Anyhow, that is how we used to do it on the Prairies at one time. So dropping in to the local RCMP office to see if there was anything newsworthy was on my regular route.
The police Chief told me the bones a grading company had unearthed in a local gravel pit were human, aboriginal, female, about 350 years old according to their forensics. He also mentioned that he'd heard of some local distillers making regular hauls of their Prairie Nectar to customers in Winnipeg and Regina.
I made a note of it in my weekly column and that got immediate results. A mysterious phone call in the middle of the night from an unidentified source informed me in confidential tones that there was, indeed, such acivity going on and if I'd like, they'd show me where.
Right away, my investigative instincts kicked in. Sensing an opportunity for adventure, I agreed to meet them at dusk at a secret rendezvous point. The gruff voice at the other end suggested I bring my camera and electronic flash if I wanted some real good shots.
I was waiting when a green pickup truck pulled up to our rendezvous point at the appointed hour and I got in. The two tough-looking guys on board drove around the farming community, taking some barely used farm roads and doubling back and forth to confuse my sense of direction.
Finally, as it grew dark, they turned into an abandoned farmyard and pulled up to a barbed-wire gate opening on a willow thicket. They opened the gate and drove through into the willows which were tall enough and thick enough to completely conceal the vehicle.
Of course, it happened to be the long-abandoned farmyard of an old school friend, so I knew exactly where we were. I said nothing and watched as they scurried about, pretending to search and locate a few 45-gallon steel drums.
"Oh, look what I found," said the larger of the pair (about 400 lb large) as he rolled a drum out of the bushes into a small clearing.
"And look here," said his accomplice. "It looks like a copper boiler. Hey! It's actually a still!"
They carried on this charade until they had the still all set up with a barrel of rainwater and a long copper coil used as a condensing medium for what they were about to do. They found a propane burner nearby and set it up. They poured some of the contents of one of the steel drums into the copper boiler and sealed all of the cracks along the lid with a flour paste.
It didn't take long for the fiery liquid to begin draining into pitchers from which it was funneled into gallon jugs.
The smaller guy (about 200 lb,) drew a teaspoon of the distillate and struck a match to it. Immediately, it burst into blue flames, so he declared it fit to drink.
"For humans?" I asked.
"Sure. Just don't try to smoke at the same time," he chuckled.
The smaller guy (about 200 lb,) drew a teaspoon of the distillate and struck a match to it. Immediately, it burst into blue flames, so he declared it fit to drink.
"For humans?" I asked.
"Sure. Just don't try to smoke at the same time," he chuckled.
Around midnight we toasted the queen. Then we toasted the prime minister, the president of the United States, Winston Churchill, and other dignitaries we thought worthy of such attention as the process bubbled merrily along.
I photographed the scene and we finished before sunrise. I wasn't quite sure of the exact time which, by then didn't really worry me that much. They dropped me off at my car. I got home, driving mostly by instinct, and went straight to bed.
A persistent alarm clock got me up before noon. I choked down some breakfast and hefted my camera bag on my way to the office.
It felt heavy. I opened it and fished out a 40-oz bottle of a crystal clear liquid.
Those clever devils made sure I carried some incriminating evidence just in case I was tempted to confide in the local RCMP detachment. Or, maybe a bribe. I figured a little of both. There was no way I was going to interfere with local industry.
In the days that followed, I found out that several jugs of this rocket fuel were buried discreetly at some carefully-mapped country road intersections and the remainder was transported to a wholesale distributor in Regina.
It should be mentioned at this point that the contents of my bottle, when properly diluted, were as clear and clean-tasting as the best vodka from Pierre Smirnoff, Moskovskaya or Stolichnaya. It bore very little resemblance to some of the libations that were fed to me in the years that followed in some famous bars in Montreal and Chicago.
Offered on pretense that it was certificated by the authorities, these drinks usually were presented following the second or third round when the bartenders thought the customer could no longer tell the difference.
And that's why it pays to not ever order mixed drinks.
And that's my lesson for today, kids.
In the days that followed, I found out that several jugs of this rocket fuel were buried discreetly at some carefully-mapped country road intersections and the remainder was transported to a wholesale distributor in Regina.
It should be mentioned at this point that the contents of my bottle, when properly diluted, were as clear and clean-tasting as the best vodka from Pierre Smirnoff, Moskovskaya or Stolichnaya. It bore very little resemblance to some of the libations that were fed to me in the years that followed in some famous bars in Montreal and Chicago.
Offered on pretense that it was certificated by the authorities, these drinks usually were presented following the second or third round when the bartenders thought the customer could no longer tell the difference.
And that's why it pays to not ever order mixed drinks.
And that's my lesson for today, kids.
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