Methamphetamine is no stranger to the Wabash Valley.

The stimulant that mimics the powerful effects of adrenaline has been here for decades.

But something has changed in recent years, say police, prosecutors and addictions counselors.

Once primarily imported from western states, first by motorcycle gangs, then by Mexican drug lords, meth now can be obtained without an intricate supply line. Using a readily available recipe, meth can be made at home.

Or in the woods.

Or in a car.

Or in hotel room.

As the recipe has spread, so has the drug's devastating impact, especially along the U.S. 41 corridor in Indiana, a hot spot for the labs.

During a year-long investigation, the Tribune-Star found that meth, also known as crank, is slowly eating away at the delicate social fabric of Wabash Valley communities, large and small.

It is costing addicts their health, their families, their homes, their jobs, their freedom and, sometimes, even their lives. It's taxing law enforcement budgets, overcrowding jails and clogging court dockets.

"I think it's a plague," says Judge Barbara L. Brugnaux of Vigo County Superior Court. Brugnaux remembers thinking the drug was prevalent when she served as deputy prosecutor in the late 1980s and early '90s.

Now, she says, it's even worse. "I had no clue as to how bad it could get once they could manufacture it in their homes, cars, river bottoms, sheds."

Brugnaux's bleak assessment is shared by many.

Dr. Randy Stevens of Terre Haute, a family physician specializing in addiction services, describes the prevalence of methamphetamine as "epidemic."

Jim Bedwell, director of the Sullivan County Office of Family and Children, says he's never seen a problem develop so quickly. "You heard about it and then, all of the sudden, we started having people that were addicted."

Brugnaux, Stevens, Bedwell and others close to the problem have watched the phenomenon with a growing sense of alarm.

Meth, says Detective Greg Ferency of the Vigo County Drug Task Force, is "public enemy No. 1."

A new brew

In the early 1990s, something new was brewing in America's heartland. Across Nebraska, Iowa and Missouri, police were encountering a new version of methamphetamine that could be produced in a matter of hours.

Decongestant pills containing pseudoephedrine were being chemically converted into methamphetamine using common products such as camera batteries, drain cleaner and salt, along with ether-based engine starter fluid and farm fertilizer. Police dubbed it the "Nazi" method after they found swastikas scribbled on papers at a meth lab in Missouri.

The method was simple. The ingredients cheap. And the product, unlike its imported version, at least potentially pure.

In the 1960s and '70s, biker gangs made meth using phenyl-2-propanone, a dark brown syrupy chemical that eventually was regulated by the government, said Eric Lawrence, director of the forensic analysis division of the Indiana State Police crime lab.

Methamphetamine made in "mom-and-pop labs" is chemically different than its 1960s counterpart, making it extremely addictive, police say.

"This is not the speed your grandma was taking back in the '50s and '60s," said State Police Trooper Chuck Tharp.

In the mid-1990s, police in Indiana encountered something strange in Noble County, just north of Indianapolis.

A compact car appeared to have smoke pouring out if it. Inside the car, officers found a 5-gallon red plastic gas can containing the farm chemical anhydrous ammonia. Also discovered: Camera batteries.

It was a moment of truth for State Police called to the scene. "All of a sudden, the light came on. Luckily, we had just come from a conference where they were talking about a new method," for making methamphetamine, said 1st Sgt. Dave Phelps of State Police headquarters in Indianapolis.

Spreading like wildfire

It wasn't until a man from Missouri relocated to the Crawfordsville area that meth labs became a common occurrence in Indiana. Police say the man introduced the recipe to locals and it spread, adding to the supply of imported meth.

Although Terre Haute police had encountered a meth lab in the early '90s, Vigo County's first "Nazi" method lab was found in 1999. Last year, police busted 105 labs in the county.

"It's so simple to make," said Ferency of the Drug Task Force. "We've arrested people who couldn't read or write but could make a lot of meth."

Greg Carter, chief deputy prosecutor in Vermillion County, likens it to a Prohibition-era product. "It's kind of like the bathtub gin of this generation," Carter said.

The process, with a few variations, has spread by Internet postings and books, but primarily by word of mouth.

Once someone learns how to produce meth, he frequently passes on the art. Studies indicate the average "cook" teaches 10 others, Lawrence said.

While "cooks" can profit 10-fold by selling their product, "The people we find most often are doing this to feed their own addiction," said State Police Trooper Mike Eslinger. "It's kind of misleading to say there's profit in it."

Typically, five to six people are involved with each meth lab operation. Someone steals anhydrous ammonia from a tank at an agricultural co-op or from a farmer's field. Others buy or steal other ingredients, ranging from cold pills to brake cleaning fluid. And in the end, the "cook" usually pays them with product.

Although the per-gram cost of the drug is comparable to crack cocaine, the euphoric high of crank lasts for hours, versus minutes.

"People give up cocaine for [meth] today," said Bill Plew, an addictions counselor at Discover Recovery in Terre Haute. "It's a scary drug. It takes over people's lives. It makes them slaves."

'A terrible way to live'

Some start using meth for the rush of energy. Others, especially women, use it for the weight loss. Still others say they like using meth because sex is better while high.

But no matter why someone starts, once a person has experienced a meth high, it's very hard to stop using the drug, said Ed Ross, supervisor of addiction services at Hamilton Center in Terre Haute.

"It's an extremely addictive drug," he said.

Addicts frequently go on several-day binges, snorting, injecting, smoking or swallowing the drug for an almost continuos euphoria. During a binge, abusers remain awake for long periods, many times days on end.

"After a while, there is no high that you want," said 20-year-old Crystal Helderman of Terre Haute, a recovering meth addict. Helderman explained over time it took more of the drug to reach the same kind of high. Even then, it came to the point where the drug was no longer satisfying.

Users who seek the drug for its euphoric feeling are many times left feeling depressed when they stop getting high -- an effect that can last for months, addiction counselors say. Often the blues lead them to using again.

Meth use also can lead to liver damage, kidney and lung disorders, tooth decay and significant weight loss. Some long-term users describe losing up to 35 pounds. Sometimes, however, the signs of meth use are invisible to addicts' families.

Debbie Chaney of Chrisman, Ill., didn't realize her daughter had lost so much weight.

"I hadn't paid that much attention," she said. It wasn't until 16-year-old Lauren admitted to having a problem with meth that Chaney realized her daughter was using drugs. Looking back, the mother knows the signs were there, but her daughter was good at covering her tracks.

"They get to be very good actors and very good liars," Chaney said.

Some meth addicts experience paranoia, as well. "You always think someone's watching you," said Rod Flora of Terre Haute, who is serving a 10-year sentence on meth charges.

Long term, the drug can even lead beyond paranoia to psychosis.

"It's just a terrible way to live," said Lawrence of the State Police.

Uncommon denominators

Some in the addictions field have called meth "poor man's cocaine."

They suggest that the drug, predominantly used by white people, is a blue-collar phenomenon, synonymous with the swing hours of factory work and the long days of the construction trade.

While that's often true, Kristin Chittick knows the drug has no socioeconomic or educational barriers. Employed at the Human Resources Center in Paris, Ill., Chittick has seen college students who've told of using the drug to stay awake while studying during final-exam week.

In Sullivan County, Todd Carpenter of Hamilton Center said he's aware of athletes and honor-roll students who say they use the drug occasionally or regularly. "It seems like it's at every party," Carpenter said.

Calling it a poor man's drug is a misnomer in one sense, Chittick believes. But she sees some truth in that phrase. "It does make you poor," she said.

Three Vigo County men, Kevin Ball, Virgil Weir and Flora, all had jobs when they first started using the drug. But as their use progressed and as Ball and Flora explored cooking the drugs themselves, they either quit their jobs or were fired.

By the time Ball and Flora were arrested, both fit into the overall profile of Wabash Valley meth makers: Lower middle-class white men between the ages of 25 and 40, said Ferency of the Drug Task Force.

The future: A dim forecast

When local officials assess the future in terms of meth, they look west. What they see isn't promising. Phelps of the State Police said many states, including Missouri, have not seen a plateau in the number of meth labs.

John Paulson of the Hamilton Center, who moved to the Wabash Valley from Iowa, said building more prisons and enacting stricter laws hasn't curbed the problem there.

Indiana already has strengthened its laws related to methamphetamine, making them in line with penalties for cocaine. "People aren't getting the message," said Judge Michael H. Eldred of Vigo County Superior Court.

What's the solution to the epidemic of meth labs?

Carpenter of the Hamilton Center in Sullivan County calls it the million-dollar question. No one, it seems, has the answer.

"We do the best we can to chip away at the problem," Carpenter said. "The impact is so widespread; It's just pervasive."