Eddie Mulick was the first person I met when I moved to Trout Creek, and that was largely because he owned, what his matchbooks proclaimed was, âThe Wayside Bar--finest bar in Trout Creekâ. It was also the only bar.
Those days I did custom haying in the summer and I had been working George Casteelâs field right across the river. George was a story in himself, an old single-jack gold miner whose cabin floor was liberally littered with rocks of ore and cases of dynamite. if you asked George how it was going, he would tell you, âShowinâ a little color, showinâ a little color,â meaning he thought he was just about to hit the jackpot. I quit haying when the dew was beginning to saturate the windrows, around 10 at night, and drove my pickup over the bridge to the Wayside for a shot. The Wayside was crowded. Maybe it was a Friday night, I never knew what day it was, anyway, but I edged into a place at the bar and when Eddie saw me, he brought me my shot.