horse. 'You're the boss. Take me home.' I loosened the reins and the horse broke into a brisk canter.
The snow fell so hard and fast I couldn't see the trail. The horse kept up the trot and even broke into a gallop. I had no idea where I was, but I had confidence in the horse.
Two hours later we bumped into the outline of a fence. It was the corral. We had made it home.
Shorty showed up to unsaddle the horse. He was wearing a yellow poncho and had a cigarette jutting from the corner of his mouth.
'I see you made it back,' he said. 'How'd you like the cabin.'
'One of the great experiences of my life,' I said and meant it.
Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.
(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).
