I write this after drinking a toast to my father. I told a friend how much I
noticed that my father hadn’t sent a birthday card this year. I told J. that
he was probably too busy with dinner to make the usual phone call. The toast
is with a finger of Caol Ila, the twelve not the eighteen year old, in one of
Dad’s crystal glasses.
How we come to own the bottle is a tale. Last year for my birthday E.
organized a trip to Oakridge, which is about a hundred and fifty miles to the
south of us, up in the mountains. One could choose among reasons to go
there—fall foliage, clear air, tranquility—but for me the trip was about beer.
There’s a guy who learned his stuff in the British Lake District and so makes
and, more importantly, looks after beer in the way that I like. Also the woods
around the cabin we rented last year yielded a feast of Chanterelle mushrooms.
So this year we decided to try to step into the same river a second time,
metaphorically speaking, with predictable results: bad beer, no mushrooms,
altogether bit of a bust apart from the glory of the sunshine. How to salvage
the evening? We hie’d ourselves to the state liquor store and chose between
the two bottles of good whisky they had on offer. Never have I previously
uttered a word in favor of Oregon’s odd system of liquor control. Now I must.
The system decrees that a price in one liquor store must be repeated all over
the state. Thus the Caol Ila was not outrageously expensive, despite the
rarity aspect in those parts.
And then? We looked at a map and found we were not far from Waldo Lake. No
one can find Waldo; that’s a given. But surely the next best thing is being
able to see his lake? Also, funny coincidence for those who have been reading
attentively these past weeks…beside Waldo Lake was…Charlton Lake. My father
kept saying of this and that football player, “He used to play for Charlton,”
until it became something of a family joke. “That tree used to play for
Charlton.” “That herd of cows used to play for Charlton.” Imagine a whole
lake…playing for Charlton!
And the road led us, by a route of less than five hundred miles round trip, to
the perfect pint of beer in Bend, Oregon. The Lord moves in mysterious ways
his wonders to perform. Among said wonders in my view is Bachelor Bitter when
cask conditioned. Take my word for it.
Tomorrow I let the chickens out of their weekend’s imprisonment. I think I’ll
skip any and all attempts at a customer satisfaction survey. “How was your
weekend?” is probably not the way to begin a fowl conversation le matin and
hereabouts.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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