There & Back Again…A Trip to Vermont

, There & Back Again…A Trip to VermontIt’s 7:00 a.m. on a Friday morning and there are five of us inside the monstrous black suburban hurtling north on 93. There’s already concern that the beast doesn’t have sufficient space to house all the beer that will be with us on the return trip…and so the insanity begins. The North East Kingdom of Vermont, with its gorgeous vistas, serene stillness, and religious beer community is as close to heaven we unwashed masses can get. Hill Farmstead’s famous Festival of Farmhouse Ales, the brewery’s end-of-the-year festival, draws down the voracious, bearded horde like Charlie Bucket with a golden ticket to the Wonka factory.

Traveling to northern Vermont quite resembles a pilgrimage. Its remote location takes most of the day to visit, phone signals and radio stations are intermittent, and one finds oneself diving on isolated dirt roads, winding through beautiful country landscapes. It really is quite stunning, and the promise of some of the country’s best beer awaits the devoted.

Our first stop is Prohibition Pig in Waterbury, VT. A hip gastropub like this might appear to stick out in a small, sleepy town like this, but nothing is what it seems out here. Locally raised food stuffs end up in delicious and creative barbecue dishes, and a spectacularly curated tap list regularly boasts Hill Farmstead, The Alchemist, Lawson’s, Zero Gravity, and the beginnings of their own brewery, currently under construction behind the restaurant. Eat and drink everything here, spirits included.

We’re killing time here, waiting for the nearby release of Heady Topper cans, by drinking short pours of world-class beer and visiting the Craft Beer Cellar, a growing franchise craft beer boutique, across the street. Guess what–growler fills are legal here in Vermont too! Some day, Massachusetts…some day.

, There & Back Again…A Trip to VermontThe Ritual

Twenty minutes away to the south in Montpelier, lines pile up around the parking lot for the Hunger Mountain Co-Op, a grocery store that makes Whole Foods look like a KFC, and more hounds lick their fingers for the day’s release of Heady Topper (one case per person). The locals sneer and scoff at the circus freaks looking to get their kicks before heading to the next spot on their scavenger hunt.

“Mommy, are these people here for Heady Topper?” a child asks.

“Yes honey, get in the car,” Mommy says.

“But it’s just beer!” the child says.

We all laugh, but somewhere deep inside, I feel the absurdity of it all. Chasing down beer one case at a time, standing on the side of a parking lot over an hour ahead of time, in a line 100 people deep for beer. There are license plates from New York and New Jersey here, and I just hope that they’re up for the weekend, maybe for FoFA, but nowadays, they might not be and it’s not all that out of the ordinary. Cars immediately speed off for the hour drive north towards Hill Farmstead; FoFA is 24 hours away, and the excitement is palpable. We’re up here to drink the area dry, and it can’t come soon enough. This is one of craft beer Mecca’s, and waiting in line for hours at a time has become part of the sacrament. The brewery is open the day before the festival for people to get their case allotments of beers on the shelf, or growler fills. Space in the suburban is already becoming problematic, and there’s talk of abandoning the coolers of food and ice in lieu of more beer. Leave Boston before the sun rises, drive for hours on end, wait in line, drive home. God, if I could apply this strict regimen to other parts of my life, who knows the possibilities…

Evening’s Revelries

With the work complete, and beer harpoons stowed away, the evening begins. A large group of us beer geeks have rented a farmhouse 20 minutes away from the festival, in order to spend the night howling with godless behavior, drowning ourselves at the largest bottle share I’ve ever seen with some of the country’s rarest releases. Bottle after bottle, outstretched hands beg for the slightest sampling of bottles from breweries that some people have never heard of. Stouts, sours, IPAs, saisons, homebrew, beer after beer after beer for hours, and the breakneck pace only quickens. It’s sometime after midnight, and many people have disappeared into their bedrooms and preselected corners to offer any sort of sacrifice to the merciless, deaf god of hangovers. Tomorrow will be a living nightmare all of us will bear witness to. After six punishing hours of drinking, the commercial refrigerator still holds close to 100 bottles of beer. There’s also a case of Boat from Carton for beer pong, which bizarrely vanished the next morning, with no sign of empty cans.

The aftermath is impressive. Casualties of broken glass, spilled sticky liquid, trash, and bodies are strewn across the enormous farmhouse. There’s a bottle graveyard that has become so large, the stairs on the front steps are inaccessible to view its horrific grandeur. FoFA starts in three hours.

FoFA Rising

The Festival of Farmhouse Ales itself is quite special. With limited ticket sales, and what seems to be a smaller group of people, the actual capstone event of the weekend seems to be quite relaxing. After a few short-lived hours of recovery, the taps open and the lines begin. It’s cool and cloudy, with scattered sprinkles, which is actually perfect for recovery and more drinking.

Set and setting are two vital components to such a ritual, which are in no short supply here. The view is spectacular, it isn’t a mob scene, and everyone is spectacularly friendly. Small tasting glasses make for a slow drinking affair, for which the cadre and I are eternally thankful. Everything is fantastic, Sante Adairius, Crooked Stave, even the ultra-new brewery without a home–Suarez Family Brewery–was in attendance.

Beer here is stunning. Soft and round, well balanced, extremely drinkable…the type of drink that can turn your nose and taste buds into foodie geek overdrive, with flavor profiles that continue to evolve as you drink. This is the reason I became a beer geek; this is the reason I decided that I wanted to pursue a career in the beer industry. In this rarified air, these beers are truly transcendent. The water profile mixed with the local microflora, the hops, and the yeast all come together to make a thing of sheer beauty in a glass. After a few, all the stress of the weekend and my woes of life seem to be miles away as I sit in the sprinkling rain listening to a local folk band perform.

It takes a lot of money and work to get to an event like this, and some think it’s not worth it. Most of the time, it would be hard to argue with this logic, especially with the opening of so many breweries around the country. But there’s just something special about drinking a saison that puts you in such a magical place…it’s like your first kiss, or listening to Dark Side of the Moon for the first time. Hill Farmstead’s Midas touch extends to just about every style they aim to create, so getting your hands on anything is worth the effort.

The Saga Continues

As if this wasn’t enough, there has been a planned after party at the local pizza restaurant/general store/bar/concert venue Parker Pie. It’s swarmed with beer-soaked attendees and the sorry souls who couldn’t attend, vainly trying to continue the magic atop the hill. Cantillon flows here unlike almost anywhere else; empty bottles of Lou Pepe and Classic Gueuze overflow recycling bins as people continue to slug down more and more beer. Not to mention there’s still more than fifty beers in the refrigerator at the farmhouse.

Aftermath

The next morning comes quickly, and after a heroic dose of Excedrin, I’m feeling pretty good. The rest of the housemates aren’t so lucky. Something happened the night prior that involved an $800 bet and a horse. There’s broken glass all over the floor, close to 100 empty bottles, and a kitchen that looks like it had been driven through with a lawnmower, as there are grass clippings strewn across the entire first floor. No one is willing to admit what happened, and most of the out-of-staters have already hit the road for their grueling trips back to Illinois, New Jersey, and Ohio.

On the ride back, we all sit in relative silence; even the radio is shut off. Loyal pilgrims riding the wave back down from the holy land in silent contemplation. Was it worth it? Absolutely, but I’m glad it’s only once a year…

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