Founders Backwoods Bastard 10.2% ABV
Wee Heavy Scotch Ale
Founders Brewing Company
A time worn man with heavy bags sagging under his deep set eyes carries a double sided axe over his right shoulder as his feet crunch on the frost covered ground. Falling snow sticks to his long intermingled white grey beard. He drags a cord of freshly hewn wood behind him with his left arm. His face is expressionless, no sign of exertion or fatigue shows through, though both lay heavy upon his bony frame. He comes up to his cabin set deep in the backwoods, away from society where he prefers to be. He scrapes open the old door with a creak and enters his humble abode. The labor of the morning hangs drying in the corner ready to be turned into his sustenance for the coming week. He will not have to go hunting tomorrow or the day after, as he was lucky today. Instead of paltry rabbits or squirrels he brought down a buck. He will feast on venison tonight. Tomorrow he will make jerky and turn the skin and fur into a much needed pelt, his current one worn through with years of use. He is filled with excitement as he will also get to consume a prized beverage with his kill this eve. A beer he brewed himself and has been aging in an old oak bourbon barrel he’s had for many years. A brew he swore he would save for the perfect occasion.
He puts another large chunk of timber on the fire and plunks down onto his wooden rocking chair, reflecting and reliving the filling hearty meal he has just consumed; the delicious meat he devoured like a famished animal, sating his belly. Though the meal was ravishment, it was a mere prelude to the coming ecstasy. He had already pulled out the cork from the barrel and filled his mug to the brim, before fueling the fire. He now takes a draught. The taste of scotch, of the single malt kind, passes over his lips. The smooth rich character of the ale that follows causes a smile to break upon his stoic face. He sits for awhile in a trance with smile affixed. Coming to, he takes a sip, the appropriate portion for his beer. He feels warmth of the alcohol in his belly as the heat from the fire warms his skin. He is right where he wants to be.
He falls asleep shortly after emptying his mug, rocking gently next to the hearth. Sleeping as he has not in months. He dreams, his mind bringing back images of the day. The moment he sees the buck, how the meat and hearty meal that awaits him is not his first thought, but rather that this could be a reason to drink his brew. He steadies his rifle. His shot pierces the still morning air. The majestic beast thuds to the snow. All the while his mouth waters as he can taste the brew he calls Backwoods Bastard on his lips.