There were adjuncts in any direction, at any release. If not across the Everglades, then up the Pacific Northwest or down the Mighty Mississippi to Decorah or St. Louis... you could strike waxed bottles anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were drinking was right, that we were winning. There they go. Three of Lord Maris' own prototypes. High-powered mutants of some kind never even considered for mass consumption. So now, more than 500 beers later, you can go up on a steep hill in Los Angeles and look West, and with the right kind of buzz you can almost see the high gravity mark - that place where the wort finally broke and rolled back.

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