There’s a certain solitude and wonder that only public lands can provide. It’s freedom in its most tangible form. These places have given me some of my strongest memories, but it is no longer safe to assume they’ll remain public forever.
There is a holler high in the hills of East Tennessee, guarded by an ornery old ass named Festus. His bellows shake the walls of the valley night and day as he protects his livestock and property. Donkeys are stubborn and strong-willed guardians; known to fight off all manner of danger to protect their herd. Festus looks over a group of about forty cattle and is warden to a small creek that borders the pastures he roams. A small creek with big trout.
I wish I knew more about bourbon. All I really know is that I like the taste, and that there are some I enjoy more than others. This may be the result of growing up in Kentucky, where my friends and I were introduced to good bourbon at an early age. Had I grown up in Poland or Scotland or the Caribbean, perhaps I’d prefer vodka or Scotch or rum. But bourbon is my thing. The details don’t interest me, however. Percentages of various mashes, types of wood in the barrels, the aging process? I just don’t get it. From people with more discerning palettes, I’ll hear things like “vanilla overtones” or “notes of cherry and chocolate.” Here is part of an actual description I found on a website for one of my favorite Kentucky bourbons: