Sprecher’s Bar – Leland, Wisconsin

Leland, Wisconsin, population: 50.

It’s a town on the way to nowhere and the 50 or so that call it home don’t necessarily mind that.

My wife and I had spent the better part of June rubber tramping across Western Wisconsin. Happening into Leland was by accident. A few years before, I had visited what I believed, was the only thing worth mentioning in Leland. And that was the Natural Bridge State Park a couple hundred yards east of town.                            http://wisconsinrambler.blogspot.com/2015/02/natural-bridge-state-park.html

The night before, we had camped out under the stars, a stone’s throw outside of the little town of Neptune, Wisconsin, a black dot on the map kind of town known for its ‘Elephant Trunk Rock’. The month of June had been dry. Bone-dry, in fact. We took advantage of the deteriorating populace of mosquitoes and threw our sleeping bags right there on the grass next to our fire pit. We passed out under an opening in the Alder trees, the faint passing of an occasional lonely car out on Hwy 154, lulled us to sleep.

The morning found us on what I couldn't say with any certainty wasn’t private property, so I whisked a quick breakfast together on the Coleman, poured a cup of what loosely resembled coffee, the dogs took a shit and we were on our way. We headed East.

Western Wisconsin is an expanse of land that is hard to describe. High plateaus with long sight lines, red barns and silos suddenly give way to Appalachian-like shadowed gorges and hidden ravines; places time forgot. We pass through the towns of Bear Valley, Mound, Sextonville and finally, Plain, Wisconsin; all just loose scatterings of buildings, a Lutheran church or two and quaint homes with kept lawns. There’s very little, if any poverty to be found. Around mid-day we roll into Leland, a town at first glimpse, very much like any of the others.

Nothing about the mundane blueish-grayish building on the right hand side of the road should have caught my eye, but it did. An Old Style beer sign swings from a rusty brown hanger as I hit the brakes on the Subaru and take a parking spot out front on the street.

Its noon. The June day is just beginning to blossom. Summer is still in its infancy, the scent of flowering lilac stubbornly hovers in the air. My wife and I get out and stretch our legs, walking stiffly into the bar.

Lunch is on my mind. I’m also not denying I could go for an amber pint with an inch of head on top. I stroll in and find the inn nearly empty. I suppose it is a Tuesday after all. Just one old man is tending the keep; we pull up a stool and I peer at what he has on tap.

What transpires in the next few hours is nothing short of simply spectacular.

The bar keep is Junior Sprecher, namesake of Sprecher’s Bar, 53951. He’s a gray haired man with a strong fire in his eyes, a balding whisp of snow-white hair and a strong barreled chest…. and he’s been tending this slab of hardwood for almost 80 years.

Yup. Eight Zero.

In fact, only two people have owned this piece of real estate in the last 110 years or so. Junior Sprecher and well, Senior Sprecher. Edwin is his given name and Jim, his middle. While most kids during his time would have been called by their middle name had they shared their father's namesake, Mr. Sprecher informs us that the family’s draft horse’s was called Jim. So from about age five or so, he’s been Junior Sprecher.

The selection of alcohol is limited but they come for the tête-à-tête. That and The Junior….a sandwich that is piled with a munificent sum of aged summer sausage and slabs of sharp cheddar. I've never had anything like it.

The walls are littered with the history of Leland. In effect, Sprecher’s serves as the town’s unofficial museum. Black and whites of a time long since past hang in cheap wooden frames, hung from crooked tacks. There’s a pool table with surprisingly good green felt and the woman and I try our hand at a game or two.

I’m no better than I was on our first date.

Senior Sprecher first owned this building when it held the General Store. He bought it in 1900. Over the years, they did what they needed to survive the Depression, the 1960s, the Carter Years and Skinny Jeans.

“I listened to the Joe Louis, Schmeling fight on the radio in the corner over there.”, Junior confesses.

Junior himself was a boxer in his prime, first bare-knuckling it in the alley behind his father’s store and later a fighter who earned a scholarship to box for the University of Madison. With his bags packed, Junior had to abandon his dreams when his dad fell ill. Junior’s been running the bar ever since.

“We’ve sold just about anything you could think of over the years. Fishing equipment, farm overalls, gloves, hats, things the people needed on the farm…I started selling guns too, when I knew they’d sell.”

Over the years, Junior hasn't re-stocked the walls with a lot of the things he once did. But you can still buy a deer rifle or a shotgun, a belt holster or knife and talk about your new purchase over some fermented barley. Gotta love Wisconsin.

We sit there for what ends up being most the afternoon. A few locals come and go. My wife and I fit in a game of pool while Junior chews the fat with visiting patrons. A group of three ‘bikers’ show up on Harleys. All three squeak as they walk in, fitted in their brand new leather. Accountants or lawyers we figure. They order Miller Lites and one, a Corona with a fruit wedge. They leave after an hour or so, revving their iron steeds excessively through the calm of the sleepy afternoon.

But there’s sometimes a half hour or more where it’s just us and him. The friendly smile never leaves his face, nor does the sincere enthusiasm of his conversation.

I feel almost sad leaving. Like I remember leaving my Grandma’s house on Sunday afternoon when I was a kid.

But my wife and I need to find another spot to spend the night and the heavy scent of freshly cut hay in the waning hours of daylight remind us of this.

We pay our tab. I order two of Junior Sandwiches for the road and we walk across the creaking floor and out the door. Junior follows us.

We head to the car and say goodbye. Our dogs, lying lazily in the shade of a century old Maple tree run and hop in the back. We pull away with Junior still in the doorway of the bar.

We’ll be back someday.