Flagstaff feels post-war blue collar at its outskirts and, as Highway 89 gives way to the famed Route 66, the character of the town reveals itself in the box stores, strip malls and antiquated motels with cartoonish horses or carriages out front.

The concept of historic preservation evolved a little slower than the industry of mass merchandising, which was only a natural evolution of '60s and '70s car-culture cheesiness. You can vividly imagine the rows of station-wagon dads in Bermudas, black socks, and horned-rim glasses populating every parking lot. In surveying my lodging options while still getting my kicks on 66, a new rule was born: while seeking out genuine and original lodging opportunities, motels where people paced about in full camouflage would be avoided. I knew the historic downtown was getting close using the same natural signposts as other quaint mountain towns, i.e. Starbucks started to appear. A couple of random turns later, I stopped Rosanante's younger cousin, Speedy Gonzales, in front of the Weatherford Hotel, perfectly suited for the dusty beer explorer. In my town, the historic western hotels are all dolled up and spit polished a contrived modern facsimile of their rough-and-tumble western roots. Not so the Weatherford, a place that opened its doors in 1900 and probably hasn't changed much since 1908. Gun smoke filled my nostrils, that or smoke from the pub's kitchen, and the guy at the desk, Matt, actually said to a departing patron, "Don't let those rattlesnakes get your dogs" before asking if he could help me. I checked in.

The stairs groaned and the toilet had a handle labeled "press," as if the technology was new enough to warrant instruction. The tub was cast iron without a shower and there were no phones or TVs. Zane Grey books populated the shelves, and the blanket on the bed was probably sewn by his grandmother. And what do you think cowboys fresh from the range would do after setting their saddle bags in the corner? Go for a beer obviously, a local beer. So I did.

The Weatherford, as it happens, is within a short walk to all three breweries in town. In Beer Explorer vernacular, we refer to that as "good living." Matt recommended the Beaver Street Brewery as his favorite, so I set off for it first. The brewery takes up almost a full city block with the brewery and dining room on one side of the converted grocery store from 1938 and its "Brews and Cues" on the other for the billiards set. Beaver Street bills itself as the oldest microbrewery in Flagstaff, circa 1994. There is an open kitchen on one side of the brewery, and the bar and requisite brewery gear on the other. Décor is pretty limited to a few half-baked railway relics (the trains pass by close to the building) and flat-screen TVs. All the barstools were populated with men nearly past their drinking years. I didn't realize it yet, but I had forgotten that Arizona doesn't do the whole daylight savings thing and I was probably there at 5:30 p.m., saddling up with the early birds, though prepped by my first tub-scrubbing since childhood for the coeds I was expecting. The bartender, who shall remain nameless, necessitates a word about bartending. Like any drinker worth his foam, I bartended for a few years, so this advice comes from both sides of the pine: 1) When a patron asks what beers you serve, though this question is annoying to answer hundreds of times a night, you should consider it part of your job, so you either have a handy list to give them, or you recite them cheerfully. Do not, ever, say "Read the board." 2) People sit at your bar because they occasionally prefer a little conversation or human interaction while sipping their suds. Attempt to be interested in them. 3) If someone there is sampling all the beers, ordering food, asking you questions and taking copious notes all the while, he may later skewer you in an article. You may want to refer back to numbers 1 and 2 in this case.

One taste of the food, and I understood why so many had lined up early. I had the grilled salmon and Florentine ravioli with basil cream sauce. It was several notches above the typical pub fare. I'm trying to watch the pounds and could not force myself not to eat every sumptuous giant saucer-sized ravioli. The beer at The Beaver Street necessitates a word about Arizona breweries. Sorry, New Mexico, the locale of my first installment of The Great Southwest Beer Exploration, but these Arizona folk make you their bitch. I tried to be objective, but compared to New Mexico, where there were definitely some gems and whole breweries that had this game down, the Arizona folk are true masters across the board. I had a hard time not loving every beer and writing little plus signs next to the scores. The Beaver Street's Hefe Weizen takes the banana undertones often found in the wheat styles and blows it up to "I'm going bananas!" levels with a hint of cloves that reminded me of a mysterious dark-haired girl who hung out on the smokers deck in my high school. This beer will ignite your reminiscent engines enough to make you wonder if "that" girl or guy capitulated into a member of the flatulent American masses like everybody else, or somehow rose above on a wave of cool.

I slept until nearly noon, just in time to lunch at the Flagstaff Brewing Company. I was the first one at the bar, and Jacob, the bartender, ought to be hired out to give lessons on the craft to other tenders in town. The back of his shirt said, "Beer like your Mom used to make," a fitting presage to him treating me like his long lost brother. We talked about bad horror and action movies beneath a soundscape of hip-hop, bluegrass and alt-country music. He worked inside, with sunglasses ready above the brim of his hat just in case something more inviting beckoned beyond the doors. I had the requisite Black and Bleu Burger from the burger and sammy menu. A burger with an onion ring on it is like a small answered prayer, almost better than if God had granted me that 4-wheeler for Christmas that I prayed over for five years as a kid. The Flagstaff Brewery pours only four beers at a time, though they have a wide-ranging cast of characters in rotation. The Bubbaganouj topped out in all categories. It was Mr. T quality golden with a field of hoppiness in the aroma and a lively dance on the tongue. One thing about hops, and I wrote in the previous issue that I wouldn't say anything about hops, but you know, the drinking has softened the rule follower in me. Hops are a green resinous herb, a plant with sticky buds that inspire peacefulness and relaxation. Does this remind you of anything? Some people will say things like "that beer is too hoppy" or "this wine is dry" without really knowing what the hell they're talking about. A guy at the brewery sent back a light beer from the dining room because it was "too hoppy," and he was ridiculed at the bar for the better part of five minutes by patrons and employees alike. Get to know hoppy and you'll know why beer beats the shit out of those soda-pop cocktails you've been guzzling. The Bubbaganouj is hoppy. It was midday, I had work to do, and I had two more full pints of the Bubba after tasting the other brews. I started to feel the music and notice the way rays of light danced upon the bar. I was feeling a little hoppy, so Jake wrote down directions to the next brewery. He, like everyone else I asked, insisted I go to Sedona if I was going to be this close. I checked out of the Weatherford.

If you're looking for proof that the U.S. is primed for Romanesque fall, Armageddon's ground zero has got to be Sedona. If more people are drawn to the vortex to ponder their crystals, explore their spiritual energy and massage every last brain cell out of themselves, then the consequential harmonic convergence is likely to be a reduction in productivity, i.e. a collapse in the GDP. I had planned on staying the night, but Raven's Haven and Cosmic Portal, owned by the "internationally acclaimed mystic Raven de Lumiere," was all booked up. (I couldn't make this shit up if I tried). I nearly whipped Speedy into an abrupt U-turn after reading a mere sampling of the business names in town, but my hops were wearing off and I needed a drink.

Sedona's Oak Creek Brewery and Grill was almost worth the trip. That's actually a tremendous compliment. Though it sits in the heart of an "arts and crafts village," and claims to hold "drum circles," the beers at this brewery earned it the esteemed "Best Brewery So Far Award" on the expedition. I expect to see that award displayed proudly among the plethora of medals their beers have won the next time I visit. Strike that, send me a picture. And the food? I had the "My Favorite," a "fire kissed" pizza with crimini mushrooms, fresh spinach, fontini and brie cheeses, red onions, roasted garlic and toasted pine nuts with garlic olive oil. A new award of "Best Food So Far" was created shortly after the first bite. The brewer's last name is Kraus, if that tells you anything, and I don't know what he's doing, mixing in cosmic UFO energy or something, but keep up the good work buddy, wow! They pour seven beers to sample, affectionately known as "The Seven Dwarfs," and every one of them beats the crap out of every beer I've ever had. There are gorgeous burnished-copper serving tanks for beer storage behind the oak bar and the display kitchen and dining area are equally impressive. I don't have a favorite. I really don't. I sat and enjoyed each in its turn, even while watching the despicable Kobe Bryant win on TV, and while listening to the drunk next to me, who claimed to be some world-famous photographer, while he paid for beers with discount coupons.

After finishing the last of my beers, I retreated expediently toward Flagstaff with my chakra waxed, hoping the Weatherford would have a room. It did, room 59.
There was once a brewery in Flagstaff called Mogollon Brewing Company. It is no longer, but it's been replaced by The Green Room and some of Mogollon's beers are still served. I was going to skip it, chalk it up to obsolescence, but the explorer in me couldn't pass up the opportunity to climb every peak and run every river. What if the world's greatest beer would be missed by a cavalier disregard for it? Why do I do it? Because it is there. And once again, though I haven't much to say about The Green Room as a place, there were great beers there. The Wapiti Amber in particular had a sturdy head worthy of its namesake, and a restrained malty flavor with a hint of wild beery tones. It was smooth as silk and very drinkable, a fine preparatory drink for what was to come.
I settled into the bed in room 59 at the Weatherford, a room reportedly not rented since the last occupant threw herself from its third-story window to the street below in a panic over the ghost inside. A hundred-year-old building makes plenty of noises on its own without help from ghosts. There were sounds from the hallway that echoed as scratching on the floor beneath my bed. Conversations from other rooms moaned through the wood-framed walls. The high windows above the doors would flash with colored light outside. I was tired, and I was drunk, a weary prey to the forces of darkness. I pondered what might make me burst through the glass to crack my melon on the street below. Still, I felt the nudge of sleep beckoning, a common ploy no doubt.