Whether you’ve been swept up in the bourbon and whiskey renaissance of the past decade, watched friends or colleagues immerse themselves in it, or intentionally kept your distance, the tasting ritual is recognizable: a pour slightly heavier than intended (a fact no one will admit) settles into a Glencairn glass, catching the light as it rolls around the curved sides, amber and honeyed, cradled between finger and thumb. A slow turn of the wrist sets the liquid in motion, a swirl to study the legs. A pause. Then a measured breath through the nose, eyes half- to fully closed, allowing the aromas to speak before the inevitable first sip. Another follows, this one for the Kentucky Chew.
Each gesture is deliberate, performed with care, as if the ritual itself might draw the very best from the glass; to make it count. For the Certified Bourbon Steward or the amateur who learned the practice from someone else, the process is central; tradition can matter as much as the final expression.
For a small subset of structural engineers, however, that aroma signals something entirely different. It does not stop at charred oak or caramelized sugars. Instead, it pulls them back to a place most enthusiasts never see, or only glimpse on a guides tour: the iconic wood rickhouse. Not the idealized image printed on a label, but the lived-in structure. Weathered framing, uneven floors that announce each step, and daylight and cool drafts filtering through siding that has expanded and contracted for decades. Faint streaks of baudoinia compniacensis (whiskey fungus) cling to surfaces, a client testament to evaporation and the presence of the angel’s share. In these moments, the scent in the glass becomes inseparable from the structure.
For the structural engineer, the experience begins outside a four- to nine-story rickhouse on a cold, humid, or rainy day, catching up with the distillery team whose family-style camaraderie contrasts with the quiet intensity of the structure itself. Their warmth and generational knowledge set the tone: lighthearted and engaging, yet grounded in the understanding that you are there because they have a concern regarding this house. Like an adult caring for an aging parent or grandparent, they tend to the house and its neighboring siblings as if they were their own, guided by a responsibility not only to preserve its life and extend its service, but to honor the legacy and traditions carried forward through generations.
There is always a brief rush of confident yet nervous adrenaline in knowing that no matter how many rickhouses you have entered, each one is unique. Decades of loading, unloading, “modifications,” and environmental forces have left their maker’s mark. Some variations reveal themselves immediately; others remain hidden behind rows of barrels. The structural engineer’s task is simple in concept but rarely in execution: understand how this house has responded over the years and determine what, if any, rehabilitation is needed.
As the front-of-house door opens, the structural engineer steps inside and begins to see the rickhouse in ways no visitors ever will. The angel’s share still hangs dense in the air, sweet and unmistakable, though slowly dissipating as fresh air flows in. The focus quickly shifts from aroma to structure. Posts, rails, and braces now command attention; the hidden skeleton that bears the weight of tens of thousands of 500-pound barrels, absorbs seasonal change, and guides the airflow that drives maturation. For the engineer, the rickhouse is as much about vertical and lateral load paths as it is about scent and history. Understanding these systems is key to appreciating how these storied structures endure while supporting both spirit and tradition.
Read the full article at STRUCTURE magazine beginning on page 34.
