Osprey - 2-3-2011 at 11:21 AM
Wind blowing. Time for writing so here's this morning's offering. This one is true, a memoir, if you will.
Mezcal and the Mormons
I wasn’t born this way – crumpled up, old and stove up. There was a whole era when I made the time to play all around The Great Basin, mostly chasing
the wily trucha, trout, to you Spanish challenged out there. South central Utah was close, empty of people and loaded with lakes and springs and seeps
and trout filled streams and rivers so it was my weekend runaway place for over three decades.
I sometimes had pickups, a couple of jeeps and I mostly dry camped near the water and the fish. I’d make a nice fire, put on some suitable tunes and
break out some Gusano Rojo – the unique, almost from-the-still smoky taste was just rough enough around the edges to suit my try anything once
disposition.
All my camping and fishing gear, food, booze and possibles would be thrown in the vehicle so I could be self-contained no matter how rustic the spot I
happened to pick. Sometimes I would call the appropriate Utah Fish and Game office to find out where they were biting and make a short list of
destinations to choose from. At other times I would seek out map sites that might hold natives, that is, places where the fish had never been planted;
the jeep got me to a few that were a challenge and I was happiest there because I would have the place and the fishing to myself.
Somebody told me an old high school chum had moved to southern Utah and had just opened a bar in the little town of Hurricane so after I took a nice
limit of rainbows from a place called Otter Creek, I found the place on my way back home, stopped to reacquaint myself with the bar owner. There he
was behind the bar – he had quit his job running the presses at a Las Vegas newspaper, moved to Utah, opened two bars.
Something about Utah and booze: I worked for some nice Mormon people in Las Vegas but I never tried to figure out the story with booze and bars where
I loved to fish so much. I did know the State Liquor Stores were not well stocked nor were the prices on a par with sources in other states. There
were all kinds of licenses for beer and booze depending on the circumstances. In Jerry’s case, both his bars could sell beer but not booze. You could
bring your own booze and drink it any way you liked – they would make a buck or two on the set ups.
So after Jerry and I sorted that out I went out to the jeep and brought in a half bottle of the good stuff, worm and all and spent some pleasant time
getting reacquainted. Even then I knew better than to go too far with the mescal when I still had a long drive home. Jerry said many of his customers
left their booze in his care in the big walkin cooler where he would protect and care for it until their next visit, help to keep the peace by way of
open container laws. So I found a couple of my business cards and rubber bands, marked the bottle as mine. I gave him another bottle I had in the jeep
for his other bar in Navajo and applauded his business style.
After that little lesson I made it a habit of depositing a bottle in a few more places of the same business style in small towns near my favorite
fishing holes. Never really acquired the taste for beer but I can tell you with certainty that I have enjoyed the alternative libations – the new
routine gave me perfect excuses to stop and get to know some new folks (not just the nightcrawler mongers) in quaint and friendly little villages all
over Color Country. A few times I found it advisable to sleep in the jeep, on the grass behind the bar, in the storeroom but that usually led to the
discovery of great western breakfasts to be had in whistlestop coffee shops from Moab to P******ah. Looking back, I can’t put a good figure on the
added value of knowing for sure, fish biting or not, what I could expect, by way of sweet, warm Mexican whiskey comfort on my way back home.
DanO - 2-3-2011 at 11:35 AM
Great little memoir George, thanks.