There are groups considered unique, but there’s also groups that are indeed one of a kind.
In my early years as a Kentucky Bourbon Trail tour guide, I landed one of the latter. And I’ve yet to have a replica of their adventures.
It was around 8 a.m. when I picked the two couples up at the newest, most modern, and classiest hotel in Louisville – the 21C, which houses its public art museum.
I pointed out the usual highlights of Main Street, then the Falls of the Ohio River, as we ramped onto Interstate 64 headed east for the great Buffalo Trace distillery.
The assignment was simple. We’d arrive at BT at 9 a.m., but we’d not depart until early afternoon.

It was a two-day gig – a real treat for me mid-week since most visitors arrive late in the week just to join herds of other Bourbonites going from one distillery and gift shop to another.
Weekdays, on the other hand, guests can have a distillery and its docent to themselves. My clients being a mother, her adult son, and their significant others was an ideal setup for a relaxed and fun day.
Easy to talk to and full of good questions, the foursome was an ideal group.
I learned about halfway into the hour ride to BT, that knew the whiskey basics.

They also knew what they loved above all else, and that was Blanton’s. Sazerac’s first single barrel bourbon, Blanton’s, was created in 1984 by then-Master Distiller Elmer T. Lee in honor of Kentucky Colonel Albert B. Blanton, who led the distillery for 55 years.
Blanton’s was already popular on the day of the couples’ tour, and visitors in the know would often find a bottle in the gift shop throughout the month. Such a find these days is rare.
I got them to BT on time and introduced them to guide Freddy Johnson – a third-generation BT worker who remains the only tour guide admitted into the Bourbon Hall of Fame. His name now dons a Sazerac root beer – some proceeds of which help maintain a historic Frankfort cemetery.
So with Freddy, I knew the couples were in the best hands possible. Once they got underway, I was able to take my usual break, chit-chatting with colleagues, and exploring the grounds on my own.

I expected an hour and 20 minutes to go by before they’d return to the visitor’s center for a tasting, shopping, and our eventual departure.
Nearly two hours had passed with no sign of the, so I went out on a search and recovery mission.
I came across the couples and Freddy inside an old limestone block building known on-site as the Burgoo kitchen. That’s where Blanton, in years past, concocted bushels of the great Kentucky stew for workers to enjoy on select days.
With the scenery, Blanton’s history, and engaging Freddy, the group was happy and interested. There was no rush, so I moved on, away from the group, to mind my own business.
They ventured off into the plant. After another hour or so, I again found them outside the two-story log structure dubbed the Clubhouse, a popular venue for weddings, parties, and meetings among Sazerac executives.

This time, the mom’s fiancé, Jim, took me off to the side and shed some light on the situation.
“He’s planning to pop the question,” Jim said, referring to his ‘stepson’ Dom. “You may want to follow behind us in case I need help getting some pictures.”
How cool was that? So, while still keeping a polite distance, I strolled behind as they walked the manicured historic grounds.
Dom and his rather quiet and seemingly shy girlfriend found their way onto a cute little bridge that crosses a charming small stream flanked by perfect landscaping. What a picture-perfect spot, but … nope.
The group meandered around until Freddy spoke about Blanton’s statue, before heading toward some gorgeous, budding dogwoods – another great photo op. Nope, not there either.

I feared my presence, albeit at a distance, might be cramping Dom’s style, so I stayed out of view for a while longer. As I roamed at a longer length, I stopped at the little guard shack/smoking area and struck a conversation with Kevin, the guard.
I gave him the low down on the couples’ plan, about the time they passed us and headed down toward the main parking lot and the east side of the distillery.
“I bet they’re heading toward Warehouse H,” Kevin suggested.
Of course, they were. Warehouse H is commonly referred to as the Blanton warehouse. It was the only metal-wrapped rickhouse on a property adorned with century-old brick buildings.

This was it, so I moved along in an attempt to catch up – while not wanting to appear, I was in a hurry to catch up. A casual hustle… perhaps.
At about 30 feet out, I saw Freddy, Jim, and the bachelor’s mom make a solid stop in the entrance to Warehouse H. Dom; it seemed, had ushered his bride-to-be into the dark passageway of the warehouse.
I could hear footsteps on the wood planks inside as I approached.
Then, as I was about 10 feet from the entrance, I heard a heart-pounding wail.
Dom’s mom, now with a smile ear to ear, caption video of the whole thing.
I later saw the recording where Dom walks his fiancé to the last window at the very end of the rickhouse. He’s silhouetted by the light from the window as he takes a knee and reaches out to her.
Beautiful stuff. Hugs and kisses followed, of course.

With the business done, the entourage made it back to the tasting room. When I popped in to check on them ten minutes later, there was Freddy pulling out some bottles I’d never seen being poured for BT guests.
The standard pours of the day – Eagle Rare and BT – just wouldn’t cut it for this group. So, out came a 103 proof Gold Blanton’s sold only overseas.
Then, Freddy whipped out a bottle of 20-year-old Pappy Van Winkle. While that juice had been distilled at BT since 1992, the bottle in Freddy’s hand was produced at Stitzel-Weller in Louisville.
That remains the only time I’ve ever seen Van Winkle poured for a guest’s tasting.
Some other labels followed, but in the end, Dom assured Freddy that he remained a Blanton’s man.

Yep, even after the engagement, talk remained focused on Blanton’s. And it continued throughout the next day traveling to other distilleries. The man knew what he liked.
Two years later, the foursome returned to Kentucky for a followup trip to BT.
A few things were different that time, including a fresh bun in the oven for Dom’s wife, and the addition of her father – the soon to be grandpa.
What a great trip to tag along for, too.
Their return trip to Bourbon Country was, unfortunately, for the expectant mother, in celebration of their first anniversary.
The trip itself, however, wasn’t the main event.
This time, the couple had made arrangements (and a hefty investment) well in advance to select their very own barrel of Blanton’s. That’s no small deal to pull off, especially for someone uninvolved in the spirits business.
Dom was persistent, and, like his new wife, he knew what he liked – even loved.
It was those two trips with those two couples when I learned that, for some, there’s just nothing more significant than your one true love – even if that was love was for Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon Whiskey.

I can’t say it was ever the norm, but at the same time, it wasn’t unheard of to start a boys’ day out on the Kentucky Bourbon Trail with an hour or so at a gun range.
This was especially fitting for bachelors, birthdays, and father’s days.
For obvious reasons, this was never done after a distillery tour or drinking alcohol at all.
While many of the ranges we visited were excellent, climate-controlled, and indoor, I’ll not forget the day when my tour coordinator instructed me to take a group of bachelors to the most massive outdoor range in Kentucky.
Adjacent to Fort Knox, in western Bullitt County, I knew Knob Creek Gun Range pretty good.

As a young teen, my Civil Air Patrol buddies and I would visit KCGR on Saturdays for open paintball battles.
The range held special events and programs throughout the year but was usually open to walk-ins each weekend – even to novice shooters.
So I was comfortable driving the bus out Ky44, around the curves and up and down the hill that takes folks west from Shepherdsville.
Comfortable at least until I began to notice lots of traffic, which is unusual for this stretch of KY 44 in Bullitt County.
“Hm,” I wondered…
At about a mile out, I noticed many more vehicles – some of which were parked along the shoulder, with occupants exiting with big guns strapped to their shoulders and ammo cans in their hands.
“Hm,” I wondered again. “Is this machine gun shoot weekend?”
Once I turned left onto the gravel drive leading into the range, my wondering.
I could stick a fork in this…

Twice annually, Knob Creek Gun Range hosts the largest machine gun shoot in America.
And we just happened to show up during the fall meet.
The event attracts some 10,000 gun lovers from around the world.
Attendees can rent .50 caliber machine guns, flamethrowers, and other fun toys to blow off steam and blow up stuff.
Orientation rides on UH-1 “Huey” helicopters are even offered, for a nominal fee, of course.
Cars, trucks, and even full-size buses are brought from salvage yards and onto the main firing range for visitors to watch get rittled with lead and eventually turned into charred hulks of metal after getting hit with rocket-propelled grenades and other big boomers.
The night shoot is exceptionally popular due to dozens of shooters firing thousands of tracer rounds into the hill at the back of the range.
For a bachelor party to expect an innocent hour shooting at paper targets, however, this was neither the place nor the time.
I gave the boys a heads up that we’d arrived on a “very special weekend.”

What I didn’t disclose was the obvious failure on the part of our tour planner by not checking Knob Creek’s calendar, then selling these guys on a pleasant morning shooting off a few rounds at a normal gun range.
Motoring down the dusty gravel road into the event, we passed a lot of gun-toting folks, many of whom were wearing camouflage, outdated olive-drab fatigues, or even patches representing militias and other stuff.
One such patch, noticed by my passengers, was an emblem for a specific white nationalist group with a less-than-positive reputation.
Looking just the opposite, here I was pulling into this event with my trademark Panama hat, carting in a bus of bachelors looking like they’re headed to a golf course, with pink shorts, nice sunglasses, cute sandals, and polo shirts.
“Bob,” one guest garnered my attention. “I don’t think this is our crowd…”
Hoping to smooth things over and comfort the crew, I responded.
“Oh, it’s definitely not your type of crowd, but let’s give it a chance since we’re here.”
And they did just that.

I told them all about the special guns and other things available for rent at the event before I parked. To be sure things got off to a decent start, I tagged along with the group for a bit.
Playing escort to my fellas into a sea of camouflage and guns, the sights and sounds could not be ignored.
All sorts of explosions and shots rang out across the property.
There was a gun lovers flea market, a “jungle path” set up for shooters to test their skills, helicopter rides, and even a makeshift campground for overnighters.
What a break from the norm for us all – including myself!
Not exaggerating at all – on two separate occasions, fatigue-wearing attendees stopped and grabbed the attention of the person next to them, then took photos of the bachelors and me walking amongst that ocean of green and guns.
Yeh, we stood out like a bus-load of sore thumbs.
Feeling assured that the guys would be ok, and honestly having no more to offer as a guide, I split from the group so they could explore on their own, and hopefully shoot something, as our planner had promised them.
I browsed the event myself for a bit, before taking my out-of-place self to the bus for a break.

An hour passed.
I called Jim Beam’s American Still House in Clermont to let them know we’d be late for whatever tour or tasting we’d been scheduled for. I didn’t give them an ETA, since I had no clue how the day was going, or where we’d end up.
Another hour passed before someone from the group told me the bachelors had split into two different groups. Some were shooting .50 cal machine guns. Others were doing, who knows what but having fun, according to my informant.
What a relief that was to hear.
When the guys finally made it back to the bus, they had nothing but smiles on their faces.
What an experience this had been us all.
One bachelor, with a big grin on his face, told me he had spent hundreds of dollars on ammo to continue shooting some large-caliber gun he’d found for rent.
Others chattered about the crowd, but it was done with laughs and positivity.
Disaster avoided.

We turned a goof on the part of our planner, into an unexpected win and once in a lifetime experience for a dozen fellas visiting Kentucky for a bachelor’s weekend.
The bourbon tours and tastings that followed were, of course, good too. But the surprise at Knob Creek Gun Range is what stood out.
I told the planner about it a day later – a jab or two about what could have been done to avoid disappointment.
Then I thanked her for the opportunity she’d provided to shine by turning a potential wreck into a great experience like no other.
It was better than any itinerary could have planned for us.
Thanks again, Shannon. I’ll never forget the Surprise at Knob Creek.

*NOTE: Knob Creek, which flows west from Bullitt County and starts just a few miles from Jim Beam’s main operation at Clermont, is not the namesake for its Knob Creek Bourbon.
Instead, the whiskey is named for the LaRue County stream, where Abe Lincoln spent a bit of his early childhood – at the site of the Lincolns Tavern, just outside of Athertonville, Ky.

Why Details Matter & Why Keeping Your Cool Matters More

Details.
They can make or break a tour guide’s day.
Along with that, useful details are imperative to making the guests’ experience the most enjoyable.
And since the client pays the bills, making their experience flow smoothly means everything.
A big surprise, while sometimes making for a more exciting day, can throw such a wrench into an itinerary, that even the greatest of drivers and an experienced docent can fall to pieces – or at least appear that they have.
Reactions and emotions can be difficult, if not impossible, to hide from guests, so it’s best to avoid donning a facade.
I’ve dealt with many outings that, had I been given more, accurate and detailed information, could have gone better. While I can’t think of an absolute disaster, as a result, it’s possible that the whole job can go south because of a planner’s failure to ask a few extra questions when talking to the client.
A few other questions might come off as nosey, but a little more info can make a world of difference. Sometimes, it’s necessary for a successful gig.

Here’s one example that started off with the driver and myself heckling the plan, only to later learn of details that truly mattered – not just to us, but to the client and the management at one of the busiest distillery destinations in Kentucky as well.
It was about a week before the tour, when the driver and I, the guide, received a schedule for what seemed like a typical day on the bourbon trail. Pick guests up at a hotel, make a few stops, and try to teach a bit along the way.
The schedule did have one unusual item on it – three letters at the top of the itinerary – V.I.P.
Hmm. I wondered what was up with that.
Curious, the driver and I both questioned the planner about the “V.I.P.” note next to the client’s name and number.
The planner, who was generally right about getting the essential information to the crew, stumbled for a second when we asked.
She said, “oh yeah, it’s a birthday outing for the client’s husband,” implying that he was the very important person.
Hmm. That was a first. Not that someone would celebrate a birthday by spending their day touring Kentucky distilleries, but that the person of honor would be described as a V.I.P.

Debbie, the planner, went on to tell us that there would be balloons and streamers and other birthday party knick-knacks for us to decorate the inside of our bus prior to departure.
Not being ones for decorating a bus for a whiskey tour, the driver and I joked about the set up to this job.
“Bob, did you put the V.I.P. ice in the V.I.P. cooler with the V.I.P. waters?”
I remember John, a most professional driver, asking me with a grin as we prepped the bus.
I was busy trying to tape streamers and other “happy birthday” crap to the inside our bus, so the chuckle came at a good time. It all seemed a bit ridiculous to us both.
We treated all guests like important folks, simply because they are. So this title for someone, just because he was turning another year older, seemed a bit much.
But no big deal, we continued to play ball, meanwhile joking about the decorations and V.I.P. status.

It was raining cats and dogs that day – messy and a bit cool outside. Not ideal conditions.
Our beautiful and clean, crepe paper-adorned bus would suffer soon with wet passengers, but like real troopers, we loaded them up and began the 1.5-hour drive to Makers Mark.
The windy and hilly route went a bit slower with the rain, so as the guide, babbling on about Kentucky and whiskey, I had plenty of time to dig deep into details.
Nuggets about government rules, regulations, and resolutions relating to bourbon sparked much interest from one middle-aged lady in the group who sat within an arm’s reach of where I stood.
Remember the rain?
She was dressed in all white – white denim, including her jacket. She had lots of white, minus the single metallic crutch and black air cast her left leg was in.
Having traveled this route hundreds of times before, standing before the group as the bus made its way along the hilly, curvy road wasn’t uncomfortable, nor abnormal for me.
So as I swayed with gravity and braced myself from inertia during the ride, as she peppered me with question after question about stuff, most guests never second guess. She wanted specifics.
With each question, she’d plug away at her phone, apparently fact-checking my babble. Even doubting me on Bourbon basics like Congress’ 1964 definition of, and its subsequent declaration as America’s Native Spirit.
“What’s up with that?” I wondered.

The lady in white didn’t demonstrate any trouble boarding the bus with her bad leg and crutch, so I didn’t anticipate any problems getting her around the grounds, steps, and path that were part of the Makers Mark experience.
I offered my hand when we arrived and off-loaded, of course, but then focused my attention on other things as they gathered in the welcome center. The rain was still coming down hard, fast, and heavy.
It was a few minutes later when I went to see if all was good and the tour was ready to go, that Birthday Boy, speaking softly so not to draw attention, say, “Bob, you know what you got to do, don’t you.”
The dumb look on my face answered him before my mouth could.
“You need to get a golf cart for Ms. Penny and drive her around here,” he clarified. “You do know who she is, don’t you?”
Penny Sue Pritzker, I soon learned, is an American billionaire who, before our tour, was confirmed in a 97-1 Senate vote to be Obama’s Secretary of Commerce.
“She’s like 9th to the President,” the former V.I.P. explained to me.
Within a couple of minutes, I’d brought Makers Mark management and John, my driver, up to speed on the situation.
Jacquelyn, the tour and welcome center manager, put all pieces together in a matter of seconds.

Her boss at the time, Sydina, best described the situation to someone a year later.
“So it’s pouring down rain, and here’s Bob and Jacquelyn in this Torula-covered golf cart taking this lady in white on tour,” Sydina explained.
Like most things kept near distilleries and rickhouses, the golf cart was covered in years of distiller’s mold.
Black fungus, mixed into the pouring rain and white denim, equals a bunch of shits and giggles when telling the story in hindsight.
The plastic we covered the seats and Penny with assured onlookers that we were at least making an effort. The rest of the group passed us as their official, hour-long tour, got underway.
Fifty yards and about 10 minutes later, Jacquelyn was pulling distillate samples from the shiny spirit safe for Ms. Penny to taste from a mug. More than once, and I followed along to snap a photo here and there to prove it all happened.
While the entire group was a bit upper-crusty, the V.I.P. was NOT Birthday Boy. We figured it all out on the fly and, thanks to Jacquelyn and Sydina and a fungus-covered golf cart, marked it up as a win. A narrow victory, but a win nonetheless.

There were no complaints, and my driver had some good laughs about it as he waited in the dry and warm gift shop with the lovable ladies of Makers Mark.
Yes, it could’ve gone smoother had we known Birthday Boy was not our actual V.I.P., but then this story about the importance of detail wouldn’t be as entertaining.
My favorite aspect is that no person involved lost their composure at any point.
Just as details are important, so is the big-picture mindset that no part of our jobs as planners, drivers, guides, or hospitality workers is a matter of life or death. We’re not repairing cars, pulling teeth, or curing cancer on the bourbon trail.
It’s meant to be fun, so keep it light-hearted.

I’ve had more than one group that caused me a bit of concern at the start of a tour on Kentucky’s Bourbon Trail.
Some of those unnerving groups, however, deserved far more credit than what my little mind wanted to give them.
One of these episodes started early one Saturday, departing Louisville and headed toward, for whatever reason, Four Roses Distillery in Lawrenceburg where we’d planned our first experience.
These vibrant young fellas, all under 30, were full of energy, excitement, and fun first thing in the morning.
They were pounding beer after beer during the hour-long drive to our first stop.
My bourbon 101 spiel was pointless to dig into.
The music was loud. They were loud, too.
But they were happy, so I just jumped on the board to ride the growing wave in.
So each of the dozen or so guys had had several drinks in them by the time I pulled up to drop them off at the front door.
For some not-so-unusual reason, we were running a few minutes behind.
I can’t recall if it was the emergency pee break on the way, the delay getting the boys out of their hotel beds or what, but we were like many other days before, a few minutes behind.
So upon dropping them off, I hopped inside to check them in, get their tickets and point out the restroom that I was confident someone else would need by then.
Then rushed back out to get the bus moved from the front door, parked and out of the way.
I was a little rushed, but no sweat. It wasn’t the first time.
Leaving the bus in the last 40 acres of the parking lot, I hustled back toward the gift shop where the tour would begin.
Around this time, I thought to myself, “I hope these guys aren’t as wild inside there, as they were on the bus, or else this could go far south real soon.”
It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet, and these fellas already had a belly full of beer.
“I’d better rush to be sure these guys are doing ok, and ensure they hadn’t got the staff upset just yet,” I told myself.
I made my way through the front door and into the gift shop, assuming to find a not-so-positive environment.
Boy, was I wrong – and pleasantly surprised.
Once inside the gift shop, I see the crew of four young women being surrounded by my guests as though something was going on.
But nobody seemed upset.
There were no raised voices or finger-pointing or ushering my guys toward the door or anything of the sort.
In fact, it was smiles all around from both parties – staff and tourists. And not just my guys. The whole gift shop was smiling.
Taking a closer look, a tattoo party came into view.

My guys were raising their shirts, holding out their arms, and even pulling the back of their pants down just a bit for what I learned were stick-on tattoo transfers – little patches with four red roses resembling the bourbon brand we were there to learn all about.
Awesome. And what a great surprise!
Everyone was happy, and that joy and fun set the tone for all the other guests inside the gift shop that Saturday morning. In fact, the tone for the rest of our day together had been set. And in the right place.
That day ended up being among the most enjoyable and, with all things considered, one of the more innocent guys’ trips I have ever had the pleasure of guiding around Kentucky’s bourbon country.
What a joy to learn that assumptions on my part could be as far as accurate as possible.
And kudos to the great team at Four Roses that day for keeping it fun, not stressing out over my vibrant young drinkers so early on the busiest day of the week; and for pulling out the stops with the tattoos for each and everyone who decided they wanted wherever – regardless of where they wanted it stuck.
Yup, one guy’s tattoo would best be described as a “tramp stamp.”
And a beautiful stamp it was.

Bourbon Tours are growing in popularity, and for good reason!

Derby City Limousines bourbon tours include some of the most famous distilleries in Kentucky. Each stop has a wonderful view and some have tours of the bourbon making process. We invite you to plan a layover for a light lunch in some very interesting restaurants along the trail.