A Beer Review of Bell’s Two Hearted Ale in the Style of Hemingway’s “Big Two Hearted River”

There was nothing but the pine plain ahead of him, until the far blue hills that marked the Lake Superior height of land. He could hardly see them faint and far away in the heat-light over the plain. If he looked too steadily they were gone. But if he only half-looked they were there, the far-off hills of the height of land.

-Ernest Hemingway, "Big Two Hearted River"

The ribbon of gray tarmac unfurled for miles. It wound and meandered, rose and fell with the contours of the land. He had another hour to go, give or take the aggression of the wind and the quality of the pavement. The roads had been rough, more than he had recalled. Liam took a sip of water from his bottle and remounted his bike. They carried on down the asphalt path. 

He didn’t need to check his map. His directions were clear and precise and efficient: put Lake Michigan to your left and pedal on. The water glistened and shimmered to the side of the relentlessly continuing tarmac. The trees and woods on the opposite side cast a shadow, albeit not enough to provide any respite from the sun. It had been cold when he started that morning, so chilled that he wished he had been clever enough to pack woolen socks. It was dark, almost pitch black when he began. The first miles had been occupied by counting the uncountable stars overhead. Now he wished for cloud cover of any kind. Or some protection from the horseflies flying faster than he could ascend, all the while buzzing at his ears. 

It took longer than he had expected to make it to his destination. The town was famously the “Northernmost Point on Lake Michigan": it was maybe three blocks square, if that. It felt more haunted now than it did twenty years prior It was something between a small village with a drinking problem and a ghost town with a fishing concern. It’s not hard to navigate. Find the church steeple, make a quick radius. You’ve seen it all. Sneeze and you’ve missed it. Liam rolled his bike into the motel’s door. The rules hadn’t changed: “Leave cash in the microwave when you depart. Don’t use the towels to wipe down your snowmobile.”

Liam cleared the day’s worth of sweat and road grit from his skin. The layers of sunscreen and chain grease had caked beyond expectation. It felt good to rinse off. A clean shirt completed the feeling. Liam walked into the town in search of his quarry. 

It didn’t take long. He had grown, but the town hadn’t. The pub he had visited many years before remained. It looked more or less the same, though it was smaller than he recalled. 

Liam took a seat at the empty bar. He ordered a burger and fries. Yes, cheese and bacon. Yes, something to drink besides water. The Michigan Wolverines schedule on the wall stared at him; it knew that he was an interloper. Liam waited patiently. Expectantly. Hopefully.

The beer came first. An imported ale, technically speaking. Two Hearted, named for. a river northeast of here. The beer came from Kalamazoo, well below the bridge. It had shipped up over the water just like he had. He took a long, languorous sip.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ,” he said quietly to himself. 

It was cold, damn cold. An immediate taste of dark pine hit his palate. It was crisp and refreshing, especially after the day on the hot asphalt. It didn’t remotely resemble a New England hazy style, all unfiltered orange juice pulp and fruity residue. It wasn't a West Coast style, resinous and dank and overpoweringly bitter. The beer had the slightest of funks to it, but nothing remotely like a farmhouse ale. The brew was malty, crisp. Grassy, but not overly herbaceous. It just tasted like a damn good beer, bright and dry and unyieldingly satisfying. He could have easily downed two or three in short order. He’d done it many times before. But he needed to ride further across the peninsula tomorrow. One was enough for his purposes today.

The burger and fries came a few minutes later. He ate them quickly, quietly, as if he had not seen food in weeks. The beer, he savored a bit longer. Satiated to his core, happy and full and tired, he returned to the motel. 

He collapsed in bed, resting for tomorrow’s ride. There were many miles to go.