Out In the Vineyard With Carl

Our latest installment on The Daily Meal. We (mainly me, Stephanie) write a bi-monthly piece called “Diary of a Start-Up Winemaker.” What we(well, I)’ve written to date are HERE.

*******

We’ve only been “in business” for just under a year, and are working on finding like-minded wine adventurers who appreciate wine like ours, as well as our endeavor. It’s a crowded, crazy market these days, as you all know, but we’re slowly reaching some of you individuals who dare to step off the well-worn route, or should I say, you’re discovering us, as true adventurers are apt to do.

Carl found us through Scott’s parents, out in Missouri. He was so interested in The Grande Dalles that he purchased six bottles of our inaugural wines: two ’09 Leroy’s Finest, our bone-dry Riesling; two ’08 Gampo, our sangiovese blend; and two ’08 Home Place, our tempranillo blend, just like that. Since his order, we’ve exchanged a few chit-chat messages, so imagine our surprise, when he told us he’d be out in the Pacific Northwest (a rare visit, he said) and wanted to meet! Our first fan from afar wanting to come and learn more! We were thrilled.

So off Sam and I went — Scott had to stay in Portland, holding down his day job that keeps this dream alive — to meet Carl.

Our plan was to meet at the I-84 and Highway 197 McDonalds, and then go off to tour the vineyard before heading to a barrel tasting of our ’10 wines. Sam, who had just turned three was excited—for MacDonalds; he had been talking about a cheeseburger for some days and sitting inside to eat it, since usually we only pick his Happy Meal up, and then go to our camper when we’re out on the land.

Scott called on our way out the door to warn us of wind gusts that day in The Gorge. 40-45 MPH. That’s a wind. So I watched that river as we drove alongside it, a wind gauge for what lay ahead in I-84’s twists and turns. Whitecaps are a dead give away, of course, but the intensity of swells, the deep rolling waves show more, I think. And by the time we had reached Hood River, all the spotty rain we had out of Portland had been replaced by wind; the waves in the Columbia were channeled and steady, and I had to old the steering wheel more firmly, as the car was beginning to feel the increased wind strength all the way to The Dalles.

Once done with our lunch at Micky D’s, we were waiting outside with wind-blown ice cream and some wild hair, when Carl pulled in the parking lot, and we were soon on our way, he following us in his rental red Mustang. I wondered what we was thinking, as I led him out of civilization and into the most glorious patchwork of waving grain and sage brush hills, framed by a brilliant blue sky punctuated with white. Sam and I watched for the usual farm-and wildlife—we saw a mother turkey and one of her poults, some horses, and the breeding “boys of summer” bulls lolling about under a tree by 8-mile creek. And then with a quick turn we were traveling up, up, up, the low road along the creek soon far below us, as the land opened wide into more of the same patchwork of wheat, still no vineyard in sight, and I was again wondering what Carl might be thinking (“Where in the world is she taking me?), until our camper appeared at last on our hilltop, and we were at our gate.

Here is how the vineyard tour went:

“How much do you have planted here?” asked Carl, as he got out. I told him. “This is 20 acres?!” It looks like a lot, out there, I think because of the hillside. But then again, 20 acres is nothing to sneeze at, especially when you’re bootstrapping the endeavor yourself.

“Why here? Why not the Willamette Valley?” Scott never wanted to grow pinot, I told him; we didn’t want to get lost in that fray already underway. (Although truth be told, we do have pinot planted among the 15 acres of plants on our north slope, and Scott looks forward to seeing what kind of wine that makes one day.) Since we didn’t have the resources to purchase land in a place already known for grapes, Scott researched to find the overlooked gem, that undiscovered spot that could produce grapes for the wines he envisioned. And since our wines have already been celebrated at a James Beard House dinner, maybe Scott didn’t do too bad.

“What varietals?” Ours is a warm weather site, and the main grapes are sangiovese, the Brunello clone; tempranillo; cabernet sauvignon; and Riesling, planted as an experiment. Others are petit verdot, and syrah, used for blending, if desired.

“How many plants?” I hand dipped each of the original 17,000 into some blue-green-algae something or other, I told him, that went into our original 15 acre planting; 5 acres’ worth of plants were not available from California at the time. After that deep freeze came through our first Fall, we double planted, so now we have something like 45,000 plants out there across the entire 20 acres.

“How many tons/acre?” I don’t really know, I told him. Scott’s the guy to talk to. What I can tell you is that the vines are still young and not at their full production, and we’re going to keep it that way, until we can grow our followers and have people regularly purchasing and chasing down our wine. Our first year we had 200 cases, and that because the birds took away a good ¼ of our crop. The ‘09s that we just bottled gave us something in the neighborhood of 500 cases, and that’s enough for us, for now.

“What’s that white thing up there?” A weather station. We have three (waist-high) weather stations in the vineyard that collect data: one at the top of the hill, one in the middle of the vineyard, and one at the bottom. Each location turns up varying conditions, as one might expect—it’s colder at the bottom of our hill, for example, because cold air sinks. And in fact, after having a team of Portland State University graduates students do a study on our land, under the direction of soils expert Dr. Scott Burns, he concluded we would even have three distinct growing areas on our hill, soil-wise, in addition to the microclimates.

“Do you need any bees? Do you have any trouble with pollination?” Vines self-pollinate, so no need for bees.

We talked some more, while my co-worker played in the dirt with the horse and trailer truck Carl had brought with him, from Sam’s grandparents. I told him about Scott’s research and belief in the best wines of France being due to limestone, and how we searched in the Umpqua Valley for land—on our honeymoon—but that yielded too few acres of our liking, so Scott continued the search in a new, “undiscovered” area. Told him about the Great Missoula Floods and their mark on the area, and in our vineyard. About the well, and the water supply we had. “How deep [did you have to drill]?” He asked? 250 feet. “That’s not bad.”

He gasped when I stretched my arm out and told him about the range fire that had traversed the landscape, only to stop in our vineyard. About the fire damage some of the plants had received. About the frost damage our first planting year, and playing catch up, and how we double-planted the vineyard to make sure we’d have a crop, incase the whole vineyard had been killed, as we had been told. Told him how Scott had held every single end post as they were tamped into the ground on a cold, windy day.

Told him about the kestrel houses we had put in, to help us keep rodent and songbird populations down. And about how Joel Butler, Master of Wine loves all of our vintages, and finds it unbelievable, how they capture the essence of their European counterparts, already from such a young vineyard.

Up on top of the hill the wind was howling, and in between spotting Sam who wanted to climb the camper’s ladder up to the rooftop, it was hard to have any kind of conversation. So we didn’t stay there long, for the next stop was Pheasant Valley Winery in Hood River, where we have our wine.

We have been incredibly lucky to have found a winery with a extremely knowledgeable winemaker, who lets Scott “direct” as far as the style of wine goes. Randy, our winemaker, ensures a sound wine, based on Scott’s vision. So we set off, to Hood River, some 20 miles west. Somehow the winery’s owner, Scott (another Scott) who was in The Dalles the same time we were getting parts for his tractor, whizzed by us on the highway and was there waiting for us when we arrived.

Once in the barrel room, I put Scott (my Scott) on speaker phone, and then the ‘10 barrel tasting began. The first was the cabernet sauvignon, then the sangiovese, and finally the tempranillo. I missed most of what Scott was saying, because my little co-worker, Sam, found the pressing/staging dock and equipment more interesting than a room full of barrels and a couple of people sniffing, sipping, and swirling. I don’t blame him! But the wine, as young as it was, tasted beautifully, and at one time, when we had the sangiovese, Carl and I lifted our heads and looked at each other and said, “Wow!” because the aroma was so striking, floral and sweet. I smelled honey.

And then our day was done. Carl thanked us, but I thanked HIM, for showing the interest and gumption of coming the distance. I can’t tell you how good that feels, to know, we are not alone, that others share an interest in what we have been toiling for for so long. We chatted a few moments in the parking lot, about when the just bottled ‘09s would be available (in next few months) and about buying futures of the ‘10s—they are indeed some very special wines, already. I had to change some co-worker’s diapers, and then we were off. Carl followed us out of the maze of roads up there in Hood River’s orchard and farm ground, and then we lost him on the highway, as Sam and I sped off toward Portland. The wind had died down, and Sam asked where Carl was, if he might still be behind us. I told him no, he had crossed the bridge into Washington State, for he was heading back to Seattle, where he had flown into. Sam soon closed his eyes, for it had been a big day, and I was left thinking.