Why I'm Not a Farmer

A couple years ago, fresh off of a few successful DIY homebrewing upgrades, I decided it would be fun to grow my own hops.  After a bit of research, I quickly realized the yield would only be enough for really one batch of beer.  This was ultimately fine with me, it just seemed like a neat thing to do, plus the hop bines look really cool!  So that was it.  Expectations?  Managed.

Excited for these newfound possibilities, I quickly placed my order and set about designing a trellis structure to build in my yard.  I even convinced two others, including Hacksaw himself, to join in on this hop growing adventure. 

My rhizomes (little root pieces) finally came on a wet and rainy weekday.  I had already figured out where to plant them and, since I got two different types, how far away they needed to be from each other.  In the drizzling rain, I lovingly placed each rhizome in its new home, carefully following all of the instructions I had read.  They were south facing, they were against my fence, and I was already envisioning the privacy curtain of hops 30 feet tall (yeah…about those expectations).

The next week crawled by.  I faithfully watered and tended to my new hops, and kept telling myself to be patient.  Finally, after about a week and a half, a sprout!  By this point, the grass had started to creep back in, but there was no mistaking the tiny sprout from one of my hop plants! 

And that was where the celebration ended.  Over the course of the rest of the summer, that sprout grew to a dizzying height of about 4 inches.  The other rhizome hadn’t even sprouted.  Meanwhile, both of the guys I had convinced to get rhizomes were basically beating the vines back with a chair and whip. 

Deciding that the difference was the fact that mine were planted directly in the ground instead of nice, cushy pots, I transplanted the rhizomes into pots, filled with the finest potting soil.  Surely, this would be the difference.  Better late than never!

Nope.  The one plant that had sprouted promptly let its sprout die.  The other one, interestingly enough, sprouted after a couple of weeks, but stalled after it got about 2 feet tall. 

Summer turned to fall.  Hacksaw brewed a “homegrown amber” with his freshly harvested hops.  I dragged my planters into the basement for the winter thinking, “maybe next summer”.

The next spring arrived full of life and promise.  After old man winter’s icy grip was finally broken, I decided to try again.  This time, I had two larger planters and some fresh potting soil.  I started with the one that had grown a bit the previous year.  It had a decent root structure, so I was hopeful.  I planted it and felt my spirit lighten.  Then came the second plant.  I had prepared its new home, but when I went searching for the root, I couldn’t find it.  After dumping the entire bucket out, there was zero plant life within.

To this day, I don’t know whether to blame the dog or the squirrels.  But I do know that I put that rhizome in that pot.  And I do know that I watered that blasted thing all summer long.  I wonder how much of that was just watering dirt... 

In the middle of this past summer, I finally gave up on the other set.  I dug a hole in the ground, tossed the contents of the pot in, and washed my hands of it.  Maybe during the zombie apocalypse my yard will be the source of wild hops, who knows.   


So, is it safe to say I learned my lesson?  Hah, I wish!  I’ll probably start all over with new rhizomes next year!  Bring it on, Mother Nature!  I’ll make beer out of you yet!

--Jacob