Page 100 of Before We Say Goodbye
A southwest-facing slope, the sun showering warm, ripening rays over the vines that had already been picked of their bounty. Their leaves had changed to the colors of a campfire, and together those shades were a painting on a canvas of virgin soil.
Never had Otis seen a piece of land that called out more to him.
This wasn’t California; it didn’t even feel American. The land almost looked martian, some foreign plot on a hill on a planet millions of miles away. Who ever thought that grapes could grow here? Who was crazy enough to plant first? Yet it was perfect. Of course it was. The slope of this tiny mountain could only have been designed by a higher power. Just the right pitch to keep the spring freezes from settling in too long. The Yakima River running alongside evoked memories of the Mosel.
He couldn’t believe that it was undiscovered, composition paper waiting for musical notes.
“Otis?”
“Huh?”
“I’m glad I’m driving.”
“What?” Otis turned to Rebecca, who had slowed in the right lane of the highway so that they could all enjoy their first look of Red Mountain on full display, a woman stretched out on the sand, soaking up rays.
“Bec, it’s . . . never in my . . . I’m . . .” He lost his breath.
“I know.”
Otis’s eyes grew misty. “I thought that ...”
“Dad, what’s happening up there?”
Otis turned back to find Mike grinning. “Reminds me of the first time I saw your mother, Mike.” He turned back to this little mountain that was more a hill than anything, with a few experimental vineyards. Otherwise, a clean slate.
He was about to say more but caught himself. This decision wasn’t his alone. Dialing it way back, he said, “It’s a nice spot. I look forward to walking around.”
Rebecca laughed because she could always read his mind.
Always.
Taking the exit, they passed a gas station and then began to climb up a winding road that led to their destination. Even on the approach, there were no signs—not even an indication that they had entered wine country. Red Mountain was nothing more than a hill in a sea of hills in the Columbia Valley, but a few men and women had seen potential. As told by a winemaker in Walla Walla, John Williams and Jim Holmes had planted the first vines back in 1975. Theexactsame year Otis and Bec had bought their ranch. If that wasn’t a sign ...
Then others had come: the Hedges family, Blackwood Canyon, Sandhill, Seth Ryan, and Terra Blanca, among others.
Otis had heard their names and stories, pioneers looking for something different.
Walla Walla was wonderful for so many reasons, but many of the winemakers bought their fruit elsewhere—as the colder climate brought intense challenges. Otis couldn’t imagine making his wines in a place farfrom where the grapes were harvested. It would compromise the essence of the terroir. It would dilute the concentration.
They took a left onto Sunset Road and drove through a small village of sorts, dusty roads and double-wide trailers. Sagebrush rolled across the road. Desert grasses blew in the wind. A pickup truck passed by, the driver lifting his hand in a wave. What kind of bird was that overhead? Otis imagined how different the wildlife might be. The valley floor stretched for a long time, and Sunset Road followed the contours, revealing ample land that was entirely plantable. Tiny micro slopes that curved like the body of a voluptuous woman offered subtly different angles to the sun and endless possibilities.
Off in the west stood Mount Adams, a tall peak capped with snow that dominated the horizon and evoked an extraordinary sense of awe.
As the vineyards came into view, Otis sat on the edge of his seat, studying the trellises, the canopies, wondering what they were planting. “It would be like learning an entirely new trade, farming up here. I can’t imagine. New pests, new weeds. An entirely different world.”
“I want to go up there,” Mike said, pointing to the top ridgeline.
“I’m up for it,” Otis agreed. “Can you keep up with your old man?”
Mike put a hand on Otis’s shoulder. “Maybe I should carry you.”
“Just hold a slice of bacon out ahead of him,” Bec said. “Then he’ll keep up.”
“Wifey,” Otis said, “be kind. I’m having an out-of-body experience, and here you are attacking me.”
They parked on the side of the road. Otis carried a backpack with sandwiches and water. There was no path, so they cut through tall grass, avoiding coyote dens and snake holes and stepping past boulders the size of cars. They paused on occasion to look out over the Columbia Valley, but the vision made sense only once they’d reached the top thirty minutes later. It was cold up there, another microclimate revealing itself. As the wind caused chill bumps to rise on his arms, Otis spun in every direction, taking in eastern Washington State in all its glory.
To the west, past the Yakima River, lay the small town of Benton City. Beyond, Mount Adams stood tall and mighty, all the other hills and mountains bowing to it. Farms dotted the martian landscape, more blocks of green swallowed by high desert.
