A Beer Festival, Two National Monuments, and Bread I’d Drive Four Days For

We went to Flagstaff this weekend for the Wild and Woody Beer Festival.

Which is funny, because I don’t drink.

Warren does, though, and his ongoing joke is that I’m always trying to get him drunk. It’s an inside joke that somehow became public because he posts about it all the time. So apparently this is part of our marriage brand now.

The festival was fun. Warren had a great time. I wandered around sober, hydrated, and probably overanalyzing everyone’s footwear because that is who I am as a person.

The weather all weekend was ridiculous in the best way. Cool, misty, rainy in spots. Flagstaff was out there acting like Arizona has seasons.

Friday night we ate at El Tapatio, and I’m going to say something dangerous: it was some of the best Mexican food I’ve had.

I live in Arizona, so I understand the weight of that statement.

Saturday morning we had breakfast at Flagstaff Baking Company. After that, we had time to kill before the beer festival, so we went to Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument.

Because apparently my version of “killing time” is visiting a volcano.

We had been there before, but I love it there. It’s peaceful. It’s uncrowded. It has that strange volcanic landscape that makes you feel like Arizona got bored one day and decided to try being the moon.

And yes, I got the sign photos.

Obviously.

At this point, if I pass a National Park Service sign and do not stop for a photo, please assume something is wrong and notify my family.

After Sunset Crater, we went to the beer festival. Then we rode the gondola up the mountain.

I am afraid of heights in a way that is both sincere and dramatic.

The gondola was enclosed, which helped a little, but we still went way up. Because there was rain in the area, it was misty and we couldn’t see as far as usual. I have decided this was the universe doing me a favor. I did not need a full panoramic view of my possible death.

The people riding with us said, “Gee, this would suck if we were sober.”

Sir.

Some of us were.

Some of us were raw-dogging that mountain terror with anxiety, sarcasm, and a death grip.

After the festival, we went brewery hopping because Warren has committed to the bit that I am always trying to get him drunk. Then we ended up at Fratelli Pizza, where they pull their own mozzarella.

I respect any restaurant that makes cheese dramatic.

The hotel was fine. We stayed at Staybridge Suites. It did the job. No love letter needed.

Then Sunday happened.

On the way home, I said, “You know, we’ve never been to Montezuma Well. We should go.”

Warren said, “Okay then.”

That is marriage.

Not flowers. Not poetry. Just a man hearing his wife announce a sudden Arizona side quest and accepting that the day has changed.

I had been to Montezuma Castle before, but never Montezuma Well. I don’t know how I missed it, but I did.

The drive in was adorable. We went through McGuireville and Rimrock, saw the little post office, and drove roads that made the whole thing feel tucked away from everything.

The ranger told me they get anywhere from about 60 to 400 visitors a day, depending on the season. Spring break was busy. When we were there, it felt calm and easy.

And yes, I got the sign photos.

This is not a hobby anymore. It is documentation.

The well itself was cooler than I expected. We walked up to the viewpoint and looked down into this huge limestone sinkhole filled with water, with cliff ruins tucked into the rock around it.

I got a photo of a couple looking out over the well and texted it to them. I love those little travel moments. Someone else gets a good picture. You get to be a tiny part of their day. Everybody wins, and nobody had to make it weird.

A bird flew off while we were there, and I got a good picture of it in flight. I will now be pretending I am a wildlife photographer until further notice.

We saw cliff ruins, the pit house, and what I think were petroglyphs. I need to verify that before someone with a laminated annual pass corrects me in public.

There were thunderstorms in the area, so I was a little nervous. The ranger told us they do not go out on the trail to collect people when there is lightning. We would have to watch the weather ourselves.

Comforting.

That is park ranger speak for, “Use your brain because we are not coming to retrieve your crispy tourist body.”

We did the walk up to the viewpoint and the little .3-mile loop around the well. Then I went down to the outlet.

Warren did not.

Too many stairs.

Fair.

The outlet was one of my favorite parts. I went down into a questionable little recess into nowhere, walked along what I think was Beaver Creek, and found the crack in the travertine where the well lets out.

The ranger told us that anything that gets put into the well or the outlet system eventually comes back out. They have tried putting instruments down there to see where it goes, but the water shoots them back out.

Nature said, “No.”

Honestly, I respect the boundary.

One thing made me sad. They have to cover some of the sycamore trees with tarps because people deface them.

So here is your reminder from me: don’t be that person.

Don’t carve your name into trees. Don’t mess with ruins. Don’t leave trash. Don’t be the reason a beautiful place has to wear protective gear like it’s going into battle against idiots.

After Montezuma Well, we stopped in Cornville at Brewha.

Warren had a pumpkin latte.

I had a Diet Coke, because I am nothing if not consistent.

We ordered pull-apart bread, and I would drive an unreasonable distance to eat it again. Four days might be aggressive, but I’m not taking it off the table.

I had a pepperoni hand pie. Warren had a steak and green chile hand pie.

The food was amazing. The vibe was cute as shit. We would absolutely go back.

Then we drove home in the rain.

Rain in Arizona does something to people. We don’t see it enough, so when it happens, everyone acts like the sky handed us a personal gift.

The drive home was lovely.

And that ended up being my favorite part of the trip.

Not because the beer festival was bad. It wasn’t.

But because the extra stuff is what I’ll remember.

Sunset Crater because we had time to kill.

The gondola ride I survived while sober.

Montezuma Well because I randomly remembered we had never been.

The little roads through McGuireville and Rimrock.

The ranger facts.

The outlet stairs.

The tarped trees.

The hand pie.

The rain.

That is why I like leaving room in a trip.

Have a plan. Know where you are sleeping. Book the important stuff. Don’t wing the parts that cost real money or create real problems.

But don’t schedule every minute until the trip has no oxygen.

Leave a little space for the “we’ve never been there” stop.

Leave room for the sign photo.

Leave room for the weird fact from the park ranger.

Leave room for bread that makes you question your life choices.

Arizona is full of places like this. Smaller places. Weirder places. Places that don’t always make the big glossy travel lists but absolutely deserve your time.

Go find them.

And take the damn detour.