The Sendero Speedway’s where legends are made, not on smooth asphalt but rugged, unforgiving Tejas dirt. Cowboys tear through 500 miles of wild country, chasing more than just a finish line. The real prize? Bragging rights and an ice-cold beer.
Y'all, pop on down to Sendero Bait and Tackle and get all the essentials! We got your nightcrawlers, jigs, crankbaits, motor oil, baby powder, hoosker doos, hoosker don’ts.
Everyone’s got those days out on the water. The ones that are so frustrating you’re ready to chuck that rod and reel as far as ya can, but that’s why “they call it fishin’ not catchin’.”
It ain’t majestic, it ain’t graceful, and it definitely ain’t for good eatin’—but you can’t look at one without crackin’ a grin. Just a lil’ round fella standin’ around, judgin’ the world, and lookin’ mildly concerned about everything.
Look, ‘possums might not win any beauty pageants, but they’ve got one helluva survival instinct—kinda like your uncle who somehow keeps getting free refills in that same styrofoam cup at the corner store.
It ain’t a buckin’ bronco… it’s a steel stallion! With a hydraulic kick and a mean setta horns, this sucker is low, loud, and liable to send your hat flyin’.
Picture yourself sitting on the banks of the beautiful north country of the Río Grande: crisp mountain air, cold Lone Stars in the cooler, the perfect fly on your line.
Here at The Cowboy Country Club we don’t concern ourselves with things like “dress code” or “decorum” we just value the important stuff like cold Lone Star and a dang good chicken fried steak at the clubhouse.
A skull grins beneath an ‘ol Stetson brim, Flames lick his helmet blue, defying death's whim, With hollow eyes he stares, a cowboy to the bone, Ridin' through eternity.
As I walked out in the streets of L.A., As I walked out in L.A. one day, I saw a young cowboy, wearing a cowboy hat
Wearing a cowboy hat, with no cattle he strayed.
