Better Than Beer: Confession of an Uncertainist.

Here is a story I wrote a couple years ago about rolling with the punches in honor of the late Hunter S. Thompson. I thought it would be fun to re-share. It's from a visit to Crested Butte, Colorado on my way to Telluride... Enjoy!

The van seems empty at times. Yet it’s filled to the brim. I have two bikes on the rack, seven and five weight fly rods, five sheets of high-powered rock music, a drybag half-full of wetsuits and a whole multicolored collection of camelots, quickdraws, hexes, nuts… Also, a quart of water, a quart of oil, a case of mac & cheese, a pint of Pendleton and a dozen state maps. Not that I need all that for the trip, but once you get into serious uncertaintying, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that truly worries me are the maps. There is nothing in the world more helpful and responsible and righteous and certain than someone in the depths of a poorly folded map and I know I’ll get into those rotten things pretty soon… now I know how Hunter S. felt about that damn Ether.

Pushing on, I keep my high beams engaged, they are just enough to overpower the fiery blue tint of a full Colorado moon. The washboard road shakes my van violently as if to wake it from a drug induced coma. In the far off recesses of the night I can foresee the van’s demise. First the wheels will fall off in unison, the undercarriage finally kissing what’s been right in front of it for all these years. Rivets will pop and screws will squeal as the panels collapse outwardly like a blooming flower. The steel frame holds up a fiberglass roof and, there’ll be moment of deafening silence, when through the roof falls the spring-loaded rocketbox. My most treasured possessions becoming projectiles, landing upon the tall grass, wildflowers, and the several hubcaps claimed by the bumpy 12,000ft mountain pass that intersects the Continental Divide.  I’ll watch the antifreeze race for the Pacific; I’ll turn to see a torrent of gasoline run next to a pool of oil, voided of color and impenetrable by the moonlight. Headed to the east, the crude-oil concoction will eventually arrive at its family reunion being held in the Gulf of Mexico, where prehistoric biomasses have been erupting from the Gulf’s nutrient –rich muddy bottom. I’ll be left holding the steering wheel in disbelief, a lone coyote in the density of the Sawatch Range, and in the distance, the bright eyes of the roadrunner.

Meep Meep. The horn from an oncoming car wakens me from my reverie as I drift into their lane. I swerve and regain reality. I oftentimes play out situations like these in my head; it’s certainly not to prepare for uncertainty. Rather to occupy my uncertain mind as I make my way along certain parts of an uncertain path, which happens to be the only certainty in my life. Beer is what brings me to Crested Butte, Colorado. It’s the sole bit of certainty, but what’s better than beer is not knowing what I’ll do when I get there. An uncertainist; Drunk on roaming, stumbling my way westward.

Arriving late, strung out on Red Bull and Rolo’s, I forced myself into temporary hibernation. My eyes wanted nothing more than to close and my brain yearned for reclamation. The caffeine and sugar, however, had a different plan for my consciousness. They fought a hell of a fight but soon succumbed to the constant hum of a dimly lit street lamp hanging like a halo above the van.

In the morning I followed my nose and some vague directions to Camp 4 Coffee, where I enjoyed a liter of coffee, a pound of breakfast burrito, and a solid hour of conversation. I didn’t want to leave. It was like sitting at a brewery at seven in the morning, just more socially acceptable (encouraged even). I continued to sit and come up with excuses to stay, to do nothing, to make a plan. I thought to myself, "the death of uncertainty surely begins with making plans," so I must run, a fugitive fleeing the custody of certainty.

I got on my bike and rode to a gas station on the edge of town where I began asking strangers to hang out with me. Soon, I met Scott, a local musician in the band Buntron Smith, and convinced him to take me on a bike ride. Afterwards, he told me to visit a town called Paonia where I would find a small church turned watering hole called Revolution Brewery. I HAD to try their I.P.A. I fueled up and began to leave but not before a random guy wrote down directions to an out-of-the-way waterfall ‘I just HAD to check out’. It was shaping up to be another long night. That was certain. I called my friends in Telluride, “It doesn’t look like I’ll make it in time for dinner.” Oh really they exhaled, “When do you think you’ll be here?”

 I paused.

“I’m a bit uncertain.”

Beer & Roaming: Full Circle

Funny how when you think something went wrong, it ends up being just right. Two years ago I departed on a road trip throughout the West where I paired local outdoor communities with their local breweries. I had dreams of uncovering some kind of beer-consuming paradigm that found rhyme and reason between geographical locations and the kind of beer that is preferred when followed by a variety of activities. Makes sense, right? My first stop on this tour was Leavenworth, Washington where I found no brewery in sight. Not the best start to a trip that would ultimately end inconclusive and without a nomination for Philanthropist of the Year. Damn you IPA.

Fast-forward two years and Icicle Brewing Company, where I now work thanks to my trip's unknowingly ‘bad’ start, is celebrating their one-year anniversary. Two days prior, at Leavenworth Mountain Sports, I was mounting bindings on a splitboard that took me all winter to make. Elbow deep in epoxy, I heard the unforgettable voice of Icicle’s brewmaster, Dean Priebe. As I looked out from behind the bench, I saw him propped up against a brand new pair of skis. “Want to go ski Bootjack this weekend?” he says. I looked down at the mess of a splitboard in front of me thinking, ‘Bootjack on top of Bootjack…’ I quickly reply, “of course.” We made some tentative plans before Dean departed with his skis and I turned back to my quandary.

8 a.m. Saturday and I pulled up next to Dean at the brewery. With his tweed-like blazer and brand new Mammut pants, he loaded his gear into the truck and I filled up a container with IPA. We made our way out of town, going through the standard order of operation; pick up oil from one house, hitch a trailer at another, get 5 gallons of gas, drive out the Icicle, load a sled, drive further, unload the sled, gas and oil it, and finally we were on our way.

The elusive Dean Priebe

10 a.m. and our skins are on. My splitboard looks great and I am really excited to test it out. Dean didn’t get his new bindings in time so he was using his old set-up and I sensed he really wished he had his new skis (my constant stoke about the inaugural tour of the board probably didn’t help… The champagne and streamers didn’t either). We meandered our way through the forest not really sure if we were in the right place but agreed that up was the best direction. We took a little break when we could finally see out from the trees; me with my beef jerky and Snickers, Dean with his MRE (Meal Ready to Eat: Just add water and viola! Thanksgiving).

11:30 a.m. and we finally made it out from the trees and for the first time saw Bootjack Mountain. An hour later we were on top of the 6,789 foot peak drinking 32oz of Bootjack IPA. For all you math-heads out there… 6+7+8+9= 30 + 2 people = 32. Coincidence? Upon washing down the final bits of chocolate and caramel and Dean’s last steaming bite of hot ravioli, we said goodbye to both the IPA and the mountain.


1:00 p.m. and I’m off. The splitboard held up well on its 6 or 7 turns from the rounded summit and as I looked back, from right to left, a giant panel of light shined across the North Face and there was Dean about halfway down making beautifully engineered tele turns. They followed the contour of the mountain and between a small patch of trees. Each turn was mirrored after the next. Consistent. Balanced. Smooth. Enjoyable. Hmm, those are the same words I use to describe his beer. Another coincidence?

  

With every experience we have, we learn. We learn about ourselves and of life. I have been fortunate enough to have many of these experiences. Not to say that I know the meaning of life or anything, but watching Dean ski, I can say I know a little bit more about the “Deaning” of life. Mid revelation, the answer to what it all ‘Deans’ on the tip of my brow, I hear the man himself let out a whoop and I snap too.  The rest of the ride down, through the forest and the drainage, I couldn’t help but think about Dean and his beer. It's not unusual for me to be thinking about beer, but this time I got to thinking about the brewing of beer and about what makes good beer.

There are of course good local ingredients, clean fresh water, and most importantly a mad scientist to blend it all together. Every brewery seems to boasts the best ingredients and purest water but what really secedes the monotony of who’s best in the brewery brotherhood is the brewer. Good beer is a product of what you put into it, ingredients, spirit, and all. Getting to share this experience with Dean has given me a greater appreciation for his art and a better understanding of what makes good beer and what makes good beer taste great!

I’ve found that for both the brewing and consuming of beer, the best, all comes down to experience. The experiences that give way to a brewer’s inspiration as well as the experiences that give reason for cheer. From the snowmobile ride and creek crossings to the conversations about ski technology and the ravioli, our time in the mountains made for one of the most delicious beers I’ve ever had. Not only because Dean’s experience will inherently be used as inspiration when brewing but because we were also drinking Bootjack on top of Bootjack!

Or so I thought…

Not Bootjack

Yeah, that’s right. We didn’t ski Bootjack.  Oops! We found out later that we skied the high point of a ridge just west of the mountain. If it’s any consolation, it was about 20 feet taller.  As I re-read the story I had just written about great beer and experience, all the while thinking we climbed, drank, and skied Bootjack, I felt I’d have to change the whole thing. It was then I realized that the experience was still the same. The only difference is that we drank Bootjack, next to Bootjack. Which brings me to my original statement about the beauty of tribulation.

We had great time skiing, regardless of where we actually were. The truth is, we were in a beautiful place, in the company of a new friendship, drinking good beer, and skiing good snow. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Because, it doesn’t matter what mountain you ski or who you ski it with. What matters, is that you are skiing with friends and if you’re lucky, you can celebrate your experience over a pint of good beer. Although if you can ski with a friend that happens to be the one who makes the good beer, that’s even better if you ask me.

SeasonALEs

Cloudy and clear, bitter and sweet, dark and light, subdued and bright, descriptions of feelings or the five day forecast? While these adjectives could be for either of the two, they’re actually descriptions for beer. I want to look more closely at the correlation between seasonal surroundings, our emotional output and liquid input.

As the earth comes out of hibernation so does our skin. Shorts and skirts expose our pale legs to the sun as we dawn tinted glasses to ease our eyes transition to the longer days.  Couples get married and birds sing, moms make pie and bees make honey. People’s overall feelings are lifted, they blossom like spring flowers; they smile big and often, bright as a summer day. To accompany these days, these feelings… light, clean, crisp Kolsch and Pilsners are brewed. They are gentle like the morning dew, clear like the night sky and smooth like a gentle breeze. As summer comes to an end and fall draws near, the craving for a more full bodied beer grows with the coat of the family dog.

As the sun dips below the equator and casts a long shadow over the Northern Hemisphere, the grass stops growing and the leaves start falling. A thirst is no longer derived from swimming in the river or frisbee in the park. It’s from splitting wood to stay warm during the coming months, then mountain biking till dark. We get caught in a stalemate between the summer that was and winter that will surely be. All the while, beauty and serenity surround us with every shedding maple tree and every golden larch. We are reminded to be thankful for a roof over our head and hot soup. We grow to appreciate the beauty of mud on our rubber boots and football. With autumn comes the harvest. With the harvest come fresh hopped pales and amber ales. Their colors mirror that of the changing leaves, a kaleidoscope of flavors cascading through the mountain valleys, past our tongues and down our throats. Often sweet like the air after the first snow and rich like a Thanksgiving dinner table. They prepare our palate for winter ales as we prepare ourselves for winter hails.

                There are two different types of people in the winter, storm troopers and storm poopers. Some see a cold wet winter as a reason to hibernate and others see a cold wet winter as a reason to celebrate. Some run from the storm, resenting what it brings, while others run towards it, ready and willing to reap its abundant bounty. It’s their response to this sort of adversity that determines their emotional outlook. It’s either ‘La NinYeah!’ or “La NiNO!’ Either way, there’s no denying the days are dark and the nights are darker. Darkest yet are the porters and stouts that litter the shelves of the local market like skier and snowboarders litter the lifts of the local ski area. They are robust like the cascade snowpack and smooth like a pow day. They are usually higher in alcohol content and give off a wonderful ‘warming sensation’ that can be appreciated by both the tired from winter and the tired of winter.

.From down coats and dunkels, skis and stouts, to tank tops and flip flops, bike racks and six-packs; a good beer is derived from its surroundings and best enjoyed within its season and appreciated for a plethora of reasons as diverse as our feelings. So, as winter approaches on the heels of autumn in a conga line of seasons, be thankful for the changes in the weather, the changes in yourself, and the variety of beers inspired by change!

Bikes, Bruises, and a Buzz

      With all the kickoffs this past weekend, none had a greater impact on the Pacific Northwest than the kickoff to the Stevens Pass Bike Park. They got the big bull wheel turning and opened their lifts to the general public on Saturday while the UW and WSU got a big conference win.

At 10 o’clock Saturday morning, 400+ mountain bikers showed their spirit by braving the foreseen dreary weather and riding the trails of Washington State’s first lift-accessed bike park. Like their colligate counterparts, donning helmets and pads, these riders went to battle with gravity. It was a testament to the strength of the biking community within Washington and their ability to do what all good Northwesterners do, play in the rain.

Stevens Pass has taken it upon themselves to provide a much needed service. Their attention to detail and fulfilling the rider’s needs has transitioned well from the ski industry to a growing mountain bike community. While only two trails are in operation, several more are being mapped and constructed. The quality over quantity approach will continue to serve both Stevens Pass and its occupants well. The stoke was high throughout the bike park, but amongst the hoots and hollers was a quiet buzz. Winter’s coming…

An hour and a half from Seattle or forty-five minutes from Leavenworth you were in the middle of the cascades, surrounded by an alpine setting on fire with fall colors and the unmistakable smell of autumn. There’s no denying that anyone who went home and put their bike away, thought to themselves, “now where did I put all that ski gear?”

If Dr. Seuss was there:

Amongst the grit,

the grime and the gears,

the sound of chains bouncing off frames fill the Cascadian atmosphere.

Brakes beacon and tires trundle

as they cross a wooden bridge,

echoing off Cowboy Mountain and then off Skyline Ridge.

The bike park is open

to the sigh of relief,

with two trails to choose from, both flowy and steep.

Stevens Pass has filled a void,

in the heart of a community

for both girls and boys.

I see their enthusiasm,

their infectious smile,

as they wait in line in single file;

to wash their bikes,

the frames and suspensions,

from Transition to Trek, their most prized possessions.

And sitting above

in the chairs of the lodge,

my head spun around a familiar collage.

As the fog settled in

and the rain it poured,

I realized I was somewhere I’ve been a hundred times or more.

But boy am I confused

with all the commotion,

all the people, the green, and nothing is frozen.

And what is that sound,

that pound and a hiss?

Why, its winter knocking and blowing a kiss.

While I’m thankful for trails,

the lift and the dirt,

I’m also stoked I didn’t get hurt.

The ground is hard

as I’m sure you know,

so forgive me when I say, “bring on the SNOW!!!”

OctoberBEST

            It seems only fitting that the first blog dedicated to the Icicle Brewing Company should come on the first day of Oktoberfest. I thought I’d take a look at the history of Oktoberfest and realized it seemed a bit contrived, so I answered some of my own questions and came up with what I believe to be a more realistic chain of events that make up today’s modern Oktoberfest.

The history of Oktoberfest is well documented and regurgitated on countless websites dedicated to the 200 year old festival yet it seems to be missing several key components, which I believe to have uncovered, based on pure imagination. It starts like so many other fairy tales with Prince Ludwig marrying Princess Therese. However unbeknownst to him, she is Germany’s first “bridezilla” and demands there be a festival held in their honor for all of Bavaria to attend.

 It’s obvious she registered with the local blacksmith, potter, farmer, builder, butcher, seamstress, mason and monks, and had a wish list of gifts only obtainable if everyone in the city came (hence their invitation).

 Amongst the loaded gift table of swords and gourds, mutton and mittens was the gift of the monks. While the prince and princess waded through their bounty with murmurs of ‘you shouldn’t haves’ and ‘we really needed one of these’, the beer waited. The barrel stood cloaked in oak and iron, its contents sacred, pure and without fault like a wooden version a monk. When the couple finally tasted the sweet nectar upon their lips… that’s when Oktoberfest was born.

The Princess quickly began planning their anniversary which would mirror their wedding and include a local agricultural show a.k.a. more beer. In the two hundred years since, only Cholera and War have kept the people of Munich from celebrating this glorious event. Now the 5 million or so attendants drink the 7 million or so liters of beer, and consume countless kilos of kielbasa.

It’s only fitting that other places around the world have adopted the Oktoberfest tradition and no other place in the world has done it better than here in Leavenworth, Washington. We have a beautiful town alongside a pristine river tucked into the hips and valleys of a spectacular mountain range, giving us a setting unrivaled. Geography aside, we are a tight-knit community that thrives on sharing what we have grown to love and Oktoberfest is one way of doing that. So please come join us. Come climb our mountains and drink our beer, smile and laugh with us. Let us cheers to a good harvest, good people, and an autumn wedding. Let’s make this OktoberBEST!