Great American West Brewery Tour - Installment IV

Installment IV: 9/02/2007
Eureka, CA, to Fort Bragg, CA

It is time for a month overdue update on the penultimate leg of our brewery tour. I have given up for lost on my Six Rivers notes, though Allie informs me that she hasn’t cleaned out the Volvo in the time since the trip (a feat of procrastination in itself), so they may well still be out there somewhere.  I would just like to make two final notes before moving on from Installment III of the trip:

First, we stopped at She-She’s, a tiny diner outside Hiouchi in the midst of the Redwood State and National Parks. This was the same place I had stopped for milkshakes with Kate and Julia, and we had loved the shakes and the kind, elderly proprietor so much that I “suggested” (read: “forced”) the brew group to return. While my chocolate-banana shake was awesome, and the proprietor was a sweet (and slow) as ever, unfortunately a creepy middle-aged guy at the counter cast a pall over this stop. He had an inordinate amount of questions about who we were and where we were going, that all agreed were not asked in the friendly-small town manner but in the manner of a lecherous pedophile. So we scooted out of She-She’s and on down the road, which brings me to my second point…

This marked the 3rd time of the 3 times I’ve driven the Northern California coast that I have been denied the opportunity to discover the mystery behind the Trees of Mystery in Klamath, California. All I ask is that once in my life I arrive in time to do more than sit on the foot of the 50 foot statue of Paul Bunyan and take photos in front of the enormous balls of the Babe the Blue Ox statue. This tourist trap (which actually contains a highly legit collection of Native American artifacts that practically sent Julia into spasms of joy last time I traversed this route) promises mystery on billboards running for ~50 miles to the north and south, and to this day it tortures me that I’ve no idea what it is about the trees of Klamath that are so compelling.

Eel River Brewing Company (Fortuna, CA)

We began our day of tasting at Eel River, a certified organic brewery. Really it is a brewpub rather than a brewery, but I believe that only the beer, and not the food is organic. In fact, I just went online and checked this and they are America’s first certified organic brewery. In any case, we were delighted to discover that Eel River was immediately adjacent to the lovely Super8 in which we had spent the night. Or rather, we would have been delighted had we realized this immediately, rather than driving the length and breadth Fortuna first.

But a really shouldn’t complain because:
1) Eel River wasn’t open when we woke up and there is only so much time you can spend hanging out in a Super8 room before getting depressed
2) In our driveabout we found a knock-off Super8 called National 9 that used roughly the same coloring and style in its logo as does Super8. Finding the Super9 cheered us up because it looked infinitely more run-down and yet had no vacancies. We felt superior to all the Super9 residents.
3) We found a truly awesome breakfast place called Deb’s Grapevine Bistro. We split omelets full of avocado and chicken-apple sausage, and blintzes covered in “razzleberry” sauce.
4) We killed some time before Eel River opened by lying out in a nice park in downtown Fortuna.

All together, not a bad morning.

Unfortunately, while I can also say with enthusiasm that we enjoyed our time spent at the Eel River brewpub, no part of this enthusiasm is due to the beer. The tasting tray only came with 4 beers and most of what beers they did have were a far cry from the best and the brightest beers of the trip, we’ll give the Porter a pass. In fact, the highlight of the experience was definitely the beer battered artichoke hearts and trying to guess the nationalities of the various flags hanging from the ceiling (a favored pastime among erstwhile geography nerds). We tried:

EPA (organic): A golden beer with high carbonation and pine-y green flavor
IPA (organic): As Nick so aptly put it, this one has “tonsil-choking hops”. I have to agree that although it starts out well with a nice toffee flavor, it soon gets overly aggressive and throttles your tongue with unnecessary hops
Porter (organic): One of our favorite porters of the trip. Nick, Allie, and I all end up ordering a pint. It has high carbonation and a cola-like flavor.
Hazelnut Porter: To predict fans vs. foes of this beer, one need only ask a single question: “How do you feel about Nutella?” The hazelnut flavor was SO strong that I’m certain this is what Nutella would taste like if it were carbonated and less past-like in consistency. I loved the strength of the hazelnut flavor, but it had a bitter aftertaste that stayed on the tongue after drinking that made the whole beer seem off.

And so, after the somewhat lackluster experience at Eel River, it was not so difficult to peel ourselves away and start out journey through the Avenue of Giants. This is a 35 mile stretch of California Redwoods that contains some of the tallest trees on earth. This prompted me to attempt to lead the car in versus of “This Land is Your Land”, sung in a round. Unfortunately, no one else was enthusiastic about this activity.

What we were enthusiastic about was roadside blackberry picking. After stopping at a roadside stand to pick up some sweet corn, and being dismayed to find no blackberries, we were informed by the proprietors that 100 yards up the road were all the free blackberries we could pick. We each spent about 20 minutes going about this and mostly just ate what we picked immediately. I saved some in a bag with the intent of making a pie, but later in the car they soon became so squished that I decided that rather than fighting entropy I’d just squish the rest into a pulp and spend the next half hour trying to pour blackberry juice out of a ziploc and into my mouth without getting it all over the rest of my face. This met with moderate success.

We also stopped at a riverside beach to take a swim since it was a gorgeous day. Nick reminisced about learning to swim here as a child, but we started to doubt the veracity of these stories after he said this about each subsequent river we passed. “No, it was here. This is where I learned to swim.” Sure, Nick, whatever. We were eventually driven back into our vehicle by vicious sandstorms stirred up by gusts of wind along the riverbank.

Finally, we also stopped to walk around and take in some of the trees from outside the windows of our car. This is also where we met some of the oddest tourists I’ve ever encountered in my life. The first was a two middle aged couples walking towards our group, traversing the nature loop in the opposite direction. We wanted a picture with all of us in it, so as they approached, I held out the camera and asked ever-so-sweetly, “Excuse me, but would you mind taking a picture of us?” Not only did they not take our picture, but they refused to even acknowledge that I had asked, marching onward stone-facedly. Now, even if English is not their first language, the extended camera is a universally understood gesture. How else would the Japanese couples that blanket Harvard Yard every fall be able to take home so many pictures of themselves proudly rubbing the oft-urinated upon foot of John Harvard? (Unfortunately the warning “You may not want to touch that as it is quite likely a dozen guys peed on it last night” doesn’t translate as well as “Will you take a photo of us beside this lovely statue?”). Thus, rebuffed by the first group we encountered, we continued walking.

I knew we had found someone who would take our picture when we came upon a sweaty, shirtless, paunchy, middle-aged man asked us to take a photo of him. First oddity about this man: his appearance. Second oddity: his wife was just sitting in the car doing nothing as he frolicked about the redwoods. Third oddity: he had very precise ideas about how I ought to take the picture. He stood exactly where he wanted me to stand, held the camera up to a very particular spot, and adjusted my arm when I took the camera from him because, god forbid, the camera had moved a millimeter or two in the transitioning of holders. Whatever. If this is what I had to put up with to get a picture of us, so be it. We gave him no such instructions when it was our turn, but he insisted on taking 3 pictures from various vantage points, which despite his obsession were no better in lighting than what we could have produced ourselves.

After saying goodbye to our friend the photographer, we continued down the coast. We played the Decemberists’ “California One” as we approached the song’s namesake road from the 101 on what we all agreed was the windiest and most vomit-inducing portion of the trip. And we continued to listen to the Decemberists as we approached Fort Bragg, which resulted in what was for me in some very eye-opening (or rather ear-opening) revelations regarding the lyrics of “On the Bus Mall”. Though I love the Decemberists, listen to them devotedly, and think their lyrics are one of the best (if not the best) reasons to listen to their music, somehow the particulars of this song had eluded me until now. Of course I still love the song, but suffice it to say I won’t play it for my grandma any time soon.

We finally reached our destination for the evening, Fort Bragg, and were dismayed to discover that we had just missed a weekend of Paul Bunyan Days, including the axe throw and the crowning of the Belle of the Redwoods. We were not too late however, to enjoy a dinner at North Coast Brewing Company’s brewpub, one of the most anticipated destinations of the trip in my mind.

North Coast Brewing Company (Fort Bragg, CA)

Our dinner was both excellent and disappointing at the same time. The food was great, but undeniably overpriced. The logo tees in the gift shop were fantastic and promoting beers worthy of wearing on a tee, but the wait was so long that we exhausted the potential entertainment value of the gift shop. The beers were a mix of boring and out-of-this-world fantastic, but were served (I believe deliberately) so warm that it was hard for me to enjoy them. I want to mention here though, that despite our experience in the brewpub, I still believe from experience past and present that this is a world class brewery and one ought to snap up their beers whenever the opportunity presents itself. We tried:

Blue Star Hefeweizen: American in style, light and crisp, not something I’d go out of my way for
Scrimshaw Pilsner: Also light and crisp, with an almost pear-like flavor. Though it may be an excellent example of a Pilsner, I still have a hard time embracing this category. Nick and Allie both loved it though, and Nick loved the logo in particular, so it won some fans among us.
Acme Pale Ale: Flat and watery
Red Seal Ale: Solid, but slightly sour.
Red Seal Ale (cask): Flat and watery, same taste as above but less noticeable. It was at this point that I was not only becoming discouraged, but suffering the type of loss that accompanies the disillusionment of watching an idol stumble.
Pranqster Golden Belgian: The beer that restored my faith! This is delicious. It tasted slightly flat in the taster shot, but when I ordered a full glass later it was higher in carbonation. It was tantalizingly floral with a slight hint of banana.
Acme IPA: This beer has a fantastic smell that anticipates its lively hop character. Unlike many IPAs I’ve tasted, it develops gradually on the tongue, rather than knocking you out with a single punch.
Old #38 Stout: It is hard for me to review this beer, because it is like being asked to describe an old friend. This is my all-time favorite dark beer to date because it brings a full flavor without losing the delicate balance between the rich roastiness, the malt sweetness, the hop bitterness, and the carbonation. Though the sip I took out of the array of tasters that night belied the merits of this beer, subsequent tastings have convinced me that I am not misremembering the Old #38 and that it is in fact an awesome beer.
Old Rasputin Imperial Stout: At this point, I gave up tasting with the intent of reviewing because the shots were all so warm and flat that I knew it would be self-defeating. Allie and Nick loved the Old Rasputin, enough that Allie ordered a full glass (brave girl!) and looks for it up in Seattle. I’ve had it before back at John Harvard’s and am pretty sure that it is a great beer, but I passed on it at the North Coast Brewpub.
Brother Thelonius Abbey Ale: Same story as the Old Rasputin.
Le Merle Saison: We weren’t able to try this one, one of their reserve beers, because they were out. I wish we had.
Old Stock English Style Ale: We bought a single bottle of the Old Stock which we split among Nick, Allie, and myself back at the motel that evening while watching Survivorman. This is a truly unique beer, and quite a feat. The brewpub employee described it as “brandy-like”, and I’m not sure what that means, never having drunk brandy, but, man, this was potent. It knocked us all out despite having shared the bottle 3 ways. Good thing we were back in our room already. It was syrupy strong without being cloying. I have a hard time describing it further because it is so unlike any other beer I’ve ever had, but it is quite the experience and I think any beer lover ought to at least try it once.

And thus, watched Les Stroud eat meat his dog team had dragged through their own feces (for no apparent reason considering that as long as he’s going to eat the dogs’ rations he could have eaten the portions saved for later in the week) and having obliterated our consciousness on brandy-like beer, we fell soundly to sleep.

Coming up next:

Installment V: the last and final installment, in which we take on our biggest beer day yet and confront the bovine aroma of Cal State Sonoma