Local brewery celebrates third anniversary

At 5 p.m. on a winter Friday, Skookum hops with customers and the din of conversation resonates in evening’s cool air. Small, yeah, but popular. PHOTO BY JEREMIAH O The garage hides at the end of a long gravel drive surrounded by trees and horse pasture. It smells like beer.

Some days, if you can find it, you’ll discover crowds drinking; other days you’ll see Ron Walcher preparing for the crowds. He’ll probably ask you to leave.

It’s not a backwoods kegger – you’ve found Skookum Brewery, a tiny 10-barrel operation where Walcher is brewmaster.

Skookum opened Jan. 7, 2007, when Walcher and his wife, Jackie Jenkins, tapped their inaugural keg, an IPA named Jackass.

It was a bold, fingerscrossed, career-changing leap into uncertainty, Walcher said.

Walcher is soft-spoken, with graying hair under a tattered baseball cap. His calm face, often lit by a dimply smile, sports several days’ stubble. A wiry physique emits quiet energy that mirrors his passion for crafting beer.A

logger by trade, Walcher got his first home brew kit as a gift.

The science, artistry, and industry of beer captivated him, he said.

Feeding off the subculture of experimental home brew parties, Walcher said he began upgrading his facilities and equipment while crafting increasingly larger batches of beer. Walcher’s fascination with brewing paralleled his desire to leave logging. He and his wife had purchased property on the outskirts of Arlington in 1997.

They cleared the scrubby lot and bought an abandoned dairy barn in Marysville, Walcher said.

“We dismantled the barn and trucked it to our property,” he explained.

There, they reassembled the structure and renovated it as their home. During the construction, they lived in a travel trailer.

“We had a horse trough for a bathtub,” Walcher said. “We put it on the back of a flatbed so we could drive it into the sun and heat the water.”

By the time their home was finished, Walcher decided a career change looked appealing.

“I was talking about opening a brewery,” Walcher recalled, “but my wife is the one who actually got us the paperwork.”

Snohomish County approved their documents, and Walcher left logging and opened Skookum Brewery in a garage on his property.

Now, three years after pouring their first Jackass, Skookum brews nine beers in rotation.

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Woody’s Oak pale ale is the lightest and Hooskal, a Russian imperial stout, bolsters the dark end of the beer spectrum, Walcher said.

Walcher fills growlers and has even gone commercial, wholesaling kegs to several local bars, including Amigo’s by the Stanwood theater and the Stanwood Hotel downtown.

On Friday and Saturday afternoons in spring, summer, and fall, 100 people pack Walcher’s garage, overflowing to wrought-iron bistro tables scattered across the gravel drive.

Laughter and conversation resonates.

The crowds thin in winter, but people still circle propane heaters and fire pits to drink Walcher’s beer.

The result: some pretty big hassles.

County regulations are the biggest stumbling block, Walcher said.

The regulations limited the hours Walcher could open. Consequently, Skookum opens to the public two days a week: Fridays, 3-7 p.m. and Saturdays, 2-5 p.m. During summer months and holidays, Walcher sometimes adds Thursdays or Sundays.

The regulations also prohibit food service and even glassware.

Skookum’s peaceful setting creates more problems. It’s rural, yeah, but also residential. The bi-weekly caravan rumbling past the homes of Walcher’s neighbors has bred some tension, although most of his neighbors are gracious, Walcher said.

Parking is a premium, as is seating.

Walcher brews with his own water, but the property draws from a well.

The supply hasn’t failed yet, but Walcher said the fear of maxing out this resource gnaws at him and caps his production.

“Not that more brewing equipment would fit in the garage,” he added.

The 10-barrel setup fills it.

So, why is Skookum successful despite the obstacles?

Not because of the beer, and Walcher knows it.

A restaurateur friend told Walcher no matter how good the beer is, it won’t bring people back.

They return for service, food, and atmosphere.

Skookum can’t serve food, but that restriction actually contributes to the successful atmosphere.

So do the other restrictions, each in their own way.

It’s Friday, finally.

A hand-painted sign demands that carpooling guests heed a 10 mph speed limit past Walcher’s neighbors. Vehicles fill a pasture consigned to parking, and guests walk the final 50 tree-lined paces to the garage, carrying their own glass.

Some tote chairs.

Walcher and his wife banter with guests and pour pints.

People sit where they can, often at communal tables, eventually spilling into groups that stand or lounge in the grass. The veterans brought picnics, and they break them out. Laughter and conversation resonate. It smells a bit like beer.

By skirting obstacles, Walcher and his patrons – the doctors, teachers, construction workers, and lawyers of the surrounding area – fashioned something brilliant.

A place of community.

Skookum calls to mind the public houses of Europe. People anticipate the weekends, inviting friends and using Skookum as a meeting place.

“This is all word of mouth,” Walcher said. “We gave it a place to happen, but I would say our clients created it.”

Preparing to release a bottled beer, Grendel, Walcher pondered.

“We’ve created a monster here,” he said.