It was late fall of 1988 and I was passing through the Navajo Reservation in northeastern Arizona, driving back to Arizona after a brief working sabbatical in a tiny mountain town west of Denver (just over the divide from where Hunter S. Thompson ranted and raved in his Woody Creek compound). I’d been out of the army a little more than four months, held a full time job on a highway project on Berthoud Pass, dated a nursing student who got busted for selling cocaine, climbed to the top of Torrey’s Peak, drank boxes and boxes of Rainier beer and spent far too little time actually appreciating my surroundings. The snow began to fall at our job site well before Halloween and then it reached the cabin I was renting in that little mountain town, and I realized things weren’t going to improve weather-wise, so on election day, and in the midst of a snowstorm, I loaded up the pickup truck and pointed it southwest.
I recall it was somewhere outside Kayenta that I spotted a stooped old man trudging along beside the road, a ragged looking dog following close behind. The wind was not so much cold as it was persistent and the mutt seemed to be seeking shelter in his master’s wake.
I pulled over and waited as the old fellow trudged up beside the truck. Leaning across the cab, I opened the passenger side door and offered him a ride. He nodded, not saying a word and stepped back as if to climb into the bed of my truck, already piled high with what few possessions I carried and stacks of Edward Abbey books in Rainier boxes.
I beckoned him join me in the cab and, shrugging slightly, he – and the dog – climbed into the cab with me and I pulled back onto the deserted highway, the persistent wind no longer a burden.
Eager to make conversation I asked, “Where you headed?”
“Flagstaff,” came the brief, blunt reply.
“You have family there?” I asked.
“No,” came the reply.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I asked.
“Doesn’t have a name,” came the reply.
“Pretty cold today, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” came the reply.
“Let me know if the heater’s set high enough for you,” I said. “I don’t have the setting’s just right ‘cause I’m not used to this truck. I got it for my girlfriend.” There was no reply and we drove on for a few miles, my companion gazing through the windshield at the onrushing empty highway, thinking.
Finally, he said simply, “Good trade.”
(I’ll leave it to you to decipher what part of the foregoing story is bullshit.)
I worked a deal with Johnny Southside this week wherein I traded him two of my precious Deschutes Cinder Cone Reds for two Widmer Hefeweizens. I have to confess that I regretted making the deal about five seconds after having made it, but having made it, I stood by it and things worked out nicely, I have to say.
Widmer Hefeweizen smells faintly of citrus in the bottle, which is strange because I did not detect a noticeable citrus character in the taste. It pours an attractive opaque golden orange and a quick swirl of the bottle will release the sediment and give you nice finish to the pour. I garnished the glass with a slice of orange, in keeping with the illustration on the label only to learn later that it’s lemon they suggest. (This is the danger of not researching beers before I sample them, but it’s a procedure I must adhere to religiously, no matter the risks.) There is a strong taste of wheat in this one and I imagine the citrus slice need not be a requirement to make this a nice refreshment. I enjoyed my first one after mowing the lawn at 4:30 on a hot afternoon, with the temperature above 100 degrees. I enjoyed the second one, at a more leisurely pace right after the first one.
Visit Widmer Brothers Brewing and check out their nifty Brother’s Day promotion. I’ve got a couple of brothers – maybe I should send them an email on Brother’s Day.
Here’s a feature article on Widmer Hefeweizen on Beer Advocate. Ouch, “training-wheels beer.” That’s harsh. I like it and I don’t much go in for hefeweizen’s so I guess that’s me riding the trike.
Here’s what the Beer Advocate Poll Numbers show for Widmer Hefe. Not high marks.
I pulled over and waited as the old fellow trudged up beside the truck. Leaning across the cab, I opened the passenger side door and offered him a ride. He nodded, not saying a word and stepped back as if to climb into the bed of my truck, already piled high with what few possessions I carried and stacks of Edward Abbey books in Rainier boxes.
I beckoned him join me in the cab and, shrugging slightly, he – and the dog – climbed into the cab with me and I pulled back onto the deserted highway, the persistent wind no longer a burden.
Eager to make conversation I asked, “Where you headed?”
“Flagstaff,” came the brief, blunt reply.
“You have family there?” I asked.
“No,” came the reply.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I asked.
“Doesn’t have a name,” came the reply.
“Pretty cold today, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” came the reply.
“Let me know if the heater’s set high enough for you,” I said. “I don’t have the setting’s just right ‘cause I’m not used to this truck. I got it for my girlfriend.” There was no reply and we drove on for a few miles, my companion gazing through the windshield at the onrushing empty highway, thinking.
Finally, he said simply, “Good trade.”
(I’ll leave it to you to decipher what part of the foregoing story is bullshit.)
I worked a deal with Johnny Southside this week wherein I traded him two of my precious Deschutes Cinder Cone Reds for two Widmer Hefeweizens. I have to confess that I regretted making the deal about five seconds after having made it, but having made it, I stood by it and things worked out nicely, I have to say.Widmer Hefeweizen smells faintly of citrus in the bottle, which is strange because I did not detect a noticeable citrus character in the taste. It pours an attractive opaque golden orange and a quick swirl of the bottle will release the sediment and give you nice finish to the pour. I garnished the glass with a slice of orange, in keeping with the illustration on the label only to learn later that it’s lemon they suggest. (This is the danger of not researching beers before I sample them, but it’s a procedure I must adhere to religiously, no matter the risks.) There is a strong taste of wheat in this one and I imagine the citrus slice need not be a requirement to make this a nice refreshment. I enjoyed my first one after mowing the lawn at 4:30 on a hot afternoon, with the temperature above 100 degrees. I enjoyed the second one, at a more leisurely pace right after the first one.
Visit Widmer Brothers Brewing and check out their nifty Brother’s Day promotion. I’ve got a couple of brothers – maybe I should send them an email on Brother’s Day.
Here’s a feature article on Widmer Hefeweizen on Beer Advocate. Ouch, “training-wheels beer.” That’s harsh. I like it and I don’t much go in for hefeweizen’s so I guess that’s me riding the trike.
Here’s what the Beer Advocate Poll Numbers show for Widmer Hefe. Not high marks.
I hope Johnny Southside is as pleased with the trade as I.
