A day with Junior Johnson: Moonshine, ham 'n stories (cont'd)

Noon: Mr. Call's house

While riding with Johnson today, you'd never guess him to be a racer and certainly not one to partake in a high-speed police chase. He never went more than five miles over the posted speed limit.

Nevertheless, we found ourselves on one of Wilkes County's last remaining dirt roads to drop in on a fellow bootlegger from back in the day, Mr. Call, who has a permit to make gas alcohol.

Here is where I would get my hands-on training in moonshine and by hands on I mean hands around a mason jar full of high-powered booze!

But first I have to explain how what in my hands came to be.

The basic recipe calls for grains, molasses, yeast sugar and water mixed together in a huge barrel to ferment for several days in warm water. The barrels at Mr. Call's house were covered with sheets of plasterboard.

Johnson moved one of the sheets and said, "Stick your finger in there, taste it."

Hesitant because it looked like a vat of watery oatmeal, I stuck my index finger in the fermentation for a taste test. Yummy, tastes like a rusty nail, thanks! But the smell was wonderful. The whole place smelled like sweet rolls from the yeast and sugar.

Laughing at my facial expression, Johnson ushered me into the room where the liquid, fermented brew, is then filtered and run through the still.

Now that I understood the process, I was ready for the product.

I had my pick of the lemon flavor or the blackberry flavor -- I went with lemon. Johnson unscrewed the cap and I took a big whiff and my eyes watered a bit and my sinus opened; kind of like the nose spray affect.

With both hands, I tipped the jar to my lips and took a tiny sip. 'Hmmm, not bad,' I said. So then I took a bigger sip and instantly felt boozy.

Johnson grinned at me and said, "You'll be naked by the time we get to the next stop."

Oh fabulous, maybe this is why I've made it 30 years without trying this stuff.

So I asked Johnson: 'Why moonshine?'

"It was a good life, very exciting and fun to be a part of," Johnson said. "We didn't do anything to hurt anyone, we just didn't want to pay taxes on the alcohol, and we wouldn't make any money."

Fair enough.

Mr. Call, 67, told me he tried to keep up with Johnson, but never could.

"He was the man in this part of the country, I could always tell when he was driving by," he said. "I knew the sound of his car. But he was so fast, you'd only hear him, never see him."

12:30 p.m.: Chow time

After Mr. C's house I was kind of sulking because I thought our trip was over and I still had so many questions and wanted to hear more stories. Luckily, that's when Johnson turned to me and asked, "You ready for lunch?"

We pulled the truck into the Brushy Mountain Smokehouse and Creamery, a diner in North Wilkesboro that used to be a grocery store Johnson remembers from his childhood.

Today, the homespun eatery pays homage to the moonshine era through relics of authentic stills. Vintage photographs of the North Wilkesboro Speedway and old bootleggers posed with revenuers hang on the walls. Johnson and his pal Mr. C of course were in a lot of those photos.

As was Mr. Charlie Felts, a well-known revenuer posted in Wilkesboro to chase the likes of Johnson and his bootlegging buddies.

"I met him face-to-face once," Johnson said. "And I used to tell him 'get out on that road and I'll out run your ass every time'."

Ironic enough, the state Department of Transportation would later (2004) name a stretch of U.S. 421 in Wilkes County highway in his honor. Junior Johnson Highway recognizes his contribution to motorsports, the state and the community.

Wonder what old Mr. Felts would say about that today? On the way back to the estate, Junior let me hop out of the truck to take a picture of the Junior Johnson Highway sign, in true tourist fashion.

Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, I agonized about which fried or floured entree to order for lunch; Johnson said check out the appetizers. And there they were, Junior Johnson's Country Ham and Biscuits.

Bingo! (Continued)