A Trip to Burdick's

"Do you know who Don Burdick is?" If you go to what used to be called "Burdick’s" on Long Lake, in Washburn County Wisconsin with me, I will invariably ask you this question.

Now it's called "The Pioneer on Long Lake." Or, as some people call it "The PioQUEER," or "The Gay Chalet." This is because about ten years back this gay guy named Roger won the Lottery and decided to buy the place for himself and his lover. But back when it was called "Burdick's" it was owned by a man named Don Burdick and his wife Connie, who, I have the sneaking suspicion, had ceased to be lovers long before I ever knew them.

Burdick’s was a simple bar. Some people called it a pit. They had one beer on tap—"Old Style". And in 1991 you could get a pitcher for $3.75. That's exactly what I and six friends did in August of that year on the last night of camp at Tomahawk Scout Reservation. The camp is on the lake, and the seven of us were on the staff at the camp. We had a couple of pitchers and we were trying to think of a shot to drink, as guys in their twenties will do on the last night of camp. Then Don lines up some shot glasses on the bar, pours something into them, and slides them towards us.

"Here's a little stinger for ya'," he said in a barely audible, one foot in the grave voice. It seems like he's had that voice for thirty years.

We drank 'em and they burned going down. Then we drank some more and they burned going down again. And then we drank some more, and on the third time, I don't think they burned going down quite so much.

"What's in those?" we asked. Dumb asses that we were. I'm a bartender now and I'd like to give you a word of advice: don't ask a bartender what's in a shot. Nine times out of ten they're going to lie to you anyway. Just drink 'em and enjoy 'em.

But Don Burdick was a prince. "You like those?" he said.

"Yeah."

"A stinger's got brandy and Crème (pronounced cream) de Menthe. But I like to use ginger brandy, and then I float a little Tabasco on top."

"Ohhhhhh yeah, Tabasco, that's what it was." Like we knew. I told you we were dumb asses.

Anyway, about an hour after we went in to Burdick’s we walked out hammered. I can still remember not being able to see very well. We piled in to my boat and set out on what was one of the most memorable nights of my life. We went to a remote section of camp some seven or eight miles up the lake to kidnap two sheep from the small "outpost" there. Two of the members of our group threw up over and over again en route, before eventually passing out. Then we nearly got lost in the woods. One guy, a Navy Seal—no joke he really was—wanted to chicken out when he started to see lightning. But the man who was to become my brother-in-law and I managed to carry two of the fuzzy animals across a half-mile of swamp back to the boat. I dropped my sheep in the lake while I was trying to put him in the boat but I managed to scoop him out and squeeze him between my sleeping cousin and the camp medical officer. Once in the boat, we brought the sheep back down to the administration building screaming "we got sheep!!!!!!" at the top of our lungs. Then we locked them in the office I shared with my arch-enemy at the time, one of the assistant camp directors, a guy named Rob Schultz. We also put a note on Rob's desk with some open condom containers. The note read "We've been waiting for you Robbie boy. Blow us you sheep shagger!!!" One of the members of our group was from England. Hence the term "sheep shagger."

None of us got in trouble at all. My sister's inlaws were coming to visit the next morning so she ended up cleaning my cousin's puke out of the boat while I was still sleeping. The next day, whenever Rob Schultz used the camp radio (which he was very fond of doing) someone would interrupt him with a piercing "BAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!."

For several years afterwards, a plaque hung on the wall in Burdick’s. It read:

When the new owners took over it came down. Now I think there's a video poker game against the wall where the plaque used to be.