The Great American Saloon Series / The Sprucewood Inn
Shiflett, Dave
A t a remote crossroads in the Pike National Forest, forty-five miles southwest of Denver, stands the Sprucewood Inn, a small tavern in the log-cabin style, the sort of establishment the...
...How big was he...
...For unknown reasons, we slam on the brakes at the last moment, skidding to a loud halt in the mountain stillness, sometimes only feet from the Sprucewood's front door...
...It's worth mentioning that on many days the Sprucewood beer may not be a fisher's first...
...Like all blue-ribbon bars, the Sprucewood benefits greatly from its location, which must be considered in the widest context to be fully appreciated...
...And tomorrow...
...On the back patio, the rainbow roasts on the grill, Pisces blazes above, and heaven settles in for the evening...
...Being of a more healthy bent, others of us come to this mountain spa beneath the evergreens to be revived, often after a long day of pulling rainbows from the nearby South Platte River, where a recent electronic survey found upwards of 1,400 trout per 1,000 feet, some of which are large enough to take the hand off an infant...
...The catch-and-release purists at the next table are miffed that you are taking the big boy home, and in fact it was not altogether pleasant feeling him in his death throes, the poet in you noting that his fins, scratching the inside of your vest, sounded like an angel's wings brushing the inside of a coffin...
...Thinking of all that land between the sea and thee is enough to work up a big thirst in all but the most incorrigible imam...
...Thus lubed, even the most reserved of us often feel obliged to tell our own tales, which may have started when an afternoon cloud passed between us and the sun, at which moment a big rainbow, 11 years old by the looks of him, made a mistake...
...Soon even fingerlings undergo huge growth spurts, some reaching sizes so big they straighten hooks, snap rods, and bore escape tunnels through solid rock...
...Make that twenty-two point five, and fat as Oprah's thigh...
...Unfortunately for poor Jack, he was doomed to expire in the tropical sweat of St...
...Nighthawk includes a stretch with a 15 percent grade (suitablefor the Giant Slalom) and no guard rails: a falling car might end its journey on the hungry boulders below, which seldom release their catch...
...On a typical midcontinent Saturday, hordes of anglers pass the Sprucewood en route to the river...
...Some 1,100 miles to the West, across the deserts and the smoldering ruins of Los Angeles, lies the cold Pacific...
...Slowly, we slipped him into the back of the fishing vest, continuing our casting as the sun set and he died upon our back...
...By mutual agreement, the truth is taken out early on and locked in the trunk...
...Tomorrow, of course, we go after the bugger's sister...
...Those planning to dine at the Sprucewood will note that the chef serves no french fries...
...When he entered the river, it's possible that in the front of his waders were stashed two Olympias (priced a recent weekend at $10.45 forthree 12-packs), while in his vest were stashed other secret weapons (also purchased at a discount), including flies tied by Guatemalan prisoners of state...
...What'd I say a second ago...
...Twenty inches...
...The smart ones forgo that early morning draft for many reasons, among them Nighthawk Hill, which lies between the inn and the bounteous South Platte...
...T he rich have their clubs, from which they depart with revived intellects and spirits, and we fishers have our Sprucewoods, where we warm ourselves in the age-old glow that comes from capturing fellow creatures for the purpose of eating them...
...Beers (bottled, three brands) go for $1.75, and a limited selection of spirits, including good Tennessee whiskey, is also available...
...One fellow told of watching a bald eagle being pulled under by a jumbo German brown, the raptor apparently giving off a very loud shriek just before disappearing in a bloody foam...
...But these limitations hardly matter, since the real point of going there is to swap fishing stories...
...Let's not be saps about it...
...your sipping partner might ask...
...CI...
...A t a remote crossroads in the Pike National Forest, forty-five miles southwest of Denver, stands the Sprucewood Inn, a small tavern in the log-cabin style, the sort of establishment the muscatel-lit Jack Kerouac might have considered the ideal place to die...
...That glow stays with us as we roll toward our high-plains cities, their lights twinkling below us as we descend the mountain...
...The menu is also limited...
...We fishers feel quite strongly about this drinking facility...
...t's not a big place: five booths, nine bar stools, and sparse decorations, the most notable being a couple of Polaroids of a treed mountain lion and a shotgunned turkey...
...Petersburg, Florida, after a sizable guzzling of Scotch...
...At last count, eight signs stated as much, so it's safe to assume he means it...
...The bugger struck hard, we explain, tearing down the river, but we held on tight, fighting him, following him, finally netting him...
...But after a day on the river, as the sun sinks toward Tokyo, the neon Coors sign in the front window acts like a powerful magnet on the front bumper of an angler's car, even when plans were to go straight home...
...From the front door it is 1,600 miles to the Atlantic Ocean, a trip that includes long stretches of geographic white noise—most notably Kansas—and a drop of 7,500 vertical feet...
...But what the heck—it's only a fish, not your grandmother...
Vol. 26 • April 1993 • No. 4
