Page 10 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
“I gave them a fake name.”
“You did?”
“One I know won’t cause trouble,” he says, handing a piece of bacon to Bear. “Dick Johnson.”
I roll my eyes. “Really. You could’ve at least made up something that doesn’t sound like a prank.”
“What? Dick’s my neighbor to the west. An old man who keeps to himself.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Hope he’s got a clean record.”
“He does,” he says confidently.
“I’m not going to ask,” I reply.
“Good,” he nods, with the hint of a smile.
I hate lying to my department, but I understand where he’s coming from. It’s just more to untangle later.
After breakfast, he won’t let me help with the dishes. Just waves me toward the fire with my coffee while he cleans up.
I still radio in myself, so they know that Dick Johnson is legit and hasn’t killed me. I tell them I’m in a secure location, well-supplied, and will check-in again when the weather permits me to travel. They seem perfectly satisfied with that.
I the take time to really study the cabin, since everywhere I turn, there's evidence of the life Ledger's built here: Hand-carved details on the furniture. Books on everything from wilderness survival to philosophy. His brewing operation.
“How did you get into brewing beer?” I ask, sitting in an overstuffed chair near the equipment.
He pauses, dish towel in hand, like he's deciding whether to answer. Finally, he throws the towel over his shoulder and moves to the brewing corner, running his hand along one of the glass carboys with something like affection.
"My grandfather brewed," he says. "German immigrant, old-school recipes. Used to let me help when I was a kid, before he died.” He pauses, as I glance at the copper kettle. “After I got out..." He trails off, jaw tightening. "I needed something to do with my hands. Something that required patience and precision. Something that couldn't be rushed or forced."
I get up to examine his setup. It's meticulous. Temperature controls, bottles labeled with dates and batch numbers. He takes this very seriously.
"It's something I'm good at." He pulls down a notebook, flips it open to show me pages of carefully documented recipes, notes about temperatures and timing, sketches of flavor profiles. "Most of my brews are traditional—German lagers, Belgian ales. But a few years ago, I started experimenting with foraged ingredients. Wild huckleberries, pine tips, mushrooms."
I point to a bottle of amber ale. “What’s this one?”
“Pine needle IPA.”
“You’re joking.”
He shrugs. “I think it tastes like Christmas.”
I lean closer to it. “Interesting.”
He then goes on to explain malt roasting like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“And the truffles?” I ask.
“They're the key to the flavor profile. They add umami and balance the huckleberry’s tartness.”
“Let me see.”
I don't know why I ask. Maybe because the passion in his voice when he talks about brewing is so at odds with his closed-off demeanor. Or maybe it’s because he looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm mocking him. And I want to prove I'm not.
He moves to a shelf, pulls down a jar. Our fingers brush when he hands it to me, and I nearly drop it.
"Careful," he murmurs, cupping my hand to steady it.
