A ribbon of smoke rises through the hemlocks and maples. A bewitching scent floats on the mountain breeze. The electrified sound of people making home-grown music echoes through the holler. You turn off a rural two-lane blacktop and onto Stoney Clove Lane, a tree-ceilinged dirt road frequented by bears, deer, and musicians. If someone said you'd be heading toward a couple of moonshiners working on a potent batch, they wouldn't be far off.

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