Monthly Archives: December 2013

Hey, you got Chicago in my Vegas

So today I made a dangerous discovery.

That discovery is that there’s at least one brewpub in Las Vegas that is open and serving beer all day, every day. And all night. 24/7, as they say. I still don’t know why that expression annoys me, but it does.

Don't ask me why it's named Chicago. It's not cold, windy, or smelly.

Don’t ask me why it’s named Chicago. It’s not cold, windy, or smelly.

This is dangerous, of course, because I’m not one who believes there is a proper time of day to drink beer. It’s not just for breakfast, you know. Nor is there a proper time of day to not drink beer.

Oh, and did I mention the place also has a cigar lounge?

Why, again, do I not live in Nevada?

Oh, yeah, because I’d be broke in a week. Or possibly dead.

Many places here are open 24 hours, incidentally. There are, as far as I can tell, none of those silly laws about when you can or cannot buy or consume beer. Virginia has silly laws like that. Bars have to close by 2 am, if I recall correctly, and shops can’t sell beer between midnight and six am (though they may have changed that law recently – I don’t have to buy it at those hours because I’m usually stocked up). Haven’t run across much of anything like that in Vegas. Places seem to open and close when they feel like it. It makes finding snacks at 4 am much easier.

Anyway, I had a good day at the blackjack table. Good enough that I decided to try some Kobe beef. Well, not real Kobe beef from Japan, but the same kind of dead cow, only the cow, when it was alive, lived in Idaho. I’m not sure it lives up to the hype, but further research may be necessary.

Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can visit more brewpubs. I was here in August, but I got sick, which kind of puts a damper on the whole “tasting” part of beer tasting.


North Vegas

Had to get this pic as I was leaving Page:

Because I'm actually 12.

Slot. Canyon. Hummer. Adventures.

Sign me up!

Anyway, lots of long stretches of nothing today. Nothing, that is, except freaking amazing scenery.

Like this.

Like this.

And this.

And this.

And then, approaching Las Vegas, I saw the city shrouded in mist (okay, it’s probably smog. But I’ll call it mist.)

I'm now *breathing* that stuff.

I’m now *breathing* that stuff.

This afternoon, I found a hotel near a brewery. Though that’s rarely worked out for me before, I’m not one to learn from my mistakes. Fortunately, it’s a good hotel and a good brewery: Tenaya Creek. I was there during a brief visit to Vegas this summer, but it was so good I had to go again.

As an aside, Tenaya Creek doesn’t do food, so first I stopped at a taphouse (even closer to the hotel; both these places are in walking distance) called Aces & Ales. Amazing, absolutely stunning, beer selection – but my primary focus is, of course, visiting actual breweries.

Tenaya Creek does what a lot of places in Vegas do: they have video gambling at the bar. If you’re gambling, your drinks are “free.” I put “free” in quotes because like every other game in Vegas, it’s horribly slanted in favor of the house. And the more you drink, the more money you put into the gambling machine. Science proves this.

So, basically, I had the most expensive beer EVER.

Worth it.

Turn the Page

Rumors that I pick my daily stops for their pun potential are completely unfounded. Maybe.

But let’s first go back to Alamosa, where a weather report indicated that the overnight temperature would be dropping well below 0°F, which the temperature should never do. Ever. There are warmer places on freaking Mars right now.

But this was my dashboard as I was about to drive out of town:



Yeah, I just have one thing to say to that:

Yeah, that’s a great big tub full of NOPE.

Once I got out of that accursed valley, though, temperatures rose to a balmy mid-20s.

I passed through Pagosa Springs, Colorado, too early to do anything but take pictures of this too-hipster-for-words brewpub:

I'm sure you liked this one before it was cool.

It’s too small to see here, but Kermit the Frog is desperately trying to escape from the upper window.

I did, however, manage to make it to this one in Cortez, Colorado by lunchtime (at which point, by the way, the temperature had climbed up into the mid-50s):

Oh look, a brewery in Colorado! How rare! Not.

Never did find out what those orange cones were for.

I hung around this also unbelievably hipster town (I’m sensing a theme here for Colorado) for an hour or so, because at that point I really needed to a) stretch my legs and b) apologize to the glowing yellow thing in the sky for calling it “the accursed daystar” and thank it for making the temperature a little bit less NOPE.

The rest of the trip today took me through Ute and Navajo country once more; you may recall I went through it last year. In fact, this route took me right past the Four Corners monument, though I didn’t feel the need to stop there again.

On the road to Page, I encountered some more awesome scenery.

Clearly, I wasn't the sole visitor.

I hereby name this place the Valley of Lost Soles.

Upon reaching Page, which is a small town just south of the Arizona-Utah border, I looked for a place that would sell me some Navajo frybread, which is as good a reason as any to be alive and have taste buds. But there wasn’t any. Instead, I found something far, far more dangerous – a sushi bar within walking distance. Okay, well, the sushi part wasn’t so dangerous, but it was also a bar bar. And they had sake. And absinthe.

I don’t remember much after that, but apparently I made it back to the hotel, and the reason this post is later than usual is I had to wait until I only had one screen to look at.

I’m pretty close to Vegas, now, less than a day away. Unfortunately, my reservation there doesn’t start until Sunday afternoon. I still haven’t decided whether to find another place in Vegas for one night, or maybe stay somewhere else. You’ll find out tomorrow. Later today, I mean.

Remember the Alamosa!

A couple of days ago, my friend Elizabeth commented thus:

Probably, the best thing about crossing Kansas will be that, when you are done, you can say…. wait for it…. “I’m not in Kansas anymore.” Sorry if I stole that one from you but, hey, you’re better than that, right?

No, Elizabeth. No. I am NOT better than that. I was totally going to use that and now I can’t. Nor can I think of anything involving Toto, scarecrows, tin men, or yellow brick roads.

Still, this morning, I got the hell out of Dodge.

After a bit of the flat flatness that I was expecting out of Kansas and eastern Colorado, I started getting treated to views like this one:

The Rocky Road?

Plains, plains, plains, plains, MOUNTAINS.

Ended up in a town in Colorado called Alamosa.

I’d never even heard of Alamosa, so I had no real idea what to expect. Imagine, then, my joy when I discovered this, in downtown Alamosa:

Not that brewpubs are uncommon in Colorado

And the heavens opened and seven angels sang…

They know how to make beer in Colorado. I hear even Coors used to be good before it went national. Had lunch there, sampled a few of the brews, and found them pleasing.

Anyway, it turns out Alamosa’s a small college town along the Rio Grande (yes, the Rio Grande stretches up into Colorado), and it sits in a valley that’s about 7500 feet above sea level.

Water boils at about 198F at 7500 feet. I guess that doesn’t stop them from making beer.

No worries about water boiling tonight, though – the forecast calls for -10F overnight. So no, I won’t be leaving the heated hotel room. Not even for beer.

A Bit Dodgey

Everyone lied to me about Kansas.

“Oh, it’s nothing but flat. Flat, flat, flat as far as the eye can see. And then when you get to the edge of the flat, there’s more flat.”

Actual hills in actual Kansas

Does this look flat to you?

Oh, sure, the further west I progressed, the flatter it got, until here in Dodge City (Yes, that Dodge City) things are flatter than a first-time karaoke singer. But still, I’ve been in flatter places. Eastern Texas. Central Illinois. Hell, parts of Virginia are planier than the Plains.

Going to keep this short, because the most important thing I have to do today, now that I’ve procured a place to sleep, is watch the Doctor Who Christmas special. Luck seems to be holding out for me, as there’s still no snow or ice in the forecast. But forecasts have been wrong before…

Missouri Loves Company

Yes, I was up early enough to see a sunrise.

Look! A picture! Of a sunrise!

This morning, heading west from Cape Girardeau, I saw a column of flaming red light in my mirror. Sadly, it wasn’t Cape Girardeau on fire, but rather the rising of the accursed daystar. Unfortunately, the picture doesn’t really do it justice. But the column of red light isn’t a camera artifact; it was actually there in the sky. I’m just guessing, but I think the effect was the result of sunlight refracting through, or maybe reflecting off, atmospheric ice particles. Or both.

It was certainly cold enough to have atmospheric ice particles.

I made it to Springfield today, and called it quits there because I found a microbrewery.

Maybe Missouri isn't that bad after all.

An oasis of beer in a desert of Coke.

This place had a small, but wide, selection of beers – it wasn’t all IPAs like you find at some places. In fact, there wasn’t an IPA. The nod to the hopheads was in the form of a California-style American Pale Ale, which was actually pretty good. Personally, I thought their Doppelbock was most awesome, but it’s a seasonal beer for them.

Another reason on the plus side of traveling in the winter – breweries are more inclined to make darker beers.

As we all know, every state has a place named Springfield. It’s probably why The Simpsons named its town Springfield. I looked for a monorail, but didn’t find it.

What I did find was that Springfield, MO, among whatever other claims to fame it might have, was the birthplace of Route 66. That is, the push to make Route 66 an official thing in the highway system came from some dude in Springfield. I’m sure it only went through this city by pure coincidence.

So, of course, being a road geek, I had to stay in a Route 66 themed motel tonight.

I want the car.

It’s a cheap motel along Route 66. How could I not?

According to the motel‘s ever-changing sign, ELVIS (in all caps) stayed here in 1956. And on a cold, windy night, if you listen really, really hard, you can hear… the wind. So I don’t know if that’s true or not.

Route 66 itself, of course, was decommissioned in the 1980s, but it’s got enough history attached to it for localities to hold on to the past, however irrelevant it might be today. The Interstates made Route 66 obsolete, and even if it still existed, it wouldn’t be the Mother Road that it used to be. Most people see roads as a means of getting from one point to the next as quickly as possible, which is fine as far as it goes, but it means that a lot of the reason to travel on 66 disappears: the businesses and services dedicated to travelers.

Such services now cluster, lonely and bright and incorporated, around interstate exits. Such is change.

Still, one day, for historic reasons, I’d like to travel the length of the classic route, just to do it. Well, one of the classic routes, anyway. Like every other road, it was subject to numerous shifts and reroutes over the course of time.

This trip is not that day – when I do that, I’ll want to start in Chicago and go all the way, and plan it so I’m following as much of the original route as possible.

Of course, I’ve already been on portions of it; you may remember my post after leaving Winslow, Arizona a couple years back – that’s an example of a preserved section of 66 going through a town.

Still no snow in the forecast for the next couple of days, so I’m going to keep heading west. Now watch there be a blizzard.

Sharing the Missouri

Though I got an early start, and much of today’s journey was under sunny skies, I still don’t have any pictures.


Because it was boring, that’s why.

Not ugly, by any means, but the only thing on the route that stuck out – and it really was like a sore thumb – was the Jefferson Davis Memorial in Kentucky. Here’s a shot of it from Wikipedia:

Might have become the father of his country, but pulled out just in time.

Looks a *bit* familiar…

That’s right; it looks like the Washington Monument, only… gray. You could see it for miles.

To avoid further alienating Southern readers, I’ll shut up about it now.

Made it across the Mississippi today, to Cape Girardeau, Missouri – about which the best thing I can say is it’s not dry. Apparently, Missouri doesn’t have any dry counties, which surprised me. But the one place I did go to, I was like “So what kind of beer do you have,” and he was like “Both kinds. Bud and Bud Light.”

Yeah. I’ll have a Dr. Pepper.

The forecast continues clear over the middle states, so I’m going to keep heading vaguely west, rather than southwest. Looks like I can be in Springfield, MO around lunchtime tomorrow, and Springfield has an actual brewpub, so I may just crash there for Christmas Eve. After that… well… maybe I can cross Kansas in one shot; maybe not. Or maybe I’ll fall asleep trying.

All Dried Up

I meant to leave home at the solstice yesterday, for purely symbolic reasons, but I couldn’t get my crap together fast enough.

Also shamelessly stolen

Symbolic because of this.

No matter, though – I got to my friend Mike’s house outside of Roanoke in time for us to go into the city and get some kick-ass barbecue and beer.

Neither place was a brewery, but that’s never stopped me before. I did sample a couple of brews the BBQ joint had on tap and, uncharacteristically for me, I ordered an IPA. I don’t usually like IPAs because a) they’re too hoppy and b) they’re too popular. But all of the beer snob sites assure me that the Next Big Things in Craft Brewing are sours.

Compared to sours, IPAs are nectar. Sours are just that – sour. I was sampling some sours at a brewery in Richmond one day a couple months ago, among their other selections, and by the time I was done there, I was just buzzed enough to hand the sample glasses back to the bartender – all empty except for the three sours, which I’d dutifully tasted, made faces at, and left most of behind – and reply to her question about how I liked the beers with, “Great, except for the sours. I just can’t drink something that tastes the same going down as it does coming back up.”

Really, I’m not usually that rude. I still feel bad about it.

But it’s true.

Anyway, so, I guess some IPAs aren’t that bad after all. And some of them make a fine accompaniment to real Southern barbecue.

Then we caught the first part of a blues act. This 17 year old ginger kid was seriously singing the blues at this other bar in Roanoke. I really don’t know how you get to be that good at the blues when you’re 17. And ginger. Well, at least we know that, unlike Robert Johnson, this kid won’t be able to sell his soul – being ginger and all.

. . .

This morning, after seeing that there’s a fairly clear forecast across the middle of the US, I just pointed my GPS at Vegas, told it to avoid highways, and drove through the incredibly cool (as long as you don’t stop to listen for banjos) Appalachians, in Virginia, a bit of West Virginia, and Kentucky.

Now, since one of my purposes here is to see the countryside, I decided that when it started to get dark, I’d find a place to stay. It’s even harder to see the country in the dark than it is from an interstate.

This landed me in a little city called Monticello (yes, named after a famous landmark from home) in south-central Kentucky.

And then I discovered the true horror of south-central Kentucky:

This is a dry county.

Not that I’d planned on drinking anything tonight. It’s the principle of the thing, dammit.

I think I found the one decent restaurant in town, incidentally. Well, decent except for the no-alcohol thing. The place had a horse for a logo, which I trust was because this is Kentucky horse country and not for the same reason that a lot of barbecue restaurants have pigs in the logo. I’m pretty sure the whinnying sound I heard when I bit into the steak sandwich was my new phone making unfamiliar noises.

I’m going to try to get an early start tomorrow, get out of this hellpit* as soon as I can. No idea where I’ll end up tomorrow night.

Hopefully not Arkansas.

. . .

*the hotel is actually quite nice. It’s just that ALL dry counties are automatically hellpits.

Winter Storm Warning

Back after a long hiatus!

I’m going to be traveling again, driving across the US in late December and January.

Silly time to travel, I know, but I like the cold, empty places and I’ve been craving adventure – if by “adventure” I mean “never knowing where I’m going to go next because my original plans might be thwarted by snow and ice.”

Shamelessly hotlinked from NOAA

Aiming for the tan areas.

The title of this post, incidentally, refers not to an actual storm, but the amount of posts I hope to make over the next few weeks.

I hope it’s not referring to an actual storm, anyway. While anything could happen, it’s not like I’m making another trip through the northern plains or New England, for now.

I got a great deal on New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas, which has been something I’ve wanted to do. NYE in NYC never appealed to me, but Vegas? Bring it on.

And in my continuing beer tourism, my quest to visit every brewery in America, I find that the sheer number of breweries in California (nearly 450, or almost 1/5 of all the breweries in the lower 48) will continue to stymie me unless I spend a good bit of time in that large, populous state. In about a half-dozen trips to the Republic, I’ve managed to visit… two of them. I hope to improve on that score. It’s just, I mean, how could I be in California and not give priority to wine?

The plan is to leave tomorrow, but the first night will be at a friend’s house outside of Roanoke, VA. After that… well, we’ll see. South and west, for sure.

Fasten your seat belts – it could be a bumpy ride.