A Shot of Jack Sculpture in the gardens, Jack Daniels Distillery, Lynchburg, Tennessee
“… and you can have a shot of Jack Daniel’s,” our guide told us as we set off on our tour around the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee.
It was a joke, of course – a pun on the word “shot”: a jigger of alcohol or a picture.
No free tastings were available, as Lynchburg is still in a dry county – a holdover from the state-wide prohibition laws passed in 1910.
Even without a “shot” of the world-famous sour mash Tennessee whiskey, the guided walk around the premises, established as a distillery on this site in 1875, is an interesting and entertaining experience.
The House that Jack Built OK – so it is really the Visitor Center, completed in 1999, and filled with memorabilia.
Gentleman Jack Center stage inside the Visitor Center is a statue of the man himself.
Small in stature but with a story larger than life, Jack Daniel himself is mythologised as a symbol of independence and pride in craftsmanship.
Born in a September, sometime between 1846 and 1850, Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel was the one of ten or thirteen children fathered by Calaway Daniel with Lucinda Cook Daniel before she died in 1847. Calaway remarried and had several more children before he, too, died.
Ingredients Corn, rye and wheat mash are mixed with spring water and filtered through sugar-maple charcoal.
Checkers Making good whiskey takes time, so the story goes…
Guitars, Banjoes and Fiddles … and that time is spent fiddling, whittling, playing checkers, or just sitting.
Jack was independent from a young age, and stories abound about how he started distilling. Accepted wisdom is that at age seven he apprenticed himself to Dan Call, a local preacher and storekeeper in Lincoln County, who also made and sold whiskey. When Jack was 13, Call was forced by his wife and congregation to choose between ministry and distilling; he chose the former, selling Jack the still and the rights to the whisky business.
Some time later, as the business grew, Jack found and established the current location in Moore County, with it’s limestone spring water and abundant maple trees: perfect for the charcoal-filterering process Call had developed. The Jack Daniel’s Distillery is the oldest registered distillery in America.
Whiskey Jugs Jack was the first to stamp his jugs with a brand name.
The earliest Tennessee whisky was sold in earthenware jugs, painted with “xxx”. Jack, however, was a clever marketer, keenly aware of branding. He was the first to stencil the distillery name onto the jugs, in effect promising a consistent standard and quality.
The move to glass bottles came soon and numerous bottle designs from over the years are on display in the visitor centre. In 1895, Jack was impressed with a prototype square bottle, quickly realizing that it was both distinctive and practical. It was also symbolic of his desired image as an honest and “square” dealer.
Bottles and Medals The Distillery is rightfully proud of its awards and medals.
No one knows for sure what the now-famous “No. 7” stands for. The tale I heard was that it was the number on the only cask rescued from a river-transport accident; the more likely, but less engaging story is that it was the original district tax-assessment number for the distillery. Either way, like so much else about Jack Daniel, it is now part of the myth, and the number seven recurs in the story of the product and its sponsorships.
Jack always said his whisky was first rate. In 1904, he entered it in the St. Louis World’s Fair and won the Gold Medal for the Best Whiskey in the World against more established European products. After winning a magic seventh gold medal in 1981, this time from the Institut Pour Les Selections De La Qualite, Amsterdam, the distillery stopped entering competitions: “because it’s a number we happen to like.”
Always Dapper Jack was never seen without his trademark knee length black frock coat and a broad-brimmed hat.
Jack branded himself as carefully as his product. Because he only grew to five foot one, he was often mistaken for a youngster. To counter this, he grew the goatee and drooping moustache that we see in all the pictures and sculptures. Carrying his silver-tipped walking stick, he dressed and acted the part of the southern gentleman.
But, he clearly loved his trade, and his passion for fine sipping whiskey has been passed on to those who work at the distillery today.
The Rickyard “Ricks” of maple wait to be turned into charcoal.
Sugar Maple Charcoal
A Face in the Crowd Non-tasting tours are open to all ages.
Old Fire Truck Just in case!
Our Guide A bit of story, a bit of truth, a bit of legend…
… a bit of Heritage.
That Safe! According to the story, Jack kicked this safe when he couldn’t remember the combination.
Music is Part of the Legend “Jack” has always been a part of the music…
Sugar Maple The maple is used for charcoal. The sugary smoke that turns the tree trunks black is a sure sign that distilling is happening near by!
Lynchburg There is a barrel in the centre of the square.
Lynchburg Town Hall It’s a quiet, clean town – totally supported by the distillery.
Glasses Lynchburg stores are full of souvenirs and “Jack” memorabilia.
Gas Station It’s as if nothing changes in Lynchburg, home of Jack Daniels.
The moral of Jack’s story is: Never be the first person at work!
According to lore, when he beat his accountant in to work one morning, he couldn’t get the safe open because he had forgotten the code. He kicked the safe in frustration, broke his toe, and gangrene set in, eventually killing him in 1911.
The more mundane story is that he had diabetes… Contributed to by his alcohol consumption? The price of his pursuit of taste-testing excellence? Oh dear!
These days, of course, as is the case with the Irish Guinness, faceless corporate giants have taken over. But, the Jack Daniels employees assured us that they have been left to do things in the timeless, old-fashioned way – on the surface, at least. Just last month, it was announced that parent company Brown-Forman Corp. was investing $100 million to expand its distillery operations to meet increasing demand. Who knows what changes this will bring.
Although Lynchburg is a dry county, we were able to buy some commemorative Jack Daniel’s bottles after our tour…
Just our luck, they contained some fine sipping whiskey.
About an hour into our trip south across the English Chanel from the Bailiwick of Jersey to Brittany, France, everything outside the ferry windows disappeared. It didn’t seem an auspicious start to our day trip to Saint-Malo, the mediaeval walled city of explorers, privateers, and pirates.
But, just like magic, dolphins appeared – leaping and diving along-side the boat – and we exited the fog bank. There it was: a fairy-tale city, with the sun glinting off the golden beaches and the cathedral steeple rising high above the ancient walls.
Saint-Malo Once we are out of the fog we can see through the wet windows to the medieval city in the sun.
Saint Malo is an easy trip from Saint Helier in the south of Jersey where my daughter has been working on contract. So, yesterday, to celebrate her last day off before returning to England, she and I took the morning trip across – knowing the afternoon ferry back would have us “home” in time for dinner.
While that leaves very little time on the ground, the old port city on its island, fortified during the Middle Ages, is very compact. We were easily able to walk around the walls to take in the magnificent views – and still have time for stops for coffees, savoury galettes, sweet crêpes, wine, and to browse the countless shops that line the narrow cobbled streets.
Rue de Dinan Old cobbles lead into the walled city…
Window-Pots … while colourful flowers hang everywhere overhead.
Cathédrale Saint-Vincent-de-Saragosse de Saint-Malo This gothic cathedral dates to the 13th Century – the original monastery on the site goes back to 1108.
Commemorative Plaque An integral part of the history books I grew up on, Jacques Cartier (December 31, 1491 – September 1, 1557) set sail from his native Saint-Malo in 1534 and again in 1535 and 1541, exploring what is now Newfoundland and into the St. Lawrence River, leaving a small colony and claiming the lands for the French.
Gothic Ceiling The inside of the old cathedral is quite beautiful, with vaulted roofs, lovely stained glass …
Altar … and some stunning, modern-looking additions.
Candles This is still a strongly Roman Catholic community, and many candles are burned for loved ones.
Place Jean de Chatillon Back outside, tourists and students on their lunch break enjoy the sun …
Place Jean de Chatillon … while I admire the architecture.
War Memorial
La Houxaie Mentioned in writings from the 15th Century onwards, La Houxaie is the oldest surviving house in Saint-Malo.
The Next Generation The next street across, a group of young people with their iPods and cigarettes chat in a doorway.
Fort National On one of the tidal islands, Fort National sits a few hundred metres away from the wall.
Fort Royal Built in 1689 under the direction of military architect Vauban, it was originally called Fort Royal.
Seagull When the tides are out, the beach is popular with sun bakers and seagulls.
Low Tide The bay of Saint Malo has the highest tidal range in Europe; when it is out, the “islands” join up.
Telescope The views from the wall are beautiful …
Roofs and Balconies … in both directions!
The Wall
Battlements
Robert Surcouf Robert Surcouf (1773 – 1827), privateer and slave trader, was another of Saint-Malo’s famous sons.
Buildings from the Wall
Old Cannon
Ermine Back at street level, we notice the ermine wearing a scarf, which is part of the city’s Coat of Arms and flag.
The Château of Saint-Malo
Madonna in the Wall
Calvados and Vin Chaud Time for some last minute shopping?
It is a charming town, and I could have spent a lot more time there.
I had wanted to visit a few of the sites outside the walled city –
As John Denver knew, there is something truly magic about the Rocky Mountains. I can’t help humming or singing whenever I think of them – and Denver’s song “Rocky Mountain Suite (Cold Nights in Canada)“ fits the bill perfectly.
Banff National Park was an integral part of my childhood and I never pass up the opportunity to spend time there. This year, however, we decided to venture further north: to Jasper National Park. It was a fortuitous choice, really, as major flooding from torrential rainfall plus snow-melt in the area just days before our arrival forced the evacuation of numerous southern Albertan cities. Mudslides and flooding cut Banff off from the east, so we would not have been able to enter.
Although it rained much our drive west from Edmonton along the Yellowhead Highway, we were relieved to meet perfectly dry roads and clear skies as the mountains came into view and we neared the boundaries of Jasper.
Jasper Mountains Looking west along the Yellowhead Highway, east of Jasper National Park, Alberta, magnificent mountains come into view.
Bull Elk We had no sooner entered the park than we met our first elk or wapiti (Cervus canadensis). He’s so close we can see the velvet on this season’s antlers.
Young Elk Just down the road, a younger male grazes.
“White Rump” Herd animals, the Wapiti (“White rump” in Shawnee and Cree) graze in small groups in the fading light.
Bunchberry (Cornus canadensis)
Path to Sunwapta Falls Morning sun peaks through western red cedar and lodgepole pine.
White Waters The fast-moving Sunwapta River roars along side the path…
Sunwapta Rapids … crashing over rocks as it rushes downstream…
Sunwapta Falls … and over the lower falls.
Fairy Slippers (Calypso bulbosa) Tiny orchids grow on the forest floor.
Tumbled Trees and Tumbling Waters
Bridge over Upper Sunwapta Falls
Upper Sunwapta Falls White waters roar down in splashing torrents.
Red Paintbrush (Castilleja Miniata) Everywhere we walked or drove, the meadows and verges were alive with colour.
American Black Bear (Ursus americanus) Our Canadian friends get pretty blasé about the black bears which can be nuisance around garbages…
American Black Bear (Ursus americanus) … but I still get excited seeing them in the wild.
Mountain Roads The roads were pretty quiet ~ although the park seemed to have plenty of European visitors.
Elk / Wapiti (Cervus elaphus) We were told that elk numbers were diminishing in the park, but we saw many powerful bulls.
Portrait of a Bull Wapiti This fellow may not be that old: apparently Alberta’s elk mature quickly and three-year-old bulls can sport large racks.
Bighorn Sheep (Ovis canadensis) I am used to having to scour the mountain ridges to see these animals – never before have I met them on the road!
Portrait: Male Bighorn Unconcerned by our presence, the sheep walked straight past our car windows. Medicine Lake, Jasper.
Bighorn Family As we drove back along Medicine Lake in the late afternoon, a family group were scrambling along the slope.
Bighorn Sheep & Car For some reason, the whole group decided to lick the backend of another car stopped on the road. Our vehicle was of no interest!
Baby Bighorn Sheep A little one gives up, and crosses back over the roadway.
Encounter with a Bull A photographer with a large lens shoots photos of a male elk.
Bull Elk The bull, weighing in at between 320 and 330 kg (710 to 730 lb), stares back.
Cold nights in Canada and icy blue winds
The man and the mountains are brothers again
Clear waters are laughing, they sing to the sky
The Rockies are living, they never will die
Quiet Time on U-Bein Bridge, Amarapura, Myanmar (For you purists out there, the purple cast is the result of a little artistic licence and Lightroom split-toning, rather than pure nature.)
Does originality matter any more?
That was the question posed today by a photographer who’s Facebook feed I look in on from time to time. He was lamenting the fact that a picture awarded a first place for “Sports Action” by World Press Photo was an image he considered unoriginal, by virtue of the fact that other photographers had previously taken similar pictures from similar points of view.
Personally, I think it depends, at least partially, on one’s purpose. An artist should aim to be original, so for photographic contests, one can rightfully expect that originality would be part of the criteria.
My work is not particularly original. Although I keep trying to ground my photographic technique and to stretch my artistic eye, I will never be a pace-setter.
Nor am I a trail-blazer. Most of the places I visit are also on other people’s itineraries; they have been seen and documented before. For example, the U-Bein Teak Bridge over Taungthaman Lake, south of Mandalay, has been photographed so often at sunset that it is one of Myanmar’s most iconic images.
That didn’t stop me from wanting to see it and photograph it myself.
Wooden Boats Waiting The best way to photograph those iconic silhouettes is from a hired boat on Taungthaman Lake.
Cameras Ready! With Taungthaman Lake filling up with tourists and photographers, the likelihood of getting a shot like no other reduces considerably.
I visited the bridge on two successive evenings last September as part of a photographic tour facilitated by photographer Karl Grobl and guide Mr MM. And, my nine travel-companions and myself were not alone in carrying camera equipment. A truly original image might be hard to come by!
Fading Light The 1.2km bridge, built from teak timbers recovered from the Amarapura palace when King Mindon relocated to Mandalay in 1852, is in daily use as means of crossing the big lake.
Heading Home
Comings and Goings
Last Light
Restaurant on the Shore There are a number of places on the lake’s shore where you can watch the light fade over the famous bridge.
Teak Posts On my second visit, I opted to walk out over the lake.
Monks on the Bridge
Still Waters Taungthaman Lake is quiet on the far side of the bridge.
Spiral Temple On the shore, a Buddhist temple is reflected in the waters of the lake.
Taungthaman Lake A tourist boat works its way past fishermen wading in the shallow waters.
Fisherman Under the bridge, a fisherman prepares to come in for the day. At regular intervals, there are stairs up and down from the water.
Life on the Bridge I took a boat from the middle of the lake for the remains of the evening.
Monks on the Bridge
Monks on the Bridge Like other tourists on the bridge, visiting monks take pictures of themselves.
Sunset Silhouettes As the sun goes down, the crowd on the bridge grows in number.
Young Couple
The Blue Hour
Last Light
Back to Shore
“Original” or not, the experience is as important to me as the outcome. I love the travel, and the chance to see places for myself, especially those iconic and oft-visited places that have been photographed many, many times before.
I absolutely your pictures Ursula.
They are so professional and the title at the bottom of each photo has a nice touch.
You obviously love what you do.
No wonder you two travel so much.
Thank you…ReplyCancel
Catching Dreams Ribbons and feathers for loved ones wave on the wind on the graveyard fence, Wounded Knee, SD
We drove across North Dakota on our road trip this summer: about 350 miles – almost all of them dead straight – through black dirt and green hills, and under a dark, looming sky.
It made me think about our visit to neighbouring South Dakota last year.
Granted, the landscape further south was different: hotter, drier, with more buttes and badlands. But I felt the same sense of oppressive gloom. In North Dakota, it was the weather – and the glum resignation of the young staff at the Visitor Centre when we said we weren’t stopping, but were driving through. “Su-ure. Like most people,” she responded in her Scandinavian-derived sing-song, shrugging dolefully.
In South Dakota, it was the history.
My husband and I were driving east from Cody WY, headed for Kadoka SD, where we planned to stay two nights so we could visit the South Dakota Badlands. As we sailed across the night, we realised we were bypassing Mt Rushmore. So, we decided to back-track. We looked at the map, and, instead of following a straight trip back along the same Highway 90, we traced a route south and around, through the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and past historic Wounded Knee.
Mesa on Highway 73 South The land south of Kadoka is hot, dry and dramatic.
Sunflowers Sunflowers, wheat, and hay appear to be the only crops.
Stop! Road works are everywhere, and Native Lakota from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation are on the job.
A Kadoka School School’s out! The “Drug and Weapon Free Zone” sign shouldn’t really be necessary, should it?
Slow! A Lakota woman working the road crews smiles as she makes us wait –
Follow Me! … and we are finally off, through the dust and heat –
Golden Bales – past ploughed fields and to the next road works.
Storage Silos on the Horizon
Lakota Arts and Crafts, Wounded Knee This inauspicious site is our first indication of what is supposed to be an official U.S. National Historic Landmark.
I guess every country and culture has moments that it is not proud of; Wounded Knee has seen two major cultural clashes, both of which arose out of stubbornness and resulted in loss of life.
The original battle, the Wounded Knee Massacre, took place on December 29, 1890. Causes are never simple, but the combination of: bison herds being hunted to near extinction; Sioux people being forced off their lands after dubious unfulfilled treaty agreements; the recent death of Sitting Bull, eight of his supporters and six policemen; a new Native AmericanGhost Dance religion that had believers thinking they were immune to bullets; over-zealous and heavy-handed Cavalry; and firearms discharged (accidentally and intentionally) at close range, resulted in a pursuit and massacre of up to 300 Lakota (mostly women and children) and the death of more than 25 soldiers, many by friendly fire.
Three days of blizzard followed, and the civilians hired to bury the dead Lakota found the bodies frozen. Even so, four infants were reportedly found alive. One of these was the child who came to be called Zintkala Nuni, or Lost Bird. She was handed around for some time before being adopted by Gen. Leonard Colby, whose suffragist wife, Clara Bewick Colby, was left to raise her – especially after he abandoned Clara for Zintkala’s nursemaid/governess and failed to provide adequate support for either dependent.
Lost Bird endured a short and difficult life, accepted by neither culture, and suffering from prejudice, poverty, abuse and violence before ultimately succumbing to influenza and dying on Valentine’s Day at age twenty-nine. In 1991, her body was moved from her pauper’s grave in California to the sad little graveyard at Wounded Knee. One of the young men I spoke with was an infant at the time, but his eyes grew wistful as he remembered his grandfather presiding over the ritual ceremonies conducted on that day.
Headstones Graveyard, Wounded Knee
Final Resting Place Zintkala Nuni(Little Lost Bird) is finally home at Wounded Knee.
Feathers on the Fence Catching dreams and memories for loved ones…
The second Wounded Knee Incident was in 1973, when the town was occupied by members of the Oglala Civil Rights Organization (OSCRO) and the American Indian Movement (AIM) and became the rallying point for an often violent protest against the corruption of a local tribal president, and the failure of the US government to fulfill treaty promises.
Lakota Center, Wounded Knee In a round building in the middle of nowhere…
Manning the Centre … a Lakota man tried to explain the history of the centre and of his people.
The whole atmosphere was ineffably sad. Both the place and the people seemed wounded – with the scarring improperly healed. The young men I spoke to talked about the conflict of cultures and the lack of opportunities. One worked as an itinerant farm hand – when there was work to be had. He used to have six cows himself, but sold them during hard times. He told us how, the other morning, half asleep, he found a neighbouring (white) rancher’s cows on his doorstep. “For a moment, I thought I’d got lucky,” he mused dreamily. Then he woke up with a deep sigh.
It is hard to know how to respond to that kind of hopelessness.
Feeling deeply affected, we continued west and stopped at the small city of Hot Springs for lunch.
There, we learned about a whole different historical epoch. As it turns out, Hot Springs is home to a karst sinkhole formed approximately 26,000 years ago. During the last ice age, mammoths and other animals were attracted to the warm spring waters and the vegetation growing around the pond. Once in the steeply-sided pond, the animals could not escape, dying of starvation, exhaustion, or drowning.
The covered-over sink hole was discovered in 1974 when the owner of the property found what turned out to be mammoth bones on his land. The property was sold back to a trust, and The Mammoth Site was born. A climate-controlled building was constructed over what is now a working paleontological dig and a fascinating view into the plants and animals of the Pleistocene era. So far, the fossil evidence of 58 columbian mammoths and 3 woolly mammoths (all male; mostly young) have been found, along with remains of plants, giant short-faced bear, camel, llama, prairie dog, wolf, fish, and numerous invertebrates.
Brandon Our “interpreter” was informative and amusing, as he walked us through the history of the centre and the geology of the site.
Painstaking Work Uncovering the fossils takes patience and time – students at all levels and visiting professionals take turns working the dig.
Walkway The elevated walkway allows visitors a good view of the site and the work going on, but still keeps them out of the way.
It was a fascinating visit, and elevated our mood somewhat after the morning’s experience. Checking the maps again and realising we could drive through Wind Cave National Park and Custer State Park to get to Mt Rushmore, cheered us up further.
A Big Male After their near extinction in the late 1800s, bison were saved by the American Bison Society and reintroduced to the park in 1913-1914.
Bison Herd Bison numbers have grown; too late, of course, for the Lakota and other Sioux tribes.
White-Tailed Deer (Odocoileus virginianus) A mother deer with her young fawn, watches the road skittishly.
Baby Burro The now-wild burros of Custer State Park beg for food from drivers.
A Pair of Pronghorn Pronghorn (Antilocapra americana) are now quite numerous in western states.
The Iron Mountain Road This feat of engineering winds through the Black Hills and passes through three tunnels that frame a very faint Mount Rushmore in the distance.
Over the Woods Pine and spruce forests, Custer State Park
Tunnel Vision Mount Rushmore in the distance.
Mt Rushmore
By the time we reached Mt Rushmore, the shadows had grown long, and I’d lost enthusiasm for visiting oversized carvings of powerful white men, etched into a mountain with little regard for the original residents of the Black Hills below. According to “Honor the Treaties”, a short film I came across recently, 90% of Lakota today live below the US poverty line the life expectancy of males is only 47.
Afternoon Light over the Dakota Grasslands
Sunset over the Black Hills
Sobering thought – after a long day’s drive through the sacred hills.
very interesting report Ursula. Greetings, DietmutReplyCancel
Katy -July 9, 2014 - 1:05 pm
My mother taught weaving on the Pine Ridge reservation during the ’70s. She was arrested and thrown in jail while trying to leave the reservation after the news reported the stand off was over. Crazy sad history there. Another terrible epoch in American history was the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre in Eastern Colorado, where one of my ancestors was involved in the killing of many Cheyenne women and children.ReplyCancel
Your mother was clearly an amazing woman in her day, Katy! I guess that is where you get your grit. 😀
The whole “clash of cultures/beliefs” thing is ineffably sad, isn’t it? And, we as a people don’t seem to be getting any more tolerant of difference.ReplyCancel
- Performing the Ganga Aarti from Dasaswamedh Ghat, Varanasi
- Buddha Head from Shwedagon Pagoda, Myanmar
- Harry Clarke Window from Dingle, Ireland
- Novice Monk Shwe Yan Pyay Monastery, Myanmar
Packets of 10 for $AU50.
Or - pick any photo from my Flickr or Wanders blog photos.
It is a charming town, and I could have spent a lot more time there.
“Original” or not, the experience is as important to me as the outcome. I love the travel, and the chance to see places for myself, especially those iconic and oft-visited places that have been photographed many, many times before.
Sobering thought – after a long day’s drive through the sacred hills.
