Photo 76/365
Baxter Brewing's Pamola Xtra Pale Ale wasn't available this passed fall, and until recently, although I had heard of it, I hadn't tried it. My Dad handed me a can of Pamola last Saturday. I light bulb came on as I popped the top—this is what I had been looking for.
For those who don't know, Pamola is a bird spirit in Abenaki Indian mythology, a bird spirit that causes cold weather. From Wikipedia:
"Specifically, according to the Penobscot Indians, Pamola inhabited Mt. Katahdin, the tallest mountain in Maine. Pamola is said to be the god of Thunder and protector of the mountain. The Indians described him as having the head of a moose, the body of a man and the wings and feet of an eagle. Pamola was both feared and respected by the Indians, and his presence was one of the main reasons that climbing the mountain was considered taboo."
For some reason, whether or not to accept the job with the AMC rebuilding the Madison Hut took some debate. It felt like a bit of a life change—although I've since realized it wasn't quite that big a deal.
Aside from being a part of a historic project, in an incredible location between my two favorite mountains, getting to live there four days at a time and having all my food and meals provided for me, there weren't many perks. I mean, the pay wasn't that great.
But there was one selling point from my interview that I couldn't shake. Beer. No, not free beer, but beer. I was told that if I got my gear, tools and other supplies to Camp Dodge before the first airlift, it would all be helicoptered up for me. And if I enjoyed a beer or two after work, to include it with my supplies, and it would get flown as well.
I had no illusions of getting hammered after a 10 hour work day on the hut, waking up, and doing it all over again. That's not my style. Beer is merely an accessory to kicking your feet up by the wood stove and relaxing after a hard day of pounding nails. I liked the thought of it. The fact that this detail was included in my "interview" told me all I needed about the laid back atmosphere I'd enjoy at the hut. Needless to say, I took the job.
There was one catch though. The beer had to be in a can. No bottles of Sierra Nevada, my usual preferences. I searched long and hard for good beer in a can. I tried to find my favorite caned beer from out West, Fat Tire IPA by New Belgium Brewing, a staple on river trips with my brother in Colorado, but came up empty. Unfortunately, it isn't available on the East coast. I was forced to settle on Harpoon IPA at the last minute. I wrapped the two 12-packs in duct tape, wrote my name all over them, and packed them in my duffel bag to be flown up.
They made it, safe and sound, aside from one casualty. Cutting the duct tape from the box shortly after the beer arrived, I lightly touched a can with my knife. The rapid elevation change and bumpy ride dangling in a net under a helicopter with 800lbs of other gear made for a beer grenade, touching it with the steel blade of my knife was pulling the pin.
While I enjoyed having beer at the hut, the Harpoon wasn't worthy. It didn't do the location justice, much less warrant an expensive helicopter ride. It wasn't meant for the mountains, maybe a whaling boat, but not the mountains. I didn't bother packing beer for the second airlift later that fall and settled on bumming PBR's and hiking up a bottle of Knob Creek, which created stories of its own. Still, I wanted beer. Good local beer.
Aside from being a part of a historic project, in an incredible location between my two favorite mountains, getting to live there four days at a time and having all my food and meals provided for me, there weren't many perks. I mean, the pay wasn't that great.
But there was one selling point from my interview that I couldn't shake. Beer. No, not free beer, but beer. I was told that if I got my gear, tools and other supplies to Camp Dodge before the first airlift, it would all be helicoptered up for me. And if I enjoyed a beer or two after work, to include it with my supplies, and it would get flown as well.
I had no illusions of getting hammered after a 10 hour work day on the hut, waking up, and doing it all over again. That's not my style. Beer is merely an accessory to kicking your feet up by the wood stove and relaxing after a hard day of pounding nails. I liked the thought of it. The fact that this detail was included in my "interview" told me all I needed about the laid back atmosphere I'd enjoy at the hut. Needless to say, I took the job.
There was one catch though. The beer had to be in a can. No bottles of Sierra Nevada, my usual preferences. I searched long and hard for good beer in a can. I tried to find my favorite caned beer from out West, Fat Tire IPA by New Belgium Brewing, a staple on river trips with my brother in Colorado, but came up empty. Unfortunately, it isn't available on the East coast. I was forced to settle on Harpoon IPA at the last minute. I wrapped the two 12-packs in duct tape, wrote my name all over them, and packed them in my duffel bag to be flown up.
They made it, safe and sound, aside from one casualty. Cutting the duct tape from the box shortly after the beer arrived, I lightly touched a can with my knife. The rapid elevation change and bumpy ride dangling in a net under a helicopter with 800lbs of other gear made for a beer grenade, touching it with the steel blade of my knife was pulling the pin.
While I enjoyed having beer at the hut, the Harpoon wasn't worthy. It didn't do the location justice, much less warrant an expensive helicopter ride. It wasn't meant for the mountains, maybe a whaling boat, but not the mountains. I didn't bother packing beer for the second airlift later that fall and settled on bumming PBR's and hiking up a bottle of Knob Creek, which created stories of its own. Still, I wanted beer. Good local beer.
Now I've found what I had been looking for. Beer worthy of those mountains—named after a mountain spirit and a mountain peak—in a can.
Sounds quite tasty and appropriate. I'm gonna have to try it myself.
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