The Warmth of a Winter Pub
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By noon on New Year’s Day, Sally and I had driven down the Columbia Gorge, and after a short lunch, were on the trail above Mosier. Rain was in the forecast, but the clouds allowed us to stroll over soft paths for a few hours without dampening our jackets.
A day earlier, we’d taken advantage of unseasonable temperatures in the low 50s to stop in at Ecliptic Brewing. It was the first time we’d ventured out for a pint in months—somehow, sitting in the dark while an icy drizzle rattles down hasn’t proven alluring. We took blankets and sat with a sparse crowd that dwindled as night fell, enjoying porters and a burger on the weirdest—and earliest—New Year’s ever.
Climbing into the car after our hike, Sally suggested we try again. Finishing a day in the Gorge with a beer is a long-standing tradition of ours. The breweries are plentiful, and I often wonder whether the post-hike beers, not the hike itself, are the real point of our excursions. She suggested detouring south toward Mt Hood to visit Solera Brewery in Parkdale. We called, and the picnic tables on the back lawn were open for drinking, so off we went.
Parkdale is less than ten miles from the peak of Mt. Hood, if you ignore the 9,000-foot gain. It’s in the heart of orchard country, and the Hood River approach takes you through miles of pear and apple trees, where the road periodically opens up spectacular views of the mountain. On sunny days, few breweries offer better views. Those picnic tables sit near an orchard and barn, which garland the sight of the snowy volcano.
January First, however, was not a sunny day. Indeed, the clouds seemed to be getting darker every mile we climbed. Soon, patches of snow appeared, and we watched as temperature dropped to 41. At Solera, we trudged through slush and got seated, carrying our Berliner weisses to a chilly seat. Still, moods were high even if temperatures weren’t. Parkdale is remote. The people who visited that day were either local or motivated to be there, and everyone seemed to be in a holiday mood. Children and dogs ran around, while a cheery stove laced the air with woodsmoke. We donned hoods to fend off the breeze, and joined the high spirits.
Until the rain hit.
Sally moments before the rains came. Mt Hood is hiding just beyond her left shoulder.
In Oregon, rain isn’t an immediate deal-killer. A light patter may only last a few minutes. Sometimes precipitation arrives in the form of mist, so light it’s easy to ignore. So when the first drops stippled our tables, no one moved. After a few minutes, gusts started blowing harder, sending fiercer droplets. Sally and I began drinking briskly. Another few minutes and it was really coming down, emptying tables as drinkers gulped, gathered glasses, and darted for the door. By the time we got inside to pay, we were soaked.
I’ve indulged in this slow build-up, because what came next was so potent, the culmination of not just a day, but months. There’s nothing like a warm pub on a nasty day. Even though Solera’s back lawn offers the biggest show, the pub inside is lovely as well. Built as an old theater, it has for decades been a cozy pub, with the lived-in feel of thousands of previous happy nights. The windows had fogged up, and we could only see shapes in the darkening night, and wind drove a rattle of hard rain onto the panes in gusts. Our bodies had stiffened against the cold, but seemed to melt once inside. Seats at the Covid-empty bar fairly shouted invitations to settle down. This was exactly the kind of weather humans had invented pubs to defy.
For at least ten thousand years, in every place grain grows, people have come together to drink beer. The experience of drinking, for me at least, is infused with this sociability. Beer is as much the excuse to create a warm, welcoming environment where people can enjoy each other as it is the reason. Muscles melt in part because of the warmth, but also the friendliness, and, eventually, the alcohol glow.
For more than nine months, I’ve missed that experience. I reflect often on the idea of a pub, but this has washed out the memories. Revisiting a fond moment removes a bit of the reality from the actual experience—it becomes more a copy of a copy of a memory, less lifelike each time. Yet it only took stepping into Solera on a cold, rainy day to bring the whole experience flooding back. Sally felt it too, and said, “I wish we could stay in here.”
The rain that began then continued on for nearly 36 hours. We drove back down the Gorge toward the house we’d spend another Friday night in, in that case with a box of take-out pizza and another night of Netflix. Covid hasn’t been completely without redemption—I will remember beer deliveries, Zoom happy hours, and those few icy sessions with fondness. It will season a lifetime of drinking with a certain piquancy—but Netflix and pizza are a pale substitute for a night at the pub.
Of course, things will change. Yesterday morning, the clouds were gone. I took a bike ride in the sparkling, freshly-washed city. It was joyful to glide through sleepy streets, listening to birds and inhaling the earth. It may have been January 3rd, but that moment felt like the real dawn of a new year.
Perhaps if there’s a silver lining to this whole disaster, to our enforced pub fast, it’s that when it ends, we’ll enjoy a few days or weeks or, if we’re lucky, months, in which the experience seems more vivid and alive, less mundane and more precious. I wouldn’t have chosen to do it this way, but this morning, under rainy skies again, I do relish the anticipation.
Happy New Year, everyone—here’s hoping it’s a good one.
Cover photo courtesy Solera Brewery, on a winter evening several years ago.