Twenty years ago, I imagined my adult life would involve more gleeking and *69’ing. Thankfully this fantastic stone fruit riot takes me right back to haribo peach rings and apricot jolly ranchers. The cardinal sin of peach wild ales is this briny meets oversaturated peach flesh that makes this gum buckling and canker sore inducing. This brewery plays its cards close it its vest and comes across even more conservative than casey or satsuma flora in execution. I hate lauding praise in general, and more so on any brewery within a three state radius because I have to deal with husky khaki teethed dipshits crying homerism with their Golden Corral tier palates. It’s tedious. The law of saison inversion always states that gentle crushable beers invariably get small format and tear duct juicing acid bombs are always 750ml, same goes for this lil baggy dick. This brewery is very good, if only at barrel aged wilds and saisons. The 909 and inland empire doesn’t deserve them.