When the Great Depression of the early 1930s struck Northeast Georgia, the prices for farm produce collapsed along with the prices for almost everything, leaving small farmers in a very tough situation. If they could turn one of their almost worthless crops into a money-maker, they just might survive. Otherwise, they faced eviction from their land and possibly starvation. (Yes, times really were that tough back then). The saving grace for many of the mountain folk was their Old-World tradition of alcohol production, and the money-maker in these hills was liquor made from corn, a primary crop for Appalachian residents.
Transporting the ‘shine
The switch from farmer to distiller wasn’t too difficult. The liquor business required little in the way of capital, and the production center needed only a bit of privacy along a mountain stream. It was also important to maintain a distance from centers of enforcement activity, otherwise known as police stations, and it was also important that neighbors could be trusted not to pry into matters of no concern to them. The climate for such a business was perfect in the hilly northern regions of Habersham and Rabun County, and since privacy was important, working hours were primarily at night, hence the name “Moonshine.”
Of course, a product must be able to reach a market, so transport of the distilled moonshine became almost an art form, and it gave birth to a major national sport known as NASCAR. In the Georgia mountains, transporting the ‘shine involved a rapid cruise down a mountain dirt road now known as Scenic Highway 197. But back in the 1930s and on into the 1950s, it was simply the “road along the river” or “the road down from the lake.”
A job was a job
A trip down Highway 197 today is a beautiful drive, with majestic Lake Burton at one end and the quaint town of Clarkesville at the other. But if you turned the clock back 90 years or so, the trip was a bit harrowing, especially if your vehicle was overloaded with an alcoholic liquid. In those days, the highway was a dirt road, and it was well known to law officers as a frequent thoroughfare for distillers. With all the twists and turns and heavily wooded areas, there was no problem for law officers to find a hiding place to watch the road. Meanwhile, the liquor haulers became experts at modifying their engines and suspension so that ordinary-appearing cars could hold heavy weight and, of course, travel fast when required.
As the Great Depression deepened, the moonshine business grew until more and more communities became involved. Today, only a few old-timers can recall how ordinary the hidden industry was to them. Several buildings in Clarkesville had basements loaded with supplies for the liquor trade – bags of sugar, glass bottles, and copper pipes. It was also necessary to have a safe place for large numbers of dollar bills since the illegal trade couldn’t be conducted on credit.
One old Clarkesville resident could remember his afterschool job loading bottles with shine and loading them into cases. When he arrived home, his mother made him take off his clothes on the porch since they reeked of alcohol, but she didn’t stop him from working. Cash was too scarce, and a job was a job.
Community secret
While the industry was of obvious importance, don’t look for monuments or landmarks to the moonshine trade. It was more or less a community secret, and most folks could honestly say they knew nothing about it. Those who did know still don’t like to talk to strangers about it since such knowledge could besmirch otherwise proud family names that still reside in the community. Also, moonshining wasn’t an elegant business like today’s wineries and micro-breweries. It produced raw grain alcohol, and most people sipping the finished product would choke and gasp for air. Most moonshine was blended with other liquors and ingredients further down the supply chain, usually in cities or wider spots along the distribution routes.
Today’s Highway 197 is a beautiful, blacktopped road meandering past tasteful subdivisions and vacation homes of people who have no need to earn extra income by cooking corn mash in the woods. It winds along the Soque River, which is known to fly fishermen as one of the finest trout fishing streams on the planet, and the public talk along the river is more about preserving the beauty of the surroundings instead of how to hide a still or bribe an official to look the other way. But perhaps, on a quiet, moonlit night, if you sit along the highway and listen closely, you might still hear the echo of a big block V8 engine rumbling somewhere in the distance, and memories of the olden days will roar to life.
