Posted - 10/31/03 12:01 AM PST
Imagine you're standing in the middle of field full of century-old gravestones. It's a beautiful day and you can see for miles but a creeping dread lingers. Your phone has been acting oddly since stepped on sacred ground. Despite a clear signal, reception is terrible. People try to call but it refuses to ring. You leave a voice mail. "Hey, it's me. I got your message. You tried calling twice but the phone hasn't rang. I'm still looking for the Weinhard marker. I don't think the spirits like me talking on this..." Suddenly, a petulant gust of wind tears through a cute, sunny day. Autumn leaves leap off trees. A gale force wind has just teleported to this spot from somewhere in the Atlantic. This what some might call a subtle hint. Welcome to the Riverview Cemetery where the locals are sticklers for cell phone etiquette.
Flash forward- 6 years for some, 10 for others. You’re sitting in the basement of a friend's house. They pull a lukewarm bottle of Henry's Dark from a crowded backpack. It's wrapped in an old gym sock to prevent it from clanking against the others. This booty was pirated over a series of months from a parent’s fridge or maybe it was provided by a sympathetic older sibling. You're frightened and disgusted. You remember that beer tastes like a moldy, bread milkshake. To make matters worse, this bottle has spent several hours wrapped in a damp sock. A Budweiser commercial this ain't.
Over the years, it happens time and time again. You drink, you vomit, you vow. And the Henry's logo is always there, looking on.
After two years of working with other brewers, Henry partnered himself with George Bottler and together they purchased Harry Saxer's City Brewery in what is now Old Town. By 1865, Weinhard's City Brewery was cranking out lager beer selling at 50 cents per gallon. In the next 14 years, it would become the largest of Oregon's 39 breweries.
In 1888, Weinhard offered to pump beer from his brewery, via Portland's firehoses to Skidmore Fountain for its grand opening. The offer was vetoed by civic leaders convinced that thirsty residents would poke holes in the city's valuable fire hoses. Henry died in 1904, passing his beloved brewery on to his daughter and her husband, Paul Wissigner. The brewery endured Prohibition by producing soda and "near beer," going on to achieve nationwide distribution in the 1980s. In 1999, the landmark brewery on Burnside Street, which always filled the surrounding blocks with the heavy scent of hops, was purchased by Miller and closed. The building itself was later gutted to make way for a series of high-rise condominiums.
I didn't make it back until last Saturday. I expected an afternoon hike, an endurance challenge. Judging from the last trip, the Weinhard plot would take hours to track down. I packed accordingly (water, Cliff Bars, cell phone, crucifix for warding off the undead). With a bag of provisions I entered Riverview Cemetery from the eastern entrance.
Impossible to miss, the family's huge stone marker weighs at least a ton and bears the name WIENHARD in bold lettering. Markers for members of the family line the edge. On Henry's, placed with loving care, was a collection of bottle caps.
At the Weinhard plot I realized my mistake. I hadn't brought any beer for the man himself. As a part of the tradition, all visitors must leave behind a token of the Weinhard empire, be it an unopened bottle or even a cap. I thought of going to the Zupan's down the street to bring something back but Riverview's other gravestones beckoned. I cleaned off Henry's marker to make up for the oversight and moved along.
Riverview is huge, entwining several hills overlooking the Willamette River. The cemetery serves as a final homestead for countless settlers. Many of the residents here died over a hundred years ago. Aging headstones topple into crevices where the covers of coffins below have collapsed. Some are simple markers that read "mother." Others are intricately-carved tombstones that resemble totem poles.
"Hey, it's me. I got your message. You tried calling twice but the phone hasn't rang. I'm still looking for the Weinhard marker. I don't think the spirits like me talking on this..." The wind blasts and stops when I hang up. This would have been more terrifying if it weren't for the bicyclists buzzing up the hill, wrapped in yellow Spandex. Was I surrounded by angry spirits? Or should I have gone with Verizon instead? Unconvinced, I headed back to the Weinhard marker and took a series of long-term exposures. Despite different angles and times, this is how they came out:
This was enough. I could take no more. Now the ghosts were dicking around with my camera. Who knew what they'd be after next. I dashed to the car and barreled towards the entrance, much to the chagrin of a pair of identically clad joggers.
This is because I didn't leave Henry a bottle cap, isn't it? Or are these bizarre mechanical problems a mere coincidence? You be the judge. Regardless of the cause, I'll return to Riverview sometime soon with a six pack of Henry's Private Reserve. It will be carefully placed on the Weinhard plot. With my luck, the other spirits will snap because I didn't bring any for them and tear apart my transmission. Or Henry's ghost will scorn the brew, which is now brewed in Milwaukee. He will launch it at my head. Sans socks.
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