Distinctly Montana Magazine

62 D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A M A G A Z I N E • S P R I N G 2 0 2 3 T he "whiskey ditch" is Montana's official drink. You might hear that and think that a "whiskey ditch" is when you take a nap on the side of the road on your way home from the saloon, but it refers to this very simple cocktail: One part fine whiskey, one part good water, and an ice cube. It's my drink. I order it every time I go out. It represents, to me, the final word in cocktails. But neat whiskey has its place, too, as I learned while traveling through Eastern Montana one spring many years ago. Riding on my Harley was thirsty work, so I pulled into a friendly Eastern Montana town and stopped at a roadside bar for a little ditch. I bellied up to the bar. The bartender was a grizzled old spec- imen who looked like an Easter Island head wearing a cowboy hat. He rubbed a well-polished glass with a dish rag and asked, "What can I do ya for?" "Whisky ditch," I said. The tender just shook his head no. A little shocked, I collected myself and tried again. "Well then, whiskey on some rocks." Again he shook his head no. "Whiskey neat then?" This time he poured. Now a little curious, I asked, "why not a ditch?" He replied that he had run out of bottled water. "Can't you use tap water for a ditch?" "You've never drunk outta my well, have you?" I allowed that I had not before he elaborated that he "don't see a need to ruin perfectly good whiskey with my well water." "Aw, it can't be that bad," I said out of an overabundance of youthful zest and foolhardiness. But to this, he merely shrugged and said, "it will give you the physics unless you're used to it." What the hell was "the physics?" It sounded like some medi- eval ailment only treatable through the application of leeches. Really curious now, I probed further. "Why not over rocks?" "Son, I'll pour you some whiskey over a handful of gravel if you're feeling literal, but if it's ice you want, trust me when I tell you you don't want none of it." And then again, he intoned what seemed to be his mantra, saying, "You never drank out of my well." A little ice just cools the drink, I reasoned. I wasn't about to let the whole thing melt before I knocked it back, so what harm would one little ice cube do? Nevertheless, the bartender was adamant, and besides, he hadn't made any ice out of his water, so there was none to be had at any rate. I sipped the neat whiskey he had set before me and tried to enjoy it. But, as has so often happened in my life, curiosity overtook me. "Listen, I have to know, alright? So please, just give me a glass of your tap water, ok? Please." "What's the matter with you, son?" If only I could have told him. If it were only that easy, and I could have just said "overbearing mother," or "raised Catholic," or "unrealistic expectations from a lifetime of television watch- ing," and have that serve as an explanation for how I got this way, well, I might have been able to enjoy better relationships with coworkers and bosses, maybe even saved a couple of mar- riages. But, sadly, I could not then and I can not now tell him or anyone precisely what went wrong to make me the way I am. So I said, "Hell, I don't know, just get me a glass, will ya?" The bartender sighed and walked over to his sink, then he turned a knob on his faucet. He filled a dusty glass with dirty water and handed it to me. I eyed it thoroughly. It had a kind of color to it like an eggshell, which I didn't like, and an eggy smell to match. The bartend- er watched me turn the glass around and inspect it. Sunlight caught in the glass threw patches of refracted sunlight onto the burly arms crossed on his chest. "Well, are you going to drink it or not, son? For the record, I think you shouldn't, but its still a free country last time I checked." OLD BROKE RANCHER BY GARY SHELTON CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF SEPSIS SEPSIS

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