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.