I waxed Dickensian in my just-finished review of Yamazaki 12: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." In that case, I was happy that my inventory told me I had two bottles, but depressed that I couldn't find one of them. With Blue Ridge Whiskey, it is the same Dickensian dichotomy, differently: my memory of the Y12 just several minutes ago was the best of times in comparison to my current tasting of Blue Ridge Whiskey Georgia Sour Mash. Apple juice color. Unfortunately, not apple-juice descriptors (beyond the color). My initial thought on nosing is "old country gas station": this is not pejorative per se--I love the smell of old gas stations--but it's not what one expects from any bottle purporting to be "whiskey." I also get pine sawdust. Again, this is merely incongruous rather than damning. I love sawdust (conifer- or deciduous-derived). There is a rivulet of vanilla begging for attention; but whether this is from oak or a splash of A&W cream soda from the gas station's rusty red fridge is anyone's guess. The palate also conjures bucolic imagery, but different geography: not Georgia, but Tuscany. I'm talking about grappa, which is just a fancy name for Italian moonshine. At 86 proof, this "whiskey" would need to have its proof doubled to get into moonshine territory--I've had it--but the bitter bite is not dissimilar. Never did a spring-fed creek or a bottle of Pellegrino look so appealing. As an expat Southerner living up North, I have this bottle on the mantle in my barn more for decoration than drinking. But one cannot appreciate good without knowing its evil twin. And sometimes, a little evil ain't bad. 2.0 on the Distiller scale; double that for those searching for _Porky's_ terroir. N.B. All spirits tasted neat in a Glencairn glass.