Stewing on the northwest corner of Butte, Montana, just north of the Highlands Range, is the Berkeley Pit, a sprawling strip mining caldron half filled by an uninhabitable lake that my friend Colin points at in the early morning dark and says, "this is why I can't be confident in my drinking water."
Our tread was better than a stumble and softer than a tromp, yet definitely not possessing of all the coordination of sober people. Fireball
is a Canadian-whiskey based liqueur that punches of candied cinnamon like little kids' Atomic sweets by the same name. Turns out, Butte drinks it like Denver shoots Jameson, like D.C. bartenders gulp Grand Marnier, and it's well chased by Milwaukee's blue ribbon wearer of 1844. Butte welcomed us generously.