LJ Archive - 07/01/05 : Distilled Journeys

We'd meant to turn this way on our own once, but the motley crew of orange and white cylinders soldierly intoned an engagement at a later date. So we turned around and crossed back to the usual scenic route back along the river, past the houseboat and auto junkyard and driving range, into the historic Capitol District, to save the face of our wasted time. The barricades will be removed soon enough, and when they are we'll take that road and see where it goes.

Two and a half years later, my wife Anna's intern is perfecting the soft-sell of two-hundred dollars' worth of illegal fireworks (“Buy now and we’ll throw in a 12-pack of sparklers and a 500-gram finale for free!”), when he asks about my recent documentary exploits around her family's farm. “If you’re looking for something closer and even more amazing," he says, “That most people around here seem to have forgotten, you need to head out Glen's Creek Road to the Old Crow and Old Taylor Distilleries." Wha-? Glen’s Creek Road? And then I remember - that barricaded turn-off that looked so intriguing when we first moved to town - yeah, I forgot all about it. Damn!

Just two more weeks begat chance, so I finally plotted my reconnaissance mission. I'd foolishly let the better part of the day evaporate into the ongoing June drought, so it behooved me to put the balmy evening to use while the fickle wisps of waning daylight remained trapped in the festering haze. After feeding and bathing Bethany and convincing Anna that No, I'm not in any particular rush, we piled into my trusty ‘97 T-Bird Sport and headed back to Glenn's Creek Road.

The pseudurban town of Frankfort, Kentucky is split by the Kentucky River into two distinct flavors: East and West. A faux-interstate highway, KY 676, meanders roughshod across the 6 miles between the two, snaking amidst the denser unclaimed forestry and over the canyon-like terrain near the riverbed. It's quite amusing to have such a speedy connecting road, because not much happens in Frankfort to whip one to a frenzied hurry most of the time. But being a State Capital has begotten perks for as long as politicians have been self-serving. Plus, it's convenient and easier to trace on a map - my "LOST?" usericon gives you an idea of the sort of confusion you'd otherwise encounter here.

We made quick time to the midpoint of the E-W Connector, to the stoplight where KY1659 cuts in. A random flat spot between two hills, there isn’t anything at this intersection save an access road to a few government buildings. Glen’s Creek Road continues on, fading desolate and forgotten on the horizon. Traffic density isn’t a problem here.

We proceed down into the valley, a vast expanse of fertile farmland to the left; craggy tree-encrusted limestone hills to the right. The scene evokes a ruggedness that betrays the faux-coutre and pompousness of the political landmarks a few thousand yards north. It beckons with sharp curves twisting into shadow and uncertainty, the faint yellow ribbon the only betrayal of modern civilization. I am tempted to motor on in my usual spirited manner, but I know I might miss something.

Motoring restraint was definitely in order, as the winding two lane road is just barely so, and the sun blinds obscene… I need to learn the lay of the land first. Tall grass scorched more brown than blue blasts toward the sky as the hills rise steep on the other side of the creek. Abandoned vehicles are obscured by the weeds on the left, and I barely have time to notice the tiny shack of their owner sunk in the embankment on the right. The huge dual viaducts of Interstate 64 soar 125 feet overhead, and as I snap a few pictures I take care not to wake the cast-off troll in his disgruntled post below.

The faint yellow ribbon ends at the sign warning “Road Narrows”, and the modernized world officially fades as we draw upon the county line. The riverbed jungle thickens as Glen’s Creek breaks off from the river here, not so much as a mere creek but a small river in its own right. I focus anew when the road suddenly dips and curves sharply in front of a dilapidated shack along the riverbed. A few enterprising families have carved out secluded homesteads equal parts Brady-Bunch architecture and Beverly Hillbilly kitsch, with a view and access to its sparkling waters. I could almost buy into it were it not for the looks the locals give me as I pass through.

The intrepid neighborhood ends as the creek bed thicket does, and the road juts slightly to the left and onward. I divide my focus between the curves ahead and the fading creek and try to take it all in, missing the looming landmarks completely in the process. “Look!” Anna says, “A cooling tower!” In her excitement she misplaced the word “smokestack” but it doesn’t matter: The huge obelisk of red brick towering above the foliage canopy finally gets my attention…

… and suddenly the forest ends, an we are face-to-desolation with a numbingly expansive complex of huge brick warehouses, strong and dastardly red, and beautiful. The carcass of an abandoned Crown Victoria sits charred and moss-covered; there's nobody around to take offense to its presence. I stop next to it and observe: A blight of chain-links surrounds the property, and No Trespassing is apparently campaigning for office. A few semi-trailers painted for Jim Beam are parked neatly by some of the buildings, and wonder of wonders, there is a guard shack. Not a soul to be seen, but the new pickup has its windows down so badged belligerence can’t be far.

I file away the thought to come back at a more reasonable hour and inquire with the guard, and proceed.

Past the guard shack and the rehabbed buildings Jim Beam uses for storage, more barrelhouses stand tall behind the fence and overgrowth. Stout and faded, their shutters fused open on weakened hinges of rust, baring their barred souls from within each individual crypt. An eerie quiet swirls about the place… the idle of my car’s detuned boulevardier V8 disturbing the peace of these funerary grounds; the darkened windows of the centenary warehouses ringing cold and hollow beyond their masters’ facades. Even Bethany is quiet in the back seat, silent as though paying homage to ghosts of a cornerstone industry she doesn’t know.

We don’t get very far before a relic pops from the shadows, a tiny intersection marked with a naked pilaster of limestone block. Just ahead on the other side of our one-lane portal, another one crumbles at the head of a wall.

Behind that wall are the charred and crumbled remains of a warehouse that yielded to time, releasing its spirits to the wind, leaving timber and brick to mark the spot. As dominoes fall, so does the next warehouse threaten to collapse, its roof peeled away and walls rounding at the tops. Walkways span the road to borded-up structures on the left, daring us to go under, and there it lies beyond:

The grandeur of its castellated gate betrays the loftiness of its stature a hundred and thirty years ago. The grounds are expansive and the air pays silent respect. Period structures of brick and wood lie decaying all around: pump houses, administrative buildings, stills, tanks, bottling houses, maintenance sheds, and of course the barrel barracks of storehouses. Walkways and planks connect some of them in a sort of interior maze. And yet there is so much more beyond my eyes… the ghosts of a man’s dreams. The ornate gardens, railroad station and peristyle-enshrined natural spring that gave birth to this place all lay somewhere within, beyond the iron gates and threatening signs. I can for a moment hear the buzz and excitement of kindred and kin producing spirits with pride, giving the land known as Kentucky a dubious claim to fame, a legacy distilled through generations. But not here - not anymore. During the industrial revolution these crumbling facilities were not mere distilleries, they were rousing mills melding agriculture, industry, and expansion into one in the name of progress; producing amber liquids of distinct flavor to give a state its signature ware, and a community its raison d’ete, and its name: Millville.

Seeing more and more No Trespassing signs and aware of the inhabitable structures nearby, I decide not to linger… not at this hour. Daylight is fading fast in the valley as the sun sets behind the western hills, and so I decide to follow the road now posted as McCracken Pike southward for a while.

A few hundred yards south of Old Taylor we roll through Millville. Merely one-house-deep to either side of the pike, the houses here are all the same federal style, no doubt originating as factory housing for the distilleries we just passed. The Millville General Store is that kind with a pop machine on a sagging wooden porch, and single frosty window that invites you in for a chat with the locals about the weather. There can’t be more than 50 houses in the town, but there are two churches, each proudly displaying the Ten Commandments on their barren front lawns: time has been kinder to Millville.

A few blinks have us exiting Millville, back into the limestone jungle. The canyon hills are flattened and distant enough to allow the setting sun to break in places, but the jungle encompasses deep and black in spots, making the going almost treacherous as sharp curves and rolling hills combine to entice a spirited driving experience. But hundreds of fireflies entrance us instead, seducing with their soft winking lights low along the shoulder. Their friendly twinkles evoke fairy-like magic and escort us onward as we emerge from the forestry into rolling bluegrass country. Obscured by hills no longer, the sun pokes behind clouds as deep baby blue hangs in the eastern sky, as we roll past the still-functioning tourist-minded Labbot & Graham distillery, past the rolling fences and horse barns back into postcard country.

JOURNEY EPILOGUE

I keep driving to see where we end up, and the road seems to go on forever. Eventually the setting sun wins and Anna spies a familiar landmark. “We should turn around here”, she says; “It’s getting late anyway, and I want ice cream.” I turn around and head back through Millville, and a local pulls out in an old Buick, poking along until we reach Old Taylor’s again and I can’t help but slow to steal some glances of the sleeping faded giant in the dark. When we continue, I see the Buick pulled over across from the castle. I pull beside and ask the driver if he knows anything about it… and strike up a fascinating conversation as he gets a Milwaukee’s Best (!) from the trunk and kicks back. That’s a story for another post, but he claims to know enough, all right, - including Old Taylor’s current owner.

And before we get back to Frankfort, I have a name and number to call.

No, I didn't have the time to explore the grounds, plan things out, and set up my pictures. But this was a successful recon - with any luck, I won’t be trespassing in Old Taylor next time, and the past will be made real once again.