The Great American Ale Trail - Christian DeBenedetti [69]
KEY BEER
San Juan IPA, with a ruddy copper hue, ample, citrusy hop bite, and medium body is the local favorite.
DETOUR
OURAYLE HOUSE
BREWERY
215 7th Ave. • Ouray, CO 81427
(970) 903-1824 • ourayle
house.com • Established: 2005
Getting to the tiny mountain town of Ouray takes some doing. Wedged beneath a scrum of jagged San Juan Mountain passes, it’s a solid two-hour drive from Aspen or Durango. But for the love of beer, you should go.
I did, en route to Durango from Aspen, but almost made the mistake of merely passing through. In fact, I’d been hearing about this town for ages—there’s a world-famous ice climbing festival every winter, and in summer, tourists flock to ride the Durango-to-Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Train as it chugs up and down the 10,000-foot passes. At the time of my travels, though, I wasn’t even aware there were breweries in Ouray, having made my plans at the last minute. But its main street, lined with historic, wind-whipped façades, was too pretty to pass up. Sure enough, you can walk right into a saloon that opened in 1891, at the Old Western Hotel, and salute the portrait of “Juanita” on the floor, painted by an itinerant artist for the princely sum of a few beers.
Ask around where to get a good, locally brewed beer, as I did, and eventually some Good Samaritan will point you to the Ourayle House, across the street from the 1891 Historic Western Hotel and tucked into an old garage building. There, with a mangled whitewater kayak hanging on a makeshift fence, stands the brewery, a “one man, one dog” operation, as the owner himself has dubbed it.
Reaching the front door, a hand-lettered chalk sign welcomes with: IT’S NOT THAT WE DON’T LIKE KIDS, BUT WE DON’T DRINK BEER AT YOUR CHILD’S DAY CARE EITHER. Below that: AMAZINGLY, WE ARE OPEN. And, SORRY, WE DON’T TAKE CREDIT CARDS. IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S US. And, hilariously, right below that: WELL, MAYBE IT’S A LITTLE YOU.
Steel your confidence and walk into the company also known as (literally) Mr. Grumpy Pants Brewing Co. (Welcome! “Welcome” being a relative term, says another sign) and grab a stool as locals turn to see what the cat dragged in. Discarded ice axes, crampons, and carabiners hang willy-nilly on the split and varnished salvage timber walls. A woodstove crackles in one end of the room. Signs, all hand scrawled in chalk, peek out from every corner. There are no TV screens, no gleaming copper brewing tanks, no chef walking around in a toque and whites. Ramshackle rocking chairs and tattered decks of cards are more the style here. To a certain kind of beer drinker—present company included—it practically doesn’t even matter what’s on tap, because the place just feels like a little corner of heaven.
On one evening I found the owner, James “Hutch” Hutchison, sliding side to side behind the bar on a kind of zip-line barstool with an impish grin. After studying land-use planning and the somewhat vague-sounding major of environmental economics, he began building the brewpub. It’s a Reinhold Messnerian hideaway, cranky and cabin-like, sure, but also idealistic, big-hearted, and honest about what matters. If a kayak is missing, reads one totem, the river is up and no one’s here. We’re in a meeting. And, on another one, Due to factors beyond our control, major powder days may result in brewery closing at any time. I imagine Hutch chuckling as he locks up the brew house after a dump of snow to head out backcountry skiing. What’s best about Ourayle is how merrily unconcerned Hutch is about it all. “You move down here for the lifestyle, not for the job,” he explains. “I love that we have seven months of winter, three months of company. You’re just nestled into the Rocky Mountains. People have said it looks so claustrophobic, like Mother Nature is giving you a big hug.”
Call it a bear hug. It’s the sort of town and place I felt I could disappear in for a while, though I know I would be all too conspicuously visible at the Ourayle House, drinking beer with Hutch and throwing a few darts over pints of ale. “This is where the