By Trey Johnson
I looked over at my copilot Chase as we pulled up to a rundown building in a tired, nowhere town in south-central Idaho, “Are you sure this is it?” I asked. “According to Google it is,” Chase responded. Aside from the faint flickering of an open sign and smoke billowing out of a pipe on the roof, the old red brick building appeared abandoned. After a rough, and, at times, miserable week-long expedition in late December chasing chukar partridge—my favorite game bird—we were cold, tired, hungry, and ready to unwind. When I stepped out of the truck, I was met with the all too familiar aromas of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and pizza, and immediately knew we had come to the right spot.
As the front door of the beer joint swung open, rays of sunlight scattered across the dimly lit room, illuminating the hard faces of its inhabitants. Truckers, farmers, and cattle-ranchers—having no desire to join the modern world, perfectly content with being left the hell alone—looked up from their glasses as the door clattered closed. In that moment, the barroom went completely silent, as if the jukebox was unplugged, or worse yet, as if someone strolled in wearing an “I’m With Her” t-shirt. Walking across the room, still sporting our technical field pants, fleece and flannel shirts, mountain hunting boots, and blaze-orange hats, we were met by unfamiliar faces sporting sternly quizzical expressions questioning our presence in their favorite establishment. It was a small room with rustic wooden floors and walls decorated with neon beer signs—not the faux retro kind that pair best with hipsters and IPAs—these were authentic, likely delivered on horseback by the Marlboro Man himself. A wood-burning stove was positioned at the center of the room, piping hot and barely keeping the fierce winter chills at bay.
Approaching the bar, we grabbed a couple stools to take a load off. The old timers sitting at the corner of the bar glanced over at us, offered a half-hearted nod, as if to say “Sure, you can sit there; Bill and Dave won’t be joining us this afternoon,” then returned to their drinks and conversation. There was no doubt we were occupying the posts of their absent compatriots. Finally settled in, seeming to pass the litmus test from the regulars, or at least not having done enough yet to warrant being thrown out on our asses, we ordered a few Coors Banquets. As the conversations around the bar began to roll once more, we were immersed in a barrage of tales that encapsulated the way of life for these folks.
“George, I haven’t seen you here in two weeks, I figured something was wrong with ya.” one man stated. “I was taking some antibiotics for that respiratory infection;” George replied, “Lisa and the doc said I’d better lay low while I healed up.” He continued, “I’m back now though!” The men let out a low chuckle, clinked glasses, took a swig, and resumed their silence.
The old men then turned to us. The subtlety of our attire had apparently given away our reason for being in Idaho. “Find any birds out there?” the first questioned. “Got a few everyday,” we explained, “but conditions were rough with the blizzards this week.” They began to reminisce on their times chasing the little devil birds. “I’m too old to hunt them up in the mountains, but I’ll hunt the flats in the winter and send the grandkids to hunt up top to flush them down to me.” George said with a grin. “My granddaughter shot her first limit of chukar this year. Not bad for a 12-yr-old;” he went on, “that girl is a little mountain goat.”
We continued to swap stories of adventure with our newfound friends throughout the evening, the pile of empties ever-growing, and along with it, the loftiness of the tales. All around us, the bar had slowly filled-in with a younger crowd, gradually shifting from a rundown watering hole to the peak of nightlife in rural Idaho. However, the old men, with unwavering loyalty to their post, remained steadfast, dead set on showing “the way of the West” to us out-of-towners. There was drunken mention of bears and fistfights, world record bull elk, subzero nights spent in snow burrows and other near-death experiences that only a local could survive. Though it was clear these locals were built differently than us, by the end of the night the beers shared leveled the playing field and we found common ground on a well-worn bar top.
