The birds chirp hesitantly in the waning afternoon sun, interrupted at 15 minute intervals by a pastoral chiming from the bell tower of a nearby church. They’ve gathered in one of the trees at the top of the Sixth Avenue hill that cuts straight through the heart of New Glarus. They can see the entire town from there, or at least the commercial section – the residential area and cemetery are behind them. But from their branch, which has not quite yet begun to bud, the restaurants, boutiques and churches are all visible, as is a corner of the large, white, painted sign that greets visitors to the town.
“Welcome to New Glarus: America’s Little Switzerland,” the sign says, and technically that’s where the birds are currently perched: New Glarus, obviously. But more precisely in the Swiss Historical Village, a scale representation of the traditional 19th-century settlement that birthed the cute township standing about half an hour from Madison. A few lingering icicles drip lazily from the overhang on the old log church in the town. The church is in the light at this time of day; more obscured by the shadows of the trees are the cheese factory, general store and blacksmith.
“Food, Festivals, Music, Friends,” the sign also says, and while the second and fourth of that quartet are probably more dependent on shared interests and day planning, the first and third are in no short supply. A few short blocks from the Swiss Historical Village lies downtown New Glarus, nestled on either side of Sixth Avenue at the base of the hill.
A light and pleasant scent lingers at all times, but it’s especially noticeable in the crisp March air. Perhaps it’s smoke from a wood-burning hearth, or a happy byproduct of Ruef’s meat market; perhaps it’s just the tenderloin with cognac and peppercorn sauce being prepared for an early dinner at the refined, yet unpretentious Deninger’s Restauraunt or the grill being fired up at Toffler’s Pub and Grill across the street. It’s a smell as meaningful as it is mercurial – it holds memories of the summer past and aromatic promises of the one to come.
“Home of Spotted Cow,” the sign concludes, and the famed brewery is also visible in the distance from the tree on the hill, southwest across the Sugar River trail. Set back from the highway by a winding path, the New Glarus Hilltop facility looks like a mix between a Midwestern farmhouse and an Alpine ski resort – it’s essentially a chalet, and what could be a more fitting design for the crown jewel of America’s Little Switzerland?
Inside there’s a free, self-guided tour of the facility where visitors can walk amongst the massive tanks and gauges of the Carey family’s operation. Access is extremely restricted, but the views of the labs and equipment are interesting enough. There’s a chance to try the barley and hops that go into one of the brews and a tasting area in the gift shop serving 3 oz. samples and draft pints of seven of the company’s creations.
The brewery is spotless, and it seems almost oppressively polished when compared with the quaintly idyllic town across the way. Through a side door in the gift shop there’s an overlook that provides a postcard view of the shops and eateries. The grays and browns of the sidewalks and rooftops are softened by significant patches of green. The Sixth Avenue hill is visible, and if you squint, you can make out the trees, though it’s too far to tell if the birds are still there.
As the temperature drops with the sun, the day’s melt begins to refreeze in the brewery’s parking lot, forming icy capillary systems that gleam in the fading afternoon light. It’s springtime in New Glarus.
