Partagas Lusitanias Cigar - 1 Single

Reviewed by Rick Pastor Partagas Lusitania Becomes Alaskan Ash..... The real danger in exposing yourself to the pleasures of smoking fine cigars is the potential for disappointment. Let me explain: Cigars are like wine and other organic products made by hand. When they are wonderful, the memory sticks. But there are occasions when they disappoint. Several times over the years I've saved a special cigar for just the right occasion, only to fire it up and find it plugged or bitter. I imagine wine connoisseurs endure the same risks in order to find their perfect pleasure. These were the thoughts going through my mind as I was packing my travel humidor for my upcoming trip to Alaska. I was looking at the Partagas Lustitania that had been sitting there waiting for its perfect time. It was a gift from my good friend, Bob, who got it in London from Smokeymo—I had given Bob my best information on where to find cigars on his trip, and he was quite pleased with what he found there. I decided to bring the Lucy along just in case I had something worth celebrating. And since I was going with Bob, we could discuss the finer points of the leaf when the time came. "That's the Volkswagen hole over there," our guide, Jerry waved his left hand as we hustled up the river, his Custom Weld jet boat fully up "on step" dodging submerged rocks and zigzagging along the skinny water. The level was dropping and the channel was just about gone. "It's called the Volkswagen hole because there's a rock in there as big as a Volkswagen. It's plated with aluminum, so many boats have hit it." We're on the Deshka river, a freshwater stream that feeds into the Susitna River about 90 miles northwest of Anchorage. It's early June and the king salmon run is off to a slow start but it's supposed to be picking up. All along the way we're seeing swirls which means the fish are in the river and heading upstream. "Love to see those fish rolling," Jerry tells us, "it means they're finally here. We should do well." It seems that all of southeast Alaska has been looking forward to the first big salmon run of the year. When we left the boat landing at 4:30 in the morning it looked like a fishing tournament was kicking off. About every kind of boat you could imagine was in the water—inflatables, john boats, standard aluminum fishing boats, and bigger boats with enclosed cabins. The one thing they had in common was the jet power—outboards and inboards with jet drives. Maybe one or two boats had a prop drive. There were a few airboats, too—mostly flat-bottomed craft with a Chevy 350 driving an airplane propeller; some with an enclosed cabin, some without. The only thing missing was anything made of fiberglass. The Susitna is a large glacial runoff river with white, chalky concrete-mix water courtesy of the ground-up rocks the ice had been working on for the last couple of eons. The salmon come up from the ocean and find their way up to the freshwater streams that feed into the Susitna, sometimes resting at the transition point to flush their gills out and get ready for the final upstream spawning run. That explained why the mouth of the Deshka looked like a marina—boat upon boat upon boat—maybe fifty, maybe a hundred of them, all anchored in neat lines to the point you could practically walk from shore to shore. "Can you imagine how many nice fish are going to be lost in those anchor ropes?" Jerry just shook his head. They were going to catch fish all right, but what a mess. I was considering the idea that here we were in Alaska to get away from it all in the wilderness, and this is the last thing I expected to see. We were passing a bunch of spots Jerry knew to be productive, but most of them had campers and boats already there. It wasn't even 5:00 in the morning, but spots were being claimed. It was all local terminology loosely attached to places along the river. There was the Passin' Hole, the Twilight Hole, the Glory Hole, the Volkswagen Hole. We found a spot at the Walkin' Hole, got the boat secured, and cracked the Thermos open and poured some coffee. The river opens for fishing at 6:00 and closes at 11:00 at night, so we had a good hour to kill. "The reason all these people are here," Jerry explained, "is this is the first time ever that the state of Alaska announced in advance that you could use eggs for bait. Normally, they won't let you use eggs until they get a good idea of how the run is going, and they make the announcement on the fly, so people don't get to plan on it. We had such a good run last year that they announced well ahead of time that you could use eggs starting on Saturday. That's brought everybody and his brother out here." After having beaten the water to death the day before with a tackle box full of artificials and not catching anything, my fishing buddy Bob and I were ready for a little help. It's tough to travel 3,000 miles on a "trip of a lifetime" and spend the first day skunked. But it happened, and we were about to switch over to salmon eggs, and it was a whole new day. The rules were pretty straight forward: You could take one king salmon a day. Once you had your keeper fish, you couldn't fish any more for kings. Any fish 20" or under was a jack and you could take all of those you wanted. You could catch and release as long as you wanted as long as you didn't take a fish out of the water, and you didn't hurt a fish. If the fish bleeds, which is a real risk when you're fishing with eggs because they could swallow the hook, then it's your fish. As nonresidents, Bob and I had paid $30 for a 7-day fishing license and another $30 for a 7-day king salmon stamp. We were seriously hoping that we didn't catch a 21" fish that bled at 6:05 AM. Coming up on 6:00 and the temperature was struggling to get to the mid fifties. We put on hip boots and rigged up the rods. We were using medium weight spinning rods rigged with 20 lb. mono tied to a snap swivel. An 8" snelled hook with a loop knot went on the snap along with a 1/16 oz bell sinker. Jerry had tied the snell so that you could push the line back through the eye of the hook to form a loop, and once you hooked the spawn, you simply pulled the loop over and snugged it down. "Cast upstream, keep your rod tip high and feel the weight bouncing along the rocks. Keep the bait on the bottom as you swing the rod downstream. If you feel the hit, then set the hook hard." Jerry gave the final instructions and we headed up and downstream of the anchored boat. There wasn't much to it. As directed, we cast upstream, and holding the rod tip at about 11:00 you could feel the weight as it bounced through the swift current over the rocky bottom. One pass, then another. And another. A good fifteen minutes passed. Jerry confessed later that it was the longest fifteen minutes he'd ever spent, after all the egg hype and the dismal day before. It ended with a splash in the middle of the river, and Bob's rod bent back in a U-shape under the weight of a charging king. There was no horsing this fish. Reel down, lift up. He made a little progress, but as the fish came closer to the shallows, it turned and ran back down the river. All Bob could do was listen to the drag and hang on to the rod. Ten minutes and about four strong runs later, Jerry had the twenty pounder in the net. Bob shook his right arm and grinned. "Nice fish." Hooked neatly in the upper lip, Jerry twisted the hook loose and lowered the net. A brief pause, and the fish took off. Time to rebait and start fishing. Across the river on the other bank, what appeared to be a father and two grown sons were fishing pretty much as we were. Right after Bob hooked up, the older man hooked into a good one and had to walk up and down the stream and around his anchored boat to finally gain some advantage as the fish ran and jumped and basically did what it wanted to. As he got control, he dragged the fish up on the bank and proceeded to kick it over and over again in the head as it flopped around. Finally it laid still. I asked Jerry what he thought that was all about. "Some guys are here just for the meat. They get their fish and they're happy. That's what they came for. It was not, however, what we came for. We came for the fishing, not the fish. As I felt a hesitation in the line as it bounced over the rocks, I set the hook lifting the rod sharply over my head. The line pulled back immediately as if I was snagged on the bottom, but then loosened and a big king jumped in the middle of the river. Frantically reeling the slack out of the line as the fish swam toward me, I felt the weight at the end of the line. It turned back into the current and down the stream. The drag was singing loudly and the rod bent—the high musical pitch of the line tight against the guides joined the sound of the drag as the fish pulled and ran, and occasionally let me gain a little ground. I got him into the shallows, but as Jerry approached with the net, he turned and ran back again. Thirty, fifty, seventy yards out. Slowly got him back toward the bank and steered him to the net. "Pretty close to twenty pounds on this one, too," Jerry said. I was breathing hard and my shoulder was a bit stiff. How could I be tired after one fish? I held the net as Jerry checked the fish. It was no worse for wear and shot back into the river as soon as the net was lowered. Jerry hooked me up with fresh eggs, and I was back on the water. Now that the fish were hitting, it was a similar story over and over. A fairly light strike, strong hookset, and then hang on. Occasionally one would throw the hook, and Bob and I each had at least one break off, but generally we were able to win the battle and bring the fish to the net. "Well, Bud," Jerry said as he looked reached around the eighth king I'd brought in for the day, "I think you've got your fish." The fish was hooked in the lip cleanly just like the others, but just

If you get a good one this is a great smoke, nicely balanced but on the stronger side, smooth... a very nice Cuban all round... Though I have had one or two that were very tight on the draw...

Always delivers! A true king of Havanas, Full flavored, subtle spiciness, creamy overtones. One of the top three vitolas I have ever smoked. And one of the finest non LE cigars money can buy. Flawless construction and burn. If you sample one of these I can guarantee you will be back for more.

This one lives up to the hype! Possibly the perfect cigar, spicy and rich with a firm but workable draw and all the complexity you could want. When people who dont know much about Havanas talk about the stereotypical Cuban, (too heavy, too strong), this is the one there thinking of, and its fine with me if they dont want one. written by JM USA

These are the Partagas to have. If you have some time on your hands get one of these aged if you can or not. Lots of spice and smoke and they have a beautiful burn. The ash holds on forever and ever. About half way you will taste some earth and wood but the spice stayed with me all the way. A must have for your collection. written by Roy