The vast dining hall was packed. While the communal tables rocked with good humor and wholesome food, I’d driven all day from Santa Fe through unimaginably barren landscapes of desert, and just wanted to sit down and have a quiet dinner.

Fat chance; this was the Tanque Verde Ranch and… you’d darn well better have a GREAT time.

“Hi there, what visit is this?”

I was being checked-out by a patrician-looking woman on my right. The eight others stopped in mid-conversation to hear my answer.

I said it was my first time at the ranch. (I was already beginning to develop a twangy sort of drawl.)

In unison, they each said, “Oh, you’re going to LOVE it! This is our (garbled) visit, we come every year.”

Soup arrived. I introduced myself to the Mrs. Bush look-a-like.

“I’m Helen Finkle, from Rye, NY.”

I told her my mother used to take me to "Playland" in Rye.

“Why Playland is right out our condo’s windows! Isn’t that funny? You know, The Tanque Verde is like that. You meet so many nice people here. We came here seven years ago and it’s kept us alive.”

While I was dying to attack the rack of spare ribs that had just appeared in front of me, that’s the kind of comment you just can’t ignore. I raised my eyebrows.

“You see, we weren’t interested in riding when we first came; just wanted a rest. But the nice wranglers here encouraged us to try."

With a conspiratorial nod to the young couple across from me, I ordered a carafe of something red. Mrs. Finkle went on.

“We never thought of ourselves as communal diners or group participants either, but there’s something about the atmosphere here that makes it all fun. Look out there. There’s going to be a Western dancing show after dinner . . . I bet they’re going to rope all of us into it too.”

I glanced around for another way out.

“Well, we tried it and we found we could do it and it was fun. Now every year we come back. This afternoon we booked for the same time next year. We pay in full in advance . . . so we’ll have to stay alive for yet another year, otherwise we’ll lose the money. You see, Mr. Finkel’s 81 and I’m 76 — not bad, huh?”

The Ranch Social Hostess came by to see what time I wanted to ride in the morning. No one could believe I was only staying one night and had to leave at the crack of dawn. I flustered that I was checking it out for my family; they smiled skeptically and sat down again.

The couple across the way were on about white-water rafting and the Finkels got up to get a good seat for the dancing. I paid for the wine (everything else is included) and went back to my motel-roomish terrace to find Cassiopia and get my bearings.

Tanque Verde Ranch, Tucson, Arizona — not for everyone!

By, Ted Carter