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Chivas Regal Bass
An Anecdote
This is a fishing story. That means, of course, that it may contain elements that are essentially true. Actually, there were witnesses to what you are about to hear and, almost certainly, friends who will eagerly attest to the credibility of my fishing stories in general, among them my fishing buddies Jim Barry, Tom Ball, and Dave “The Kid” Erfourth. And, for good measure, we can throw in Harold Nehmer, my dad’s friend for more than fifty years.
Over the years, I spent as much time on the lakes and streams of northern Michigan with my dad as with any of the friends I just mentioned. It would be fair to say that he got me hooked on the sport when I was still a little boy, probably at our summer place on Monocle Lake. In more recent years, when he was still able, my dad and I enjoyed canoeing, camping, and fishing in the Pretty Lake area north of Newberry. Pretty Lake is really a misnomer, a gross understatement. It ought to be called Gorgeous Lake. There are, at last count, six or seven lakes in the immediate area, either connected or accessible by portage. Most of them are deep, crystal clear, and set in a hardwood-conifer mix, with white pine predominant.
On our annual visits to the area, usually camped on Beaver House Lake, we spent a lot of time sitting by the campfire, sipping a cup of tea or nursing a Diet-Pepsi, discussing economics, philosophy, or the state of the union, but occasionally we would actually go fishing. The DNR has created some wonderful bass habitat in Beaver House by falling a few of the big pines into the lake. It’s nearly impossible to float past one of those spots, flipping a surface plug, without tying into a largemouth bass.
One afternoon Dad and I were drifting the shore, approaching one of the hot spots, when he said, “Hold up here a minute, son, I want to tie on a special lure, something my buddy Nehmer sent me.” The special lure turned out to be a Krazy Krawler, an absurd rodent-shaped, velour-covered piece of plastic with a chrome projection on either side — a mouse with wings. My initial reaction was to jump up and down, slapping my thighs and guffawing, which isn’t easy to do in a 17-foot Grumman. Then I got serious. “Pa,” I said, “With all due respect to our friend Nehmer, if you hook anything on that toy, I’ll buy you the most expensive bottle of Scotch available in the Eastern Upper Peninsula.”
“Done!” He didn’t even have to think about it.
We moved into the spot, he made one toss with the mouse, and WHAM! That trophy bucket-mouth nailed it! I’ve seldom seen a more spectacular show, even with a big steelhead. That bass was out of the water four or five times, diving, running, trying its best to gain the cover of the submerged pine.
“Back paddle! Back paddle!” Dad was yelling, “Don’t let that bleepity bleep get into the brush!”
“I am back paddling!” The truth is I was back paddling for all I was worth. This in the days when I could still bench press a tenth of my body weight. The bet never entered my mind at that point. I wanted to boat that trophy.
As luck would have it, Dad finally subdued the monster, lipped it, wrestled it into the canoe, and we headed for shore. We kept the fish alive long enough to show the boys in camp, then released it to fight another day.
On the way home the next day, we stopped in Newberry. I limped into the little drug store/liquor store on Newberry’s main street and said to the proprietor, “I’d like the most expensive bottle of Scotch you’ve got in the store.” I was pretty confident it wouldn’t cost me an arm and a leg. Then I saw the sparkle in the shopkeeper’s eye.
“Oh, my goodness, sir, you are in luck. We just happen to have one bottle of Chivas Regal Reserve. It’s a little dusty, but Chivas isn’t one of our big movers. At $65.00 a bottle, that’s no surprise. I really ought to charge you a little extra because this is aged longer. Chortle, chortle.”
Driving from Newberry to Trout Lake, I had time to reflect. Of all the valuable lessons my father taught me, this was the most important: Don’t mess with the big boys. But the lesson didn’t take. Within weeks, I’d made a similar wager with Barry while we were bassing on Bobbygay Lake. It cost me a fifth of Crown Royal.
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