To avoid the metropolis of Albuquerque on our way to Boulder, we took a shortcut through the farthest northeast corner of New Mexico. I’ve always wanted to see a bit of New Mexico, and a bit is all I got when we stopped in the tiny town of Clayton

New Mexico calls itself “The Land of Enchantment,” but there’s not much enchantment in this town of less than three thousand. In the nineteenth century, homesteaders and trade caravans took the same shortcut, then known as the Cimarron Cutoff of the Santa Fe Trail. Most likely travelers paused to wet their whistles in Clayton, which at that time was a livestock shipping center.

Clayton has retained much of its Old West flavor. I could imagine men arguing over steer or whiskey prices in the middle of the narrow Main Street. You had to make your own entertainment in small towns in those days.

According to Clayton’s website, there are two things to do in town. One is to visit the Herzstein Memorial Museum, which has information about Great Plains history. Admission is free, but the museum is open only on Tuesdays. We arrived on Friday, so no go. The other attraction is the Clayton Lake State Park, which is outside of town. The park is said to have hundred-million-year-old dinosaur tracks, but it takes a bit of looking to find them. Road weary, we decided against the prehistoric search and headed instead for the Eklund Hotel on Clayton’s Main Street.

Built in 1893, the Eklund is a stone cube of a building next to the railroad tracks. A wrought iron balustrade on the second story gives guests a clear view of Main Street, should some excitement occur—a barroom brawl tumbling onto the sidewalk or a stampede of wild mavericks, for example. None of that happened while we were there. Since it was the weekend, we could have watched a few patrons go into the Luna movie theater across from the hotel. The Luna is closed up tight during the week.

Inside the Eklund, wood paneled walls flaunt paintings of cowboys, some on horseback, some leaning on rough railings, all with guns at their belts. A friendly guy checked us in and we climbed a flight of paneled stairs to our room. A skeleton key opened the door, where we found a double bed with an iron headboard, a little desk and small wood chair, and a bookcase with a minuscule box-type TV.

When Harry sat on the bed, the springs squeaked. I took the chair and set up my laptop on the desk to check email. Miraculously, the Eklund had wifi.

The hotel serves dinner, which was fortunate because we saw no other options in town. To get to the bar and restaurant, we passed through swinging shutters like the ones in old western movies. When the hotel’s guestrooms were renovated, some enterprising carpenter took the huge oak headboards from the beds and used them to build booths in the saloon. The booths were occupied when we went to the dining room, so we sat at a center table under an incongruous crystal chandelier.

Harry ordered a pork chop and I took a chance on the salmon tacos, which turned out to be delicious. During dinner I could hardly take my eyes off a man sitting at the corner table with two women. He was dressed all in black—black jeans and cowboy boots, black western shirt with shiny pearl snaps, black ten-gallon hat with snakeskin band, black mustache. His hair was black, too, pulled into a ponytail that fell down his back. He looked as if he’d just crossed the border from Juarez. The women chattered with each other, but he sat in stoic silence. I wondered if the Eklund invites him in every evening to remind gringos like us that we are indeed in The West.

That night whenever Harry or I turned over, the mattress squeaked and swayed. Every hour or so a train galumphed past our window, squealing its whistle and bringing me straight up in bed. I lay awake wondering if there were ghosts of gunslingers and saloon gals haunting the hallways and thought of Marshall Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty, the Lone Ranger, Hoss and Little Joe. Morning would never come.

When Harry sighed, I said, “Pa, you awake?” He didn’t answer.

Finally light dawned through the sheer curtain of our single window. Downstairs there was coffee and I brought up two cups and handed Harry one. He sat up and reached for the TV remote to check the day’s weather. I vowed not to utter a discouraging word when the weatherman said the sky would not be cloudy all day.

There was no pressing news about Clayton events. It is a well behaved little town.

Breakfast was a meager buffet. I particularly liked the crustless quiche and complimented the waitress—a woman with dark hair brushed back into a bun. She said the cook also makes a crustless cheesecake that’s delicious. When I hummed my interest, she went to the kitchen, brought out the last piece of cheesecake from the night before, and set it in front of me. I had had enough to eat, but I wasn’t going to turn down cheesecake. This was no “dessert lite.” New Mexicans, it seems, believe that we only go around once in life, and we should enjoy it. I was definitely enjoying that cheesecake.

When we finished breakfast, I was ready for a nap, but Boulder beckoned. I turned to Harry. “Ready to round ‘em up and move ‘em out, cowpoke?”And just like a taciturn cowboy, he gave me a nod of his head and a tip of his hat—actually, his baseball cap—and we packed up our pony—er, our Bug—and headed for the hills.