Probably one of the hardest things to learn - if not so much in beer writing, then certainly in fiction – is that ultimately the story itself should help determine the manner in which it’s told. One’s epic toenail-clipping adventure, despite all its charms, would probably make a better youTube video than it would a summer blockbuster (although some of the movies I’ve seen recently suggest this may be debatable). And the fall of the Roman Empire plays out with somewhat less oomph on Twitter. One’s story, if listened to, helps choose its best packaging.
This past weekend, Ali and I headed up to Oregon for a weekend of work-related obligations near Medford, followed by a few days at Crater Lake National Park. There were no bear attacks. At no point on this road trip did we find ourselves in mortal peril, or particularly frightened, or on the brink of a poignant beer-centric epiphany. Our coverage of the breweries of Southern Oregon was by no means exhaustive, or even close. The coolest thing that happened, I didn’t even see.
I will tell it to you anyway. [...]