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He nods. “I’m the distillery manager.”
Evangeline nods wildly. “Daddy’s busy.”
“Too busy,” he mumbles beside me. Then continues, “Weston Whiskey has a long history. We live here, we distill, and we ranch here. We’re one of the first distilleries in Montana since Prohibition.”
“Prohibition, like mobsters and bootlegging and tommy guns?”
He smiles. “That’s right.”
As we get closer to the distillery, I spy the silos. “What are those?”
“Rickhouses. We store our whiskey there.”
As we walk the grounds, Ezra waves to employees. He introduces me to an older couple, his Uncle Vaughn and Aunt Wyoma, before they head into town for the day.
Soon, we come to a path that leads up to several buildings. Squashed kernels of stray corn trace a Hansel and Gretel path between the entry gate and the distillery. Arching over the entryway is a wrought iron sign that proclaims COPPER RUN RANCH | WESTON WHISKEY.
“Another brother you haven’t met.” Ezra nods at a tall man leading a group of people. “We have three tour guides. Wells is one of them.”
Evangeline giggles. “Uncle Wells is scared of spiders.”
“You’re very skilled at secrets.” I glance at her. “Tell me one about your Uncle Cole.”
Her lips pucker in a pout. “His whiskers scrape my face when he smooches me. He thinks I like it, but I do not, oh no.”
Lucky girl.
We approach two mammoth steel buildings looming in the center of a green field. They almost look like garages. In front of them both sits what looks like an old American West–style saloon that Ezra soon tells me is the tasting room.
Already the distillery is alive. Cars pull into a gravel parking lot, a crowd of people headed to the tasting room. Outside the tasting room, people stand around tall barrels dotting a large patio, sipping spirits and talking. Some toss bean bags in the field next to the distillery.
Weston Whiskey looks like a celebration of the historic American West. Set against the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains, it feels like another place in time. It’s like cowboy core meets raucous speakeasy.
“When are you open?” I ask.
“Wednesday through Sunday, eleven to five. We’re about thirty minutes from Missoula and catch the tourists on the way into or out of town. But our reputation also speaks for itself.
“We’ll start with the distillery first.” Ezra leads me to the back of the buildings. We enter through the large garage doors, and the smell hits me. A tangy, pungent scent, like yeast and vinegar. Evangeline makes a face and pinches her nose closed.
Ezra lifts a hand to the crew of workers stacking white corn on pallets. “We make the whiskey here.”
I listen, nodding along as Ezra explains the fermentation process. Massive vats that heat corn back up against the wall.
As we move along, my eyes widen at the large copper stills that sit at the center of the room. “They’re huge.”
His eyes shine with pride. “The stills are all original. Been in our family since we opened back in the eighties.”
“What do they do?”
“That’s the distillation process.” The way his voice kicks up, fast, almost breathless, tells me he lives for this. “The alcohol that’s formed during fermentation evaporates out of the corn brew, which gives us unripened whiskey.
“Unripe whiskey is called moonshine,” he says, nodding at one of the distillers who’s filling a glass flask with a clear liquid. “It’d sear your taste buds clean off.”
“So how does it get its color?”
He arches an impressed brow. “I like you already. You ask the good questions. Follow me.”
Stepping outside, we cross a rocky path. Each building flows into the other, and we enter the middle building. Inside are large, loud machines and what looks like a wood-fired brick oven.
