Big Tide Brewing, Eh?

Have you ever heard of a Beer Trail?

I'm not talking about a trail of empty beer cans at Bonnaroo Music Festival leading to a tent full of nitrous gas and neo-hippie kids.  Nor am I referring to a trail of beer poured strategically in the forest to attract alcoholic bears that you want to kill with a bowie knife and turn into a rug for your fireplace.  Nope.

A Beer Trail is where you get your Beer Passport stamped as you arrive, wayward traveler to destination microbrewery.

Don't worry.  I hadn't heard of such a thing either and ... I drink a lot of beer!

But last week when I journeyed north of Maine's Vacationland to the city of Saint John, New Brunswick a sagely and wizened bartender at Big Tide Brewing Company enlightened me as to what this Beer Trail, Beer Passport, microbrewery quest was all about.

If you click here BEER TRAIL MAINE and glance through the Brewer's Guide, a road map to the best beer in Maine, all locally produced and not a drop of that Bud Light piss water - you might be thinking, "that's goddamn genius" and it is! ... but what's this have to do with Canada?

Good question!  Let's continue on this Beer Trail a bit farther North, past the eclectic scenes of Portland, Maine and the Cadillac-Mountain-granite-scaped Bar Harbor, cross the border past the Mounties and into Saint John where you will find that the art of making beer is taken quite seriously!

"So why not a Beer Trail in New Brunswick," asks the bar tender/owner, Chris, of Big Tide Brewing Company?

I have no answer as I ponder the romantic notion rather headily from the FogBound Hemp Pale Ale.  A journey along a path that continuously leads to good beer and great food all of which was made right there ... all around you?  This is how life should be.  I ordered another and listened to the story of Big Tide Brewing Company.

Open now for more than two years, nestled in downtown Saint John - nautically theme and rightly so.  The world's most extreme tides move swiftly in the harbor and ultimately throughout the Bay of Fundy.  The tidal range is 55 feet at times.  These Canadians lay claim to the highest tides on Earth.

As you climb Princess Street, with its steep, almost too clean and quiet sidewalks and approach Big Tide - a large window on your left nearly swallows you.  It's the dinning room which sits nearly level with the sidewalk.  If you see this window - you're almost there.  A few steps up the hill, take a left and descend into this bastion of a bar where the denizens' beer mugs wait, named, for a pour.  Order the hemp ale.

I found that this small, local microbrewery is a place that has exactly what any lonesome traveler on the Beer Trail could possibly need.  Beer brewed with hemp (it doesn't taste like rope despite Chris' facetious description), a seasonal brew, an extra special bitter and a brown ale that tastes nothing like a brown!

Superb beer brewing is happening here.

After your 3rd or 4th beer ... you may need food.  The menu opens onto a range of options ... I settled for the Maritimes' bounty ... a selection of mussels from the Bay of Fundy.  I can almost taste the fast-recedeing waters over mudflats as the flocks of sandpipers that have gathered on their journey to and from the Arctic to gorge themselves on mud shrimp.

The BeerFredo Mussels are excellent.  What I wouldn't give for a plate of them now ... soaking their last minutes on earth - plucked from the sea - marinated in cream and beer.  Heavenly.

But the taste of New Brunswick, it's seafood, it's charm and above all it's beer will have to wait until when on another journey earns the appropriate stamps in my Beer Passport.  Good luck Big Tide Brewing on mapping New Brunswick's Beer Trail!

cheers!

@aclintonb

http://www.bigtidebrew.com/

A Picture of Portland, OR - Long Gone?

From one the Greatest Backpacker Journalists (and a fellow Hoosier) - I think his formula still works:

Ernie Pyle, Home Country (published in 1947)

"Do you know what Portland is?  It's Paradise on earth.  At least that's what people in Portland said.  Personally, I had never thought so, and I'll tell you why.  In 1926 I came through Portland, wearing overalls and driving a Model T Ford, with a tent and blanket roll tied onto the fender - a young man seeing America.  I stopped at a roadside stand in the suburbs to eat some watermelon, and I was eating alone, minding my business, when up came an old codger and started bawling me out.  He gave me a long lecture, and wound up by yelling that if I didn't stop smoking cigarettes and eating watermelon on Sunday I would undoubtedly land in hell.  I'd never had any use for Portland after that.
  Of course the incident was on my mind as we drew near Portland this time.  But I said, "No, let's be fair.  We'll start all over again with Portland and see what happens."  About that instant we came around a bend, and there staring us in the face was an expensive signboard, as big as the side of a house, saying in huge letters:  "ALL HATH SINNED."  That's all it said.  Now, I don't know whether all hath sinned or not.  But supposing all hath, why put up a signboard about it?  After that, it took my friends five days to convince me that I was wrong about Portland.
  And incidentally, I stumbled onto a fine formula for getting treated like a visiting lion.  Just say to somebody, "Describe to me the character of Portland, will you, so I can write a piece about it.  You know - its personality, its spirit."  How they went to bat!  People started giving parties so I could hear about the spirit of Portland.  They'd run to the phone and say, "Come right over, quick!  And on your way be thinking up how to describe the spirit of Portland."  It was marvelous.  I went to five parties, and two luncheons, and to two dinners in one evening.  And another evening we went to dinner and forgot to eat, all because people were trying to get across to me the spirit of Portland.  Maybe that's it, right there.
  Well, anyway, here is what I put together out of all the scramble:  everybody in Portland is crazy about Portland.  They rave about it.  They don't talk like chamber of commerce folders; they don't talk about their industries and their schools and their crops; they roar about what a wonderful place Portland is, just to live in, and people do live well in Portland.  That whole Northwest country is beautiful, and the climate is gentle, and existence is pleasant.
  Portland is a place, they told me, where money doesn't get you anywhere.  They meant socially, I guess.  So I tried to find out what would get you anywhere - what was the standard for social admittance in Portland.  Definitely, they said, it wasn't money.  And definitely, too, it wasn't blue blood.  "What is it, then?" I asked.  'Intelligence?' They hadn't thought what it might be.  So they thought.  No, it wasn't intelligence.  Some of the social elite were both as poor and as stupid as myself.  They thought and thought.  They finally decided that it was merely an ability to contribute something - usually agreeableness and interest.
  Portland is, on the whole, a conservative place.  It is a city of homes - a place to raise your children.  It was settled originally by "down-Easters" who came around the Horn.  They made the money and became the backbone, and they kept on being the backbone.  But somehow they mixed their New England soundness with a capacity for living the freer, milder Northwest way, and it made a pretty high-class combination.
  As for the physical appearance of the city, the downtown section is neither unattractive nor distinctive.  The nice thing about Portland is that it rises into hills, and they're the most livable hills you ever saw.  Thousands of people live up there in fine houses, among trees, and not far away are the mountains themselves.  A friend of mine, searching for the reason he loved the Northwest, finally decided that the sense of having everywhere around him these clear, cold, tumbling streams had a great deal to do with it."

And there's always alternative, modern visions of Portland:

Lula B on the AT Update

I received GPS coordinates tonight from Becky as they've ducked out of inclement weather from the Appalachian Trail.  Gotta love technology!  If she keeps connected to 3G then maybe we can keep this map updated!

Check out her blog here .... Lula B on the AT

Or follow her here:  http://www.findmespot.com/mylocation/?id=4uBY1

Looking forward to the first blog post on the AT!




View Lula B on the AT in a larger map

Meat & Potatoes Santiago

Dinner @ El Novillero, Santiago, Chile -- The well-lit and warming entrance pulls you from the dark Central District streets.

You descend into the restaurant amid a glow of wine bottles and chalkboard menus.

The smell of freshly grilled meat hits your nose - beef, chicken, pork - the taste of backyard cooking without BBQ sauce.

Immediately the world is calm and a good meal awaits.

I order Pisco Sour for an aperitif. It's strong and does something to the palette. Smacks you awake from siesta. Next, I order a bottle of Chilean wine - Santa Digna, Cabernet Sauvignon, 2009 a Fair Trade product approved by the IMO.

The waiter, a quiet man who smells like cooking wine, smiles in approval at the choice.

For a starter I order salami. It arrives on a wood plate, toothpicked and served with toasted baguette.

Pour some olive oil and balsamic.

The TV screams GOAL!!!!!!!!!!!!! as an obscure game of football entertains the nearly empty restaurant.

I dig in. The salami is mild, not spicy rather an earthy aftertaste - an autumn forest bed where a pig was cured.  After a few bites, I ponder why I'm almost alone in this establishment.

I've joined only a few other diners this evening, which would usually be a bad thing but it's early and my siesta at 3 p.m. left me hungry by 6. Also, the few around me look like silent partners, patrons of the finest quality, hurried yet invested men, well-dressed talking rapido over plates licked clean and empty glasses of wine.

I continue to combine the fatty slices of salami with toasted baguette and dip into the olive oil/balsamic mixture. Perfecto. Sip the vino.

The main dish arrives: Entrecote - T-Bone steak and mashed potatoes. No garnish. Just a plate with a cooked piece of meat. Medium. Mashed potatoes trailing behind on a second plate - no pretension necessary. Meat and Potatoes.

I thank my waiter and smile like a kid on Easter-candy crack and dig in.

Smokey. Tender. Big. Not Texas BIG.  Who needs a John Candy heart attack?

There's nothing here you don't need and more or less - comfort food perfecto for a lonesome traveler.

The Cabernet Sauvignon watches me finish the T-Bone. I drink like Hemingway before a bullfight.

I feel transported to a childhood home. A blue-collar vibe fills the cave at Novillero. Maybe it's the wine or the waiters who maticulously set tables around me anticipating the evening rush?

No worries. This is a good place to eat.

-aclintonb

Dinner @ El Novillero (1155 Moneda Street) no website.  Easily found from Hotel Plaza San Francisco.  Ask the staff - they recommended the excellent T-Bone!

Check out fotos on PicPlz they're really good.

As-Salamu Alaykum

2011 is upon us and I have grown antennas.  (This photo taken next to Ground Zero on Jan. 1, 2011.  A bit lost and trying to find Wall St.)

An update as to the state of Backpacker Journalism:

The actual website www.backpackerjournalism.com no longer exists because I didn't renew the domain and really have no use for it.

Mobile Journalism has gone the way of social media.

Maybe someday someone will think BPJ is a clever name and concept and give it a try.  But for now I feel like this blog is just as important so it remains and will perhaps simply live on as the IDEA of Backpacker Journalism.

Blogger is the perfect platform for expressing the feelings that I had while traveling around the world last year.  There's really no need for an extraneous website!  Death to homepages.  Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, Blogger and Flickr are all you need ... for now.

So what's in store for 2011?  Flocks of dead birds and fishes?  The year countdown to a collective (human) evolution?  Who knows?

I am planning a return trip to India in December but before that perhaps there'll be an adventure in Honduras in June.  And as usual - the United States of America.

Truly ... thanks to everyone that followed my travels and very dearly commented on my posts, photos and videos. More to come!  As-Salamu Alaykum!

Bliss and Contemplating in Ladakh

Leh (Ladakh), INDIA -  The trance-inducing power of the great Himalayas has nearly convinced me to abandon the world and retreat into oblivion, to experience moksha.

But I can't do that just yet!  I am merely stumbling upon the dharma and my duty for this life is slowly taking shape.  The brilliant thing about being in Leh is all the slow, sunny mountain-scaped moments that you have to contemplate what it is that you should do next.

Therefore ...

I would like to briefly comment on some changes/ideas that I've had for BackpackerJournalsim.com.

Overview:  BackpackerJournalism.com (no longer to be an experiment in Mobile Journalism) should become a means to provide a large social network with information about non-profit organizations worldwide.

Here are some reasons that have forced me to reconsider the idea of BackpackerJournalism.com which may in the end push the website to become the aforementioned means.

Number 1 - Tourism Blows:

It is decidedly true that nothing can possibly beat waking up 70 km from the Pakistani border in a small village called Hundar in the Nubra Valley of Northern India, jumping on a motorcycle, blasting the Black Keys' cover of Bob Dylan's Wicked Messenger on your iPod and barreling down the highest road on earth straight into the sun!

Aside from the splendid holy moments that come with traveling abroad, I am stuck with the question - what is tourism?  Is it simply a chance to ride double-humped camels?  To have pizza in a garden restaurant who serves beer in tea pots cause they don't have a liquor liscenese?  What is tourism?  Is it a new, aimless pilgramage.  For the most part - I don't care for it.  I hope many people share this sentiment.

Photo:  Men at the Lamayaru gonpa in the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir, in the Ladakh region, prepare timber for support beams on a reconstruction project for the Buddhist monks, July 6, 2010.

Number 2 - Lack of Connectivity:

Since I arrived in Leh - I've experienced consistent power outages as well as internet server crashes.  While nobody connected to a BackpackerJournalism.com network will have control over such issues, remoteness must be something to consider for future projects.

Photo:  The Indus and Zanskar rivers meet at a confluence near the village of Nimmu in Ladakh where rafting trips terminate on the rocky shore.

Too Much to Remain Focused:

How can we keep focused and make the most of our time as backpacker journalists?

There needs to be a network in place to connect journalists to non-profit organizations throughout the world.  The idea that a backpacker with journalism skills and a mobile device can serendipitously capture stories is a bit fool-hearted.  It may be possible but requires an extremely extroverted person.

Also, not many travelers have time upon arrival (unless you're one of the lucky ones who have quit their job and are bouncing around India for a year!) - to research projects happening in an area.

Therefore, BackpackerJournalism.com's network must be:  Backpacker journalists+editors+NGO founders or coordinators+social network (Facebook, Twitter, blog followers, etc.).  A shared research effort could be made to expedite the time spent in an area.  This is real peaches and cream or should I say mangos and curd?  Ahhh ... Somewhere-over-the-rainbow-stuff!

In conclusion ... I hope that a robust BackpackerJournalism.com network and a clearly focused mission will be an amazing thing for all individuals involved.  Capturing a story can be easy and fun.  From what I experienced in the Chennai-area, it is the best way to stop being just tourist and truly see a different part of the world.

All comments are very welcome!

namaskar

The Possessed, the Headless and the Gateway

Chennai, INDIA - Have you ever just sort of floated face down in a pool - suspended ... silently? Your arms and legs float away effortlessly and you try to pinpoint the actual feeling of weightlessness?

That's what I was doing for a bit Sunday afternoon in a pool just outside of Madurai. For 300 rupees you can spend the day lounging and drinking Kingfisher at the 5-star, Gateway Hotel.

Relaxation, I have found is hard to find in an Indian city. The constant honking and movement of people, pollution and mud, dogs barking, babies crying, beggars and junk dealers - trains, buses, crows and cows, stomach cramps, sweat, heat, sweat. A nice pool in the sun atop a mighty hill overlooking the countryside was a good attempt at finding relaxation.

While face down in the pool, between breaths and in the middle of a tranquil moment my mind replayed the events at the Pandi Kovil (a possession temple) that I visited a few hours before ascending (or descending) into the gates of the Gateway Hotel. Pandi Kovil (rural Madurai area) is where many years ago locals accidently dug up a Buddha statue. They converted it into Pandi - gave it a mustache and a snarling mouth. It is believed to possess women enabling them to speak out against abusive and traumatic situations at home.

I'm still not sure what to think about all of this. And ...

There was that photo of this guy (a Dalit priest? I don't know. I don't ask enough questions these days) who was holding a dead chicken and staring at me as I was leaving the temple site. His glare quickly changed into a smile and I asked if I could take his photo. Here's the result:

So the guy doesn't have a head ... neither does the chicken. I'm sure there's a good scientific explanation to that.

I particularly enjoyed the women cooking pongal. It was a ghostly experience watching them group together around a small fire and cooking pots. The grey smoke wrapping around them between me and the black rock temple walls.

Ahhh. Enough thinking. Another day is almost here. Check out the video by clicking here.

namaste