A fistful of pine needles drops loosely from yer grasp as you scramble on upwards towards some craggy summit in the Cascades. The inner billy goat erupts from yer legs and each ledge becomes an easy prance. Clack. Hoof. Clack. Bounce. Clop. Skid. Stop.
Arrival. Perched atop yer conquered precipice in awe of yer surroundings, the wind double-takes and smashes back upon you. Stinging nettles of ice assault yer face. You taste pure mountain water in yer pores and bits of dirt on yer lips. Standing upright (wink!) with a clear head, there’s no better time to sample from yer flagon of saison for the seventh (doublewink!) time thusfar.
Surly and stubborn as the white, wooly beasts of the rocky cliffs, your beverage skins the hide of yer tongue with aroma of fresh soil. A poofy blast of warm air heats yer drink and you excavate hidden treasures: delicately preserved floral tones as soothing as a baby goats bleat.
This ridge you’ve been perched on for a time seems stable but erratic for weather. The liquid yer consuming reflects the untamable nature pitted against you. Heaping mounds of moss and bunch grass lay waiting in the valley and bottom of yer glass. Fill up yer lungs and plunge headlong back into the fray.
Down the mountainside with ye towards golden rays of flavor and escape the wobbly skree with yer saison stained hooves.
- 1 year ago
Scuttlebutt Hoptopia Imperial IPA
Hop wave: a parabolic force of lip-smacking energy cresting frothy and boiling on yer tonsils; borne of cataclysmic bitter acids and sun-soaked nuggets from a wily vine of hops.
Sinking and slumping backwards into yer favorite drinking position, quaff in repose. The heavy rains are still far off and yer cochlear itches aren’t worth scratching yet. But you cannot ignore the pungent stench of hop leaves drifting through yer ear canals as sip after sip of this ale slithers its way down yer gullet.
Like footballers and referees, you are expected to get along professionally with one another. And so too is it with you and Scuttlebutt. Every working relationship requires the promise of a knowing wink and taught handshake—two elements that sneakily dribble down the sides of yer empty pint glass.
No, this is not a traditional business model. There’s too much temptation here to indulge in yer successful partnership. Take one another home and consume one another. A vixen draped in hop dew, sweating citrus charms to lure yer signature on a liquid contract. One more pint? It might be necessary.
- 1 year ago
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