Big Sky Brewing Co.'s Moose Drool Brown Ale

The only time I have seen a moose in the flesh has been when I was snowmobiling in Idaho.  The deep drifts spawned by the harsh inland Pacific Northwest winters make foot travel amongst the steep hillsides of the foothills even more cumbersome than usual. As a result, the sturdy, packed-down snow of the snowmobile trails act as a sort of highway for the fauna capable of weathering the harsh winter. Predator and prey alike use the system to find their way to new food sources as they exhaust their local supplies. Thus, man and beast inevitably clash, as each seek to satisfy their individual desires.

One day, I had blazed a hasty path up a particularly smooth trail, leaving my ponderous grandparents behind in favor of the inherent excitement the danger of high speeds provides. It was then that I encountered a bull moose, standing stubbornly in the middle of the trail.

The common moose met upon the snowy highway is female, often escorting one or two younglings through the early, aimless years of life. However, the giant ungulate I met on that trail was unmistakably male, and unmistakeably ready to start a fight it was sure to win.  After all, animals are perhaps the most strict adherents to the wisdom of Sun Tzu on Earth, and this confrontational bull was no different.

He stood tall, proud, antlers a dark menace in the perpetual twilight of a foggy winter day in the mountains. Even though I sat upon a technological wonder of which the instinctual beast could have no comprehension, I knew myself to be dwarfed and humbled by the sheer organic power of the creature before me. The moose seemed somehow aware of that fact as well; it bowed its head in challenge, ready for the contest it fully expected to come.

Frankly, the bull moose was a grade-A asshole. And the one constant of our planet is that assholes, far and above, get the most pussy. Myself being an empathetic intellectual, I was aware of this, and also painfully observant of the simple truth that I got next to none. Naturally as males of any variety desire that warm, velvety caress above all else, it created in me a raging sense of jealousy that urged me; No; Commanded me to rev the engine of my Yamaha Phazer II (heavily modified) in obvious acceptance of the beast's request to duel.

It was the showdown in the graveyard, except between two instead of three, and the musical whistling was replaced by the steady rustle of the wind through the boughs of fir and pine.

We waited; our consciousnesses: his base and lacking the capability to imagine the possibility of defeat; mine determined and stubborn, enraged by years of imagined failure, blind to futility.

We charged.

His began with a simple, dismissive snort. Mine with the roar of a mechanical brilliance I did not fully understand, but could manipulate with respectable skill.

The distance between us closed instantly, time lost amongst the torrential adrenaline of us both.

The ascetic and flimsy fiberglass of my snowmobile shattered instantly; no match for the hardened external bone of the moose's glorious rack: weapons that fought and won countless battles for genetic supremacy over incomprehensible eons. So too did my frail body, made for dexterous manipulation and cerebral thought, bounce off the beast's form like a leaf blown by the wind. Yes, I could use tools and fire guns, but the moose knew its own body was the only tool it required to conquer my foolish, soft form.

I was knocked from my sled, the wind escaping my lungs, and the tightly-packed snow of the trail was eager to embrace me in its unforgiving caress. I rolled, tumbled, and crunched my way to a painful stop: prone and defeated. Gaia, in vengeance for the crimes of my people, had struck me down.

She was not finished with my punishment, gleefully applied to a ready individual since She lacked the ability to strike at the guilty whole. "Back!" She ordered the moose, back to my fallen form! The creature towered above me, a furry colossus of retribution. And he drooled! Oh, how he drooled!

As that glistening substance left the moose's mouth, I noticed a rich brown color; It was unlike the blackness of stouts and porters; however, it retained an obvious brown hue. And it was headed straight for my mouth!

It looked heavy, and its tangy-sweet, almost hoppy scent promised a heavy and hearty flavor. But when that drool flowed over my helmet, hit my lips, and forced its viscous way into my mouth, I could not help but be disappointed.

The moose drool was almost empty of flavor, or you could say "ethereal" if you were going for a more positive spin. It had an almost imperceptible hoppy flavor, but without the bitterness.

As the drool flowed sickeningly over my tongue, I could taste nothing. It felt merely bubbly and empty.

I was forced to swallow, or else drown in moose secretion (an embarrassing fate), and I noticed the first distinct flavor of the drool: a sort of earthy, celery sort of finish. I found it to be rather unimpressive and lazy, but not necessarily repugnant.

After several desperate gulps, the moose seemed content with my humiliation (Gaia not wishing the death of any of Her children), and he deigned to wander off into the forest. Left to my own devices, I regained my composure and straddled my bashed-up Yamaha once more.

The Moose Drool I had unwillingly sampled reminded me of Pabst Blue Ribbon: Empty of flavor, but still somehow positively regarded for what some claim is its refreshingly water-like qualities. For fans of that union-made brew, I would say the Drool of a Moose, drunk under a Big Sky, would be well within your tastes. But for those who like tangible flavor, there are better ways to spend your money.

Hale's Ales Brewery's Troll Porter

One day, I was on a journey from Childhood Hill to Adult Valley, and I admit I didn't know which path to take. My wanderings were far and wide, the forks were many, and I took roads well-used in some places, and roads less traveled by in others.

Eventually, I came upon a bridge which clearly separated the land I was passing through. The wood I had just enjoyed was rife with ciders and mixed drinks. Even the air smelled of the sorrows of sugary hang-overs; a scent like sour death. On the other side of the bridge, a wonderland of beers and brews glistened from every bough and branch. That was where I wanted to be.

But as I stepped upon the rough cobbles of that spanned divide, a rough, gurgling voice rose in abrubt challenge to my passage.

"Hold it, hold it! Yeh damned goat, yeh know the drill! Yeh can't just-"

The hideous creature faltered mid-sentence, as it emerged from 'neith that bridge and caught sight of my quite ungoatly form. It was an ungainly troll, disgusting and green, a reject from the land where the wild things are. (I reminded myself to visit that place, should I run across it.)

 

"Oh! Yer no damned goat! Yer a damned lush!" It snorted, dissapointed. "Well, yeh still can't cross my bridge, see? Yeh can't!"

I thought for a moment. The bridge must be crossed, but how to bypass a creature that could forcibly rearrange my insides and my outsides? I decided diplomacy would be advisable.

"Honorable Troll," I said, "Is there not some service I might provide to gain passage across yonder bridge? Some task to complete? Some desire I might fulfill?"

The troll regarded me with growing curiosity, its eyes glowing a mellowing green. "A service, eh?" It scratched its chin in thought. "The goats just talk me into things I regret later. It makes me feel like a co-ed."

I decided to remain silent at that.

Finally after some obvious internal debate, the troll said, "Well, I do have a hobby..." He shuffled his giant, clawed feet with obvious embarrassment (A troll with a hobby?). "I like to brew my own beer, but- but no one but me has ever tried it."

Try a new beer to cross the bridge! I hastily agreed.

"Wow! Really! That's great!" the troll exclaimed before disappearing back beneath the bridge with an excited hopping gait.

The bridge was clear! I had brief seconds in which to simply cross the bridge and beyond the troll's reach forever. But an agreement made is a promise given, and the tattoo of Truth upon my back held my feet in place. The troll returned and the window of escape closed.

"Here it is!" The troll offered me a wooden mug of questionable purity filled with an ominously dark brown liquid. "I call this the Troll Porter," it said.

I accepted that mug with trepidation, but was surprised to find it cold to the touch. Lowering my nose to take a cautious sniff, I detected a faintly sweet aroma, common to brews and breweries. I was encouraged by this, and I even became eager to take the first drink of that trollish concoction.

When the dubious liquid first passed my lips, I was immediately aware of its smoothness, but it still contained a slightly bitter bite; To be expected from a troll, I thought. Then as that delicious drought flowed over my tongue, I enjoyed a tangy bitterness that had but a hint of dark chocolate. The troll, anxious, watched me intently as I swallowed. It offered a fangy grin to match my toothy own, for the brew's finish was chocolate as well, and skillfully rendered to bring a smile to the face of any beer lover.

"Do you have this bottled?" I asked, eager. "This brew is stupendous!"

The troll's face lit up in humble happiness, and it gifted me with passage over the bridge, and a cold bottle of brew for the road.

As I crossed, I thought that if man and troll can be united in a love for beer, why not all mankind?

The Pike Brewing Co's XXXXX Pike Stout

Being a self-motivated, self-taught, and mostly self-read beer blogger has distinct advantages. The world of beer is incredibly rich and diverse, and as each new brewer begins experimenting with a new brew, that world grows. With the next post always in the back of my mind, I take advantage of new and intersting excuses to explore.

"Hey, end of the week. Time for a beer."
"That was a long day. Time for a beer."
"Aliens didn't probe me last night, or if they did, I don't remember. Time for a beer."
"That street is a nice gray color. Time for a beer."
"I'm not currently drinking a beer. Time for a beer."

It's a dangerous form of the devolution of cause and effect, to be sure. But a beer blogger never needs to worry about concerned family and friends interveining to make them go to meetings; a blogger isn't someone with a problem, he/she is just in love with an intellectual hobby.

For this entry, I actually had a legitimate excuse: my birthday. So when the bartender placed a XXXXX Pike Stout in front of me, I drank in the absence of a concerned conscience.

Like most stouts, the Pike Brewery's version of the beer is an abyssally dark brown color. In most any lighting, it appears black, but the few bubbles of the calm head glow a rich brown. The aroma of these bubbles is noticeably sweet, and for a second I though I had just bought a porter. The brew itself was quick to remind that no, this was definately a stout.

The first contact attempts to lull you into a false sense of security; Its unassuming in only a slightly bitter fashion. Abruptly after that, its plainly obvious that this beer was designed to punch you in the face with coffee bitterness.

I'm talking the sort of accelleration you see at Best Buy on Black Friday; you start outside, it's cold, it's early, you strike up conversations with your neighbors because you're sharing an experience together (and you want to know if those assholes are after the same deals as you.) That's first contact with this beer.

The body is when the doors of the store open, and everything transitions from utter stagnation to chaotically frantic activity; people shove, basic politeness falls to the side, and that bastard in front of you better not fall down because it would take you crucial moments to run your shopping cart over his pathetically prone body.

0-100. That is how this beer works.

The memory sticks with you, too; the deals, the blood, everyone else there seems crazy when viewed through the lens of retrospect and self-bias (though you were foaming at the mouth a the time). So too does the stout linger after the swallow. A delightfully strong bitterness that seems more like post-tramatic stress than an aftertaste.

It is this power and aggressiveness that makes the XXXXX Pike Stout so delicious. For those who tend to dislike dark beers, this might be a gem to save for after your enlightenment. Leave this delightful beast to those who love beer they can't see through.

Riverport Brewing Co.'s River-Rat Red

 

    The local jazz pub in Pullman is called Rico's. It's not managed by a guy named Rico, owned by a guy named Rico, nor perhaps, even frequented by anyone named Rico. But it is a great place to enjoy a beer. When I was there on my birthday this last week, I thought I would take advantage of that and down a delicious pint.

    My selection was the River Rat Red by the Riverport Brewing Company out of Clarkston, Washington. Now Clarkston is a humble little burg that manages to be downwind of both the local paper mill and the local sewage treatment plant, so I had some laughable concerns regarding the beer as the 'tender placed the cold glass before me: "I hope the beer doesn't smell like farts, too."

It didn't. In fact, it smelled a lot like a beer I knew I would enjoy drinking.

The rich amber of the River Rat Red gave off a delectable aroma. It was a sort of acrid hoppiness that promises a dynamic taste. The armoa reminded me of tailgating parties and football-watching sessions: a bright, warm room, good friends and snacks in every direction, laughter, howls of indignation, cheering, and the feel of a cold brew resting lazily between your fingers and the couch's arm-rest. The R.R.R. smelled just like the beer for such an occasion. Luckily, it tasted that way, too!

The moderately hoppy-bitterness of the first contect is unique in my beer experiences. I can only describe it as a sort of "low" taste. But in the sense of elevation, not as in "base" or anything negative like that. The flavor just sinks into your pallet, as if it payed rent for the room in the basement of your mouth.

As the beer transitions into the body portion of the experience, the brew escalates in a caramel-ish bitterness that peaks in an orange-y climax. Then, a tangy sweet hop finish follows the beer down the hatch. I especially liked how this portion of the beer contrasts with the first contact. The initial "low" flavor develops into a "high" one in a matter of moments. In fact, a line graph of this beer would follow the parabolic arc of a James Cameron plot-line: Start low, go high, then hit an iceberg and sink.

The R.R.R. is a great beer from the unassuming edge of Washington State. Its playfully tangy flavors make it a joy to drink, and its rich, hoppy soul is sure to satisfy. My advice would be to give this diamond in the rough a try.

Elysian Brewery's Perseus Porter

            Pullman, Washington is a rather humble college town nestled in the gently rolling terrain of the Palouse. Choices for fine dining can be counted, more or less, on one hand. Still, the college draws great minds and budding prodigies alike, and some of them know how to cook a hell of a steak.

    One of these steak masters opened The Black Cypress, a restaurant that has established itself quickly as one of the best dining experiences in the region. Here is a review, if you happen to be interested. Anyway, the thing about The Black Cypress that is pertinent to this blog is that they have microbrews on tap; hole-ly-crap, pour me one! For my beer of the evening, I chose the Elysian Brewing Company's Perseus Porter. This Seattle-area brewery has truly created a symphony of deliciousness in their rich brew.

   The porter is a dark, black beer, almost obsidian, but the bubbles of the minute head are an appealing coffee brown. The Cypress is a cozily lighted restaurant, so the beer may have seemed a darker black than it truly was. Regardless, the beer has a dampened, dull sort of brewery smell. It is gentle, yet promising; inviting you to a smooth ride. In fact, the attitude of the beer's smell is similar, in a way, to the flavor of it.

   First contact with the Perseus Porter is calm, and the initial carbonation lacks any sort of aggressive nature. This makes the brew smooth from start to finish, and you become relaxed as you continue to drink.

The smoothness of the brew as it passes along the tongue melds almost imperceptibly to a sweetly bitter body. Its a smooth sort of both flavors, combined together in an equal union. The flavors do not confront you, so much as they pass calmly by like veterans in a small-town parade. 

Following the lingering semi-sweetness of the body, an aftertaste of coffee gently finishes out the brew. Depending on what you are eating, the coffee taste can transform into more of a dark chocolate flavor and then back again.

Altogether, the Elysian Porter is a delicious beer, and it stands as an excellent example of the brilliant Seattle brewing community. So if you happen to get a chance to try a frosty brew of this Perseus Porter: take it.