Circumnavigator, Part 3

by Matt Dunn

Cruising upon agricultural plateaus my windows are open. Cornfield. Wheatfield. Patch of forest. Cornfield. Cornfield. Dairy farm. The landscape swims by pleasantly in a blur, undulating over rolling hills on a cool, northern, summer afternoon. "You're listening to the Ideas Network, a service of Wisconsin Public Radio. Up next: A Chapter a Day with Jim Fleming. Today we're reading from the novel 'A Beginner's Guide' by MB Pell."

I'm driving through the driftless region of southwestern Wisconsin in search of the good life for a few days. Wide open farmland drops off deeply into steep sided limestone spring creek valleys teeming with trout. And the beers of New Glarus Brewing Company have somehow found their way into every rural general store I stop at: from Dodgeville, Fennimore, and Boscobell to Viola, Viroqua, and Coon Valley. It's a miracle. How could the quaint bucolic brewery of New Glarus manage to have such a wide distribution in a region where craft beer doesn't seem so likely to succeed? Well, it turns out that New Glarus isn't actually a quaint bucolic brewery. Rather, it's a thoroughly modern brewery in disguise. Real live horses out front and everything.

It might be the cleanest, most efficient, most modern craft brewery I've seen in a long time. Reminds me a lot of Bell's beer factory near Kalamazoo, Michigan, but with more computers. At New Glarus there are giant flat screen TVs showing live video of the fermentation and conditioning areas, a computer controlled brew house, large modern laboratories, a spotless packaging area whirring away behind polished stainless steel railings, and a self guided audio tour to boot. Just hold that thing up to your ear and Jimmy McDJ from the radio station introduces you to New Glarus. Follow the numbered exhibits through the brewery to learn more!

Smoosh your greasy little face on the glass to look at Exhibit #38, squeeech. The audio tour prattles on: "Exhibit number 38. This enclosure holds one of the rarest species of brewery employee, fewer than five hundred survive in the wild today. The brewing scientist has extensive training in microbiology, chemisty, or both. Lured into the industry by free beer, he now spends more than forty hours a week standing in front of that big blowing box taking liquid from one container and putting it into another. Exhibit #39 is just around the corner to your left."

New Glarus brews 50,000bbl of beer a year and is growing rapidly. It ain't quaint. It's one of the biggest micros in the Midwest.

The fog lies thick in the Timber Coulee valley. From the crystal clear sunrise vistas above it looks full of cotton. Thick green forest and pallid sandstone bluffs form an irregular channel, barely containing the clouds. Heavy dew in the valley soaks my shorts as I walk through shoulder-high asters and grasses. Tiny mayflies mate in the cool air over the narrow river. Some fall to the water where trout sip them delicately leaving a slowly expanding set of concentric circles on the smooth glass surface of the slow flat river. I slip in wearing no waders. The crystal clear ice water spring makes my bones ache. Better than a cup of coffee. Now I'm awake.

I pick my way slowly around patches of water cress, over the grey sandy bottom, ten yards below a pool where the fish wait for dying tricos to drift down river. I raise my rod and cast twice, on the third letting the tiny fly fall to the water. It's hard to pick mine out amongst the others, there are many like it, but this one is mine. I watch it ride the current naturally through the pool, waiting, waiting, waiting. SIP. I raise the rod tip and feel the fluttering tension. A beautiful wild brown trout, brilliant red spots. I release her and cast again.

Around eleven I take a break out of the sun which pierces the gin clear air and heats my head. The grassy periphery of the forest is dimpled here and there by egg shaped deer beds. I avoid those for the ticks and make my own depression in the soft, tall-grass carpet. The water has cooled my bottles. New Glarus IPA washes down cold fried chicken, carrots, and dried apricots well. My belly full I fall asleep.

I supped a lot of the New Glarus IPA during my time in Wisconsin. It's a mellow IPA and it's quite nice. A clean hop flavor that's not too citrusy, not too herbal, just right. Medium-low bitterness makes it very approachable. The biscuit and caramel notes balance beautifully. I also had a good bit of Spotted Cow, what New Glarus calls their "farmhouse ale". Kind of an ambiguous beer. I thought it had a soapy fermentation character which was a tad irksome.

But there's one New Glarus beer I waited to try until I got home. She's my cherry pie. Put a smile on your face ten miles wide, looks so good bring a tear to your eye, sweet cherry pie. And I think Warrant would agree with me when I say that New Glarus' Wisconsin Belgian Red is a wonderful beer. The nose explodes with fat, juicy, jammy, sweet cherries interlaced with a subtle tart edge. It's not the prettiest beer you'll ever see, but I like that. It's hazy and straddles the border between red and brown. The pinkish beige head isn't very persistent. But it just drives the point home that this is an all natural fruit beer. No coloring, no special effects, probably not filtered at any step in the production process. All the color and nose and flavor here come from the pound of fresh Wisconsin cherries crammed into every 750ml bottle.

The nose explodes and the palate oozes cherry goodness from every pore. The big sweet fruit fills your mouth and sings buxom young love from the bottom of its heart. But through the mid-palate, the teenage years if you will, the sickly sweet, gelatinous fantasy of youthful lust just doesn't show up. The beer tapers off into a rather pleasing tart territory, maturing into austerity and respectability. You're left with a fairly clean palate and the desire for restraint and a modicum of humility in everything you do. Until you take another a sip.

Like being sucked into a black hole I was sucked into Madison. Perched atop a small hill on a narrow spit of land between two large lakes, all roads lead to the Capitol. After five days of crawling through underbrush, living in a tent, and standing in cold spring water I was ready to indulge in the luxury of civilization.

The dirt and bugs and plants and trout come sloughing off my body, out of my hair and my beard, staining the water brown and clogging the shower drain. The wriggling tail of a trout tangled in my shedded tresses protrudes from the stainless steel conduit. "Yes, room 309, that's right, more shampoo. And a plunger. When a shower really means something! That's my motto anyhow. What's yours? Hello? Hello?" She either hung up on me or the phone shorted out. Apparently not built for steamy shower use. No matter. My business was transacted. Have this stuck drain flowing in no time.

Ahhh yes, that's better, squeaky clean. Ooooh, TV. Phillies are on. Let's see here, three IPAs and a Spotted Cow. Better stick these in the ice bucket, walk down the hall wrapped in this small towel, no time for clothing, looking for the ice machine. Sorry miss, excuse me. I do realize this is a bit awkward but I'll only be a minute. Oops, keep that from falling off there, yup, that's my butt. Just the human form, nothing to be ashamed of, 100% natural, healthy and wholesome.

Three hours later. My beer stocks depleted, a short nap completed, deodorant, clean clothes, the Phillies defeated. But I was winning. Rapidly to Barriques downtown. A small latte with a double shot please. And a slice of that cheesecake there. Nice beer selection too, by the way. In a very pleasant space. Nice solid wood tables. To the Great Dane! Post-haste! I'll have the hand pulled mild please. Yes, all four pilsners. Pleasant conversation. Oh, so you're a hat salesman? I see. A Terrel Owen's fan? That's a shame. This is a very fine pub.

The Great Dane has at least six beer engines. Three gravity casks sheathed in shiny black jackets perched securely on a shelf above. A countless bounty of taps gush forth light and dark and bold and mellow as I float over the bar in a daze. A beautiful young woman dispenses her wares directly into my mouth forgoing all the formalities of civilized bar service. My legs akimbo, my eyes rolled back, time comes to an abrupt halt and the earth stands still. I've found the perfect bar.

Well, I'd have to live in Madison for a while to be sure. You know, get the feel of the place and what not. And I am prone to hyperbole. But from where I stand right now, the Great Dane is up there with the best of them. A comfortable bar in a pleasant downtown building with many small and large rooms to explore, a tasteful decor and some of the best beers I've ever had.

A hand pulled mild might be my favorite type of tipple and the Great Dane does theirs right. It strikes a perfect balance between drinkability and flavor that is only very rarely achieved. A perfectly wispy body and soft, tea like malts with just a hint of roast and hop flavor in the finish truly does delight my palate. Served at the perfect temperature and in perfect condition. Fresh is best. I quaffed forty-four imperial pints in one night, three swallows each. I couldn't get enough. And at under 4% abv I could have quaffed forty-four more. I'm literally salivating right now thinking about it. I just drooled between the N key and the spacebar. Hopefully that won't gum up my works.

They also had four, count 'em, four different pilsners on tap: a light American pils, a German pils, a Czech pils, and a pepper pils. The light was super clean, almost flavorless and very dry. Fairly intense carbonation. A touch grainy in the finish with just barely a whisper of sweetness. Very well done. The German pils was the same color as the light but with a clear hop character and a bit more body and sweetness. An excellent brew. The Czech pils was significantly darker than both the light and the German pils. An amber color with an assertive, Saaz nose. Perhaps a little too vegetal for me. A good deal sweeter than the German pils. Not nearly as crisp and clean. But still a nice beer. The pepper pils is the Czech pils with poblano, habanero y jalapeno peppers added at some point during the production process. The peppers pretty much blot out any glimmer of beer. Quite overwhelming actually, but I bet it would go well with BBQ or la comida de Mexico.

Their porter is first rate. A rich, roasted chocolate mid-palate gives way to a very clean and dry finish. The IPA from the beer engine was also excellent. Well balanced between sweet caramel and hefty hop character, both sides are big. The Scotch ale was so heavy the gravity cask actually creeeeeaked as the rich, amber fluid flowed forth. Big smooth fruity nose and palate, very rich, warming, sweet enough to make its point, but not cloying.

I stand outside in the drizzle drunk. Walk it off man, walk it off, I say to myself. The capitol building is just up the street, oozing politicians even at this late hour. A senator struts down the sidewalk with two prostitutes on each arm and leans in close to me as he passes, his breath boozy, skin leathery, hair silvery, a smile permanently: "You're not so akimbo now are ya punk? I'm a legislator goddammit! I know what I'm talkin' 'bout!" Good lord, I need a strong German lager and some polka music to sooth my frazzled nerves. Where the hell am I? Where the hell is Wilson St? This place is a zoo. The streets aren't straight. I'll never find it on my own, better get a cab. CABBY! I scream into a poor woman's ear. "Sorry ma'am, didn't see you there." CABBY! There's one, push that bitch out of the way, "I need this more than you do, I'm sorry!" I fall into the back seat and my cheek hits the soft, pliant leather where so many asses have traveled before. "Essen Haus and step on it. That woman's pissed." The large Lincoln lurches into traffic and drifts widely around the corner. This is nice. Catch my breath, sober up a bit on the ride. He's even playing Miles Davis Blue in Green. I feel wonderful. I feel like a million bucks.

The cab stops abruptly. "This is it. That'll be $1.90."

"Jesus man, you just drove me around the corner. What's the meaning of this?"

"We're at the Essen House. That'll be $1.90."

I jerk my head around and look back through the alleyway: there's the Great Dane. Well, good thing I got a cab. I never would have found this place. I pay him and struggle out of the car.

The Essen Haus smells bad, like urine and air freshener. Everything is kind of dirty and crooked. Lots of two by fours and plywood behind the bar. The bartender is dressed in very traditional lederhosen, but it suits him. His shorts are extremely short. He's tall, good looking, svelte, blonde hair, blue eyes, Wisconsin accent, my legs akimbo, my eyes rolled back, floating over the bar in a dazeÖsnap out of it. Pull yourself together. Order a beer. Look at all the German beer. This is nice. Kostritzer, you don't see that on draft too often. Order a Hofbrau Maibock. I listen to myself and sit back to nurse the half liter of pale orange nectar. An absolutely beautiful beer, a honey laden salve from my svelte Wisconsin Badger, a balm from my boy behind the bar. Jesus Christ! What the hell is it about that lederhosen that's got me all worked up? This is obscene. Focus on the polka. Focus on the polka. That man is a master of the accordion. What a beautiful, melodic instrument, like the soothing angelic voices of lederhosen clad cherubs charming their way into my pants. I gotta get outta here.

It turns out that my next destination, the cleverly named "Come Back In" (with only one 'n'), is actually directly accessible from the Essen Haus. They are all part of the same strange complex of buildings. I walk through the door, something crunching beneath my feet. Peanut shells. They're everywhere. And sawdust. So it's that kind of place, eh? I sidle up to the bar and order a Bell's Two Hearted then spit generously on the floor. "No spitting sir."

"How about peeing?"

"No, I'm sorry sir, the peanut shells and sawdust are just for effect."

"Well, I'm glad you told me. Where's the men's room?"

They have a very nice bottle selection of mostly Midwestern regional craft brews: Bells, Three Floyds, New Holland, Goose Island, Great Lakes, Founders, other American micros like Dogfish Head, Victory, Great Divide. The draft selection isn't too shabby either: New Glarus, Sprecher, Three Floyds, Lake Louie, Bells, Summit. A wonderful place to sample all the wares of a vibrant American brewing culture. A tornado watch is announced on the TV and I'm informed there is a basement in case we have to take shelter and that's where the kegs are so at least we'd have something to drink while the city is torn to shreds. I dump a basket of peanuts on the floor just for fun. Hazah!

Through the expansive cornfields of central Illinois I return to Indiana the following day. Only slightly worse for the wear.