#Did you see the picture of Ella on the tailgate of my truck?

[trivialbob]

The main reason for our Wisconsin camping trip this past weekend was to see our friend and former Tumblr Jessica, her husband, and their new bar. 

But we had one other destination in mind.

Sheila and I like dive bars. We’d heard of a blue ribbon, class A, #1, Gold Medal dive bar in northern Wisconsin, not far from the shores of Lake Superior, that is a must-see. 

We drove an hour and a half north from Birchwood to the tiny town of Moquah. Along the way we passed countless rural roadside bars (RRB). We stopped at one for a bloody and chaser. My nice smile earned me a Spotted Cow instead of a Busch Lite for that five ounce beer that makes a bloody 48% happier.

At times I wonder if these small towns, where the bar to resident ratio is high, do they close some bars just so those employees have a chance to visit the rest of the bars in town? 

Anyway...

I present - The Plywood Palace.

We arrived at 12:10 PM. The door, held shut with a small Master padlock that wouldn't survive five seconds in Minneapolis or Chicago, should have been propped open at that point, but the owner was late. 

It’s not likely he reads Yelp or cares what it is, so no one wasted time bitching. We were far from 5G service anyway. 4G too. Even flip phones would not help so you’d better have a quarter for a pay phone if you want to call corporate and complain.

Several trucks and side-by-side ATVs were already there next to my truck. I bet there wasn’t a Prius within 100 miles of this place. Telslas likely are prohibited by local township rules.

We were all happy campers, waiting in that parking area. Everyone had a cooler. Some shared beer. We shared beef sticks from a meat shop we stopped at on the way there. One woman had bowls of dip and some chips. It was a block party in the sticks, next to a shack.

About an hour later the owner showed up. A man of few words, he mostly grunted “three bucks” or “six bucks,” depending on how many cans of Busch Lite a bar patron ordered. The money went into a mechanical cash register. Hey! You hippie over there, asking about Apple Pay, GTFO of here. Ka-ching.

We’d been advised to order canned beverages. There’s no running water at the Plywood Palace. Everyone followed that advice. No one dared order a bloody or an Old Fashioned. Or anything requiring ice. Or even a glass of water.

Sheila and I loved talking with everybody, hoisting Busch Lights to our parched lips as sunlight streamed through holes in the roof and walls before finally striking on the concrete and dirt floor.

Bras and signed dollar bills decorate what could be known to some as a ceiling.

The “ladies” room is a two-stall. Word has it that the women prefer one side over the other. You may see why. 

Sheila had a large package of baby wipes, because she plans ahead. Others were elated when she announced that anyone could help themselves to those clean, moist sheets.

Left stall:

Right stall:

This is the men’s room. It accommodates acres of full bladders. I found the little flowers to be a thoughtful touch.

Pollsters likely spend little time here.

Near the end of our visit I scrawled Sheila’s and my names on the wall with a Sharpie. I tried to buy a beer for the people who’d gladly opened their coolers to us before the bar opened, but they would have nothing of it. Friends share beer with friends, and we were all friends.