Lagavulin

The Nine of Whiskey Stones

Lagavulin is one of Scotland’s oldest distilleries, located on Islay (eye-la) and a two mile walk along a path out of the town of Port Ellen. One mile down the path you reach Laphroaig (la-froig) and three miles down you arrive at Ardbeg. Each are excellent distilleries in their own right, but in my heart, there is only Lagavulin.

I grew up listening to my Dad tell stories, often around a bottle of Lagavulin. I have fond memories of nights around the campfire out west beyond the roads in rural Alaska, listening to him with my uncle and grandpa. They each had a small porcelain enamel mug with a small dram in it that they sipped as they took turns telling stories, laughing, or just nodding along. The peaty smoke of the whiskey mixed with the cold fall Alaska air. It was dreamy and homey all at once.

It was the family single malt, if we could be said to have one, simply because it was his favorite and there was always a bottle in the house. My Dad spoke often about his dream to visit Lagavulin one day, but for one reason or another we kept putting it off. Life moved fast and changed often. Next of us could predict that when he finally made it there, it would be as a small bag of ashes in my pocket.

—

I got the call on February 17th of 2011. Dad’s cancer had taken a turn for the worse, and it was time for me to come home. I stood in the research lab at Ohio State where I performed experiments in pursuit of a Master’s degree. I packed up my things, headed to the airport, and flew home to Alaska. The day I arrived he was discharged from the hospital to head home. None of us — my Mom, brother, or I — knew what to do, or what to expect. We were shown how to use his feeding tube to administer meals and pain meds, and we were told to wait.

My Dad setup in his favorite recliner in the living room, and I setup a table and folding chair near him. I worked half-heartedly on schoolwork, and we watched old movies. I wish more than anything I’d have asked him a million questions or recorded all my favorite stories of his, but he was in near constant pain, and I didn’t want to bother him. Truth be told, I was too scared to ask because that would have meant facing the fact that he was going to die. That one day very soon, he’d no longer be with us. I didn’t know what that meant then, and I was putting off finding out as best I could.

Some days he’d sleep through, others he’d be lucid and half-heartedly watch a movie with me or we’d chat a bit. I was happy on those days because I thought maybe, miraculously, he’d somehow get better. I considered that the dozens of tiny tumors spreading across his brain might just disappear. Of course, they didn’t.

On one of those good days, he asked to have his recliner moved over to the sliding glass door. It led out to the back deck which looked over the lake below. He asked for us to open the sliding glass door. It was a cold February day, and the wind whipped the snow on the back deck up into great whirls of dancing flakes that blew into the house, all over my Dad. He sat still in his recliner, eyes closed, and let it wash over him. I could feel him going out the door, being pulled back into that wild Alaska once more where he used to fly across the tundra.

He remained still and let the cold soak into him, feeling one last time the touch of the place he loved so much. Then he turned to me, with a sparkle in his eye, and said, “I’d really love a little Lagavulin.”

“Mike!” my Mom exclaimed, “You can’t have a scotch, what about your meds?”

“Oh yes,” he replied, turning toward me with a wink, “It would be a shame if it killed me.”

I laughed and poured him a little bit, just enough to wet his lips. He smelled it, savored it, and sat at the open door holding the glass. He looked a lot like his old self in that moment, and I loved that he kept his since of humor. On days like that I really believed those tumors actually might just disappear.

Of course, they didn’t. A few days later, he was gone.

Flying past Mt. Redoubt before he got sick. It was the last time we ever flew together.

—

My life accelerated dramatically in the four years after we lost him. Looking back, I think was by subconscious design. I returned to Ohio State and earned a master’s degree. I got a job at SpaceX helping build the west coast launch pad. I got married. I quit that job and moved to Seattle. They offered me a job building the landing barges. I took it to escape that failing marriage. I ended up on the high seas watching rockets fall out of the sky. Then, in the fall of 2015, I hit the wall.

I hadn’t ever really said goodbye to my Dad, faced his illness, or dealt with the loss. I was beginning to realize that I’d tried to escape into work as a way to escape the memories and the hurt, and to make some kind of mark to prove I existed; to rebuke my own mortality. After 12-months I didn’t have much to show for my efforts. I’d been bouncing between a hotel room in Morgan City, LA and Jacksonville, FL building and repairing the landing barges for a year. I lived out of a single suitcase that had a few company t-shirts and a new pair of Wal-Mart jeans every week.

My Mom, brother, his fiancée, and I planned a trip to Scotland to spread my Dad’s ashes. I quit the barge, got on a plane, and flew into Edinburgh. We rented a car and drove to Dunoon to catch the ferry to Islay. I stood on the bow of the ship, letting the wind and rain wash over me, feeling a little like my Dad must have felt on that February morning four years before. We arrived into Port Ellen and the next day set off for Lagavulin.

We had no plan. We just walked down there with hopes and a small Ziploc bag of the cremated remains of the man we’d all loved most in the world. We signed up for the premium tour because it had taken us more than my Dad’s lifetime to get there and who knew when we’d be back. We were led around the distillery where we learned the fascinating process of how Lagavulin is made. We saw the tuns, the pot stills, and the single mill that the grain of every bottle runs through. At the end of the tour, we were led into the old stone warehouse where barrels were stored.

Our tour guide was none other than Iain McArthur who was full of great stories and had been featured on the TV show Parks and Recreation when the character Ron Swanson paid Lagavulin a visit (you can see him leading the tour in this clip). He sat us down and rolled out a number of casks to try, quizzing us all the while.

At one point he asked, “What’s the best whiskey in the world?”

The crowd answered, “Lagavulin!” in a chorus.

I had a different answer: “Free whiskey.”

He walked over, shook my hand, and said, “Now that is the right answer!”

Then, perhaps as a reward, he let us in on a very special treat. A barrel of Lagavulin that was filled in 1966, well before humans walked on the moon. It was 49 years old. He uncorked it and drew a tiny amount from the cask, putting a scant milliliter into each of our tasting glasses, which he called a wee dram. It was smooth from nearly five decades of tithes to the angel’s share, and tasted like warm honey, vanilla, and smoke. I again thought of my Dad on the cold February morning, savoring his last. Just enough to wet the lips. An amazing, once in a lifetime treat — or so I thought.

After the tour, I hung back and awkwardly approached Iain. I explained our situation, that we’d come from Alaska, and that we hoped we might go down by the water the next day, spread some of my Dad’s ashes, and do a small toast. I felt bad, like we were imposing. Iain would hear none of that. He insisted we come back the next day at noon. We said goodbye and started the walk back into town.

The next day we arrived at the appointed hour. I had again developed cold feet, sure that we were not actually welcome, and he was just being nice. We loitered a bit out front, unsure how to proceed. Then, he appeared in the doorway and yelled, “What are you all doing out there? Come in, I’ve been waiting for you!”

He again led us down into the old barrel storehouse. He then turned to my Mom and said, “Lass, I am sorry for your loss. Which of the whiskeys you drank yesterday was your favorite?”

My Mom doesn’t drink much, certainly not much whiskey, and definitely not any of the peaty, heavy, medicinal Islay whiskey. As part of the tour the day before, we’d tried a 13-year, 17-year, 21-year, 33-year, and of course the scant taste of the 49-year. The allure of mellow sweetness was too much to ignore. My Mom thought for a moment and then said, “I liked that 49-year!”

Iain’s eyes lit up.

“No!” I interjected. I could see what he was going to do next.

I had purchased a bottle of Lagavulin in the gift shop the day before, the standard 16-year, for our little ceremony. Right next to it, I’d seen a bottle roughly the same age as me, a 27-year or so, that went for a few thousand dollars. I could only imagine what the 49-year might run. I opened my backpack and showed Iain that I’d come prepared.

“How about this one I got yesterday?”

“Put that away,” he said, “The lass wants 49-year, and 49-year she shall have!”

With that, he walked over to the barrel which was still out on the floor from our tour, dipped in a siphon. He drew on it, filled it to the brim, capped it, and then walked over to us. We equipped ourselves with small glasses from a side table, and he released the siphon over them. Where the day before we’d been given just a taste, he now poured full glasses up to the brim. He poured himself one, as well.

“So,” he asked, turning to my Mom, “tell me about him.”

With that simple invitation, we launched into stories about my Dad. We talked about him and my mom flying above the Arctic Circle, and them living without running water in Fort Yukon. We talked about the little air cargo business we’d had that flew groceries and fuel to communities off the road system. Iain told us stories about his family, life on Islay, and spending his career working at the distillery. We talked about what it was like for him to host Nick Offerman when Parks and Rec filmed there. We laughed and reminisced. It felt just like growing up, telling stories around the campfire or the bar at my parents’ home with friends, family, and neighbors.

The hours passed, the glasses refilled many times, and the stories got sweeter. Eventually, Iain suggested we head down to the water. We stepped out of the barrel house and went down to the bay. Iain gave a Celtic blessing, I opened our little baggie, and we spread Dad’s ashes in the water. We stood in silence for a while.

After some time, we thanked Iain, but I didn’t feel like enough. I wasn’t sure how best to express my sincere gratitude. I awkwardly offered to pay him. Of course, he refused. He told me that sharing memories over a dram (or three, in this case) was what he enjoyed most. I told him that we’d never forget his kindness, and that we’d always have a bottle of Lagavulin in our home. Sad, happy, nostalgic, and a thousand other feelings mixing in our hearts, we set off on the walk back into town.

Mom with the barrel from 1966, and with Iain down by the bay.

—

Today, Sunday March 2nd, is 14 years since we lost my Dad. I don’t drink much anymore; the fun has faded over the years. Too many nights of numbing after 14-hour workdays and cheap escapes from lives I didn’t want to lead added up to take away the appeal. But I still keep a bottle of Lagavulin in the house, as I promised, for when friends and family are over and we feel like sitting around sharing memories — just like around the campfires of my youth and in the barrelhouse on Islay.

Even if it’s just a wee dram.