Page 128 of Before We Say Goodbye
Not everyone was on board, but there were a few. That’s where it all begins.
The thrashing of heavy metal guitar chords and the hammering of drums shook the ground, as Otis crossed into Vance’s land. It was the early afternoon, a fine June day in the year 2000. Instead of letting the music bother him, he strolled through Vance’s young vineyard with an open mind.
The vines barely peeked out of their white grow tubes. A steady drip from the recently installed irrigation gave them the power to extend their roots into this treacherous soil. The metal music played like a hellish lullaby to these younglings.
As opposed to trying to shut it out, Otis breathed it in. He opened his ears and listened like he never had before. No, he didn’t hear a whisper. How could he? This was a scream.
And yet, he heard soul in it. A cry of three men desperate to find their way, to make their mark. Otis drew closer, until he could see Vance and his friends performing together. A few others sat in the grass, listening. The band stopped and started a few times, then found their groove again. Vance slammed his guitar pick down onto the strings as he yelled out indecipherable lyrics into the microphone. Admittedly, the drummer and bassist held the beat together incredibly well. Like it or not, the good people miles away in Richland could likely hear every note.
Otis sat down in the rows, among the baby vines. He lay on his back and let the earth rumble underneath him. No, it wasn’t Puccini or Ravel, but this was passion, just the same. They were breaking bread with a higher power, making music that mattered to them.
How dare Otis ever claim to be more of an artist?
How dare he claim to know what the vines wanted to hear?
Otis focused on the sound and realized the music they were making was as pure as the wines he sought to make. A naked display of soul, a communion of their own church.
How dare he think that he knew the only way to free the soul.
A growing region is only as good as the people who inhabit it. It can only reach its perfect pitch if the people get out of their own way.
A month after that first all-hands meeting at Till Vineyards, the inaugural meeting of the Red Mountain Round Table was held. Twenty-one people collected in Otis’s tasting room. They argued and shouted but worked their way toward a shared vision.
They met again a month later. Their numbers grew.
Members of the Round Table met with the Washington State Wine Commission to assist in promoting the state as a whole.
They sent formal invitations to wine critics and wine buyers, offering to host them on the mountain. Many showed interest. Though Bedwetter andThe New York Timesignored them, many publications did not.DecanterandWines and VinesandWine Spectatorbegan to mention Washington State wines. Wine buyers from the likes of Costco and Tesco visited. Canada’s Liquor Control Board of Ontario and Sweden’s Systembolaget worked their way through tasting rooms, buying out entire vintages.
The Round Table began to host their own wine tables at trade shows around the world. Otis and other Red Mountain soldiers flew to the likes of Beijing, Seoul, London, Copenhagen, and Stockholm, preaching about the land and introducing eager drinkers to the nectar of a new terroir.
It was subtle, but Otis could taste the difference in the wines in the coming years. He could see in the eyes of his neighbors the changebrewing in the air. Everyone could feel it. The tasting rooms began to fill. People from the East Coast started to show up. They’d go to Walla Walla and then stop by Red Mountain on the way back to Seattle to see what the fuss was all about.
The Round Table began discussing building the infrastructure needed to support tourism. They needed to help steer the path before chain restaurants and motels took over. They envisioned farm-to-table, family-owned establishments, bed-and-breakfasts, local grocers, farmers’ markets, and art shows.
Changes that they didn’t think they’d see in their lifetime took root. A poet arrived, staking claim to a small property at the end of Sunset. A painter soon bought the land next to him. There was talk that Jake Forrester, the front man for Folkwhore, was looking at property.
On June 11, 2001, Red Mountain was recognized as the eleventh AVA in Washington State. The Hedgeses hosted a party that didn’t end for two days, every person celebrating the hard work they’d put in for their land. Now they could all put Red Mountain as the official growing region on their bottles. Finally, Red Mountain was validated as a place that mattered.
Chapter 27
The River Rushes By
It wasn’t for three more years that Sam Ledbetter reached out to Otis. “It’s been a long time,” Otis said through his first cell phone. He’d finally succumbed to the new technology a month prior.
“Yes, yes, it has.” Otis cringed as he recalled the one and only time he’d seen Bedwetter in person, when he’d raced out of the steakhouse in Sonoma.
“Listen, I wanted to see if I could visit Red Mountain. I’ll be in Portland next week and want to come see what all the fuss is about.”
“I think I could squeeze you in,” Otis said with a sly grin.
When the day came, the third Tuesday in June, Otis greeted him at the front door of the tasting room. Rebecca was there, too, thank God. At the very least he could rely on her charm.
“Welcome to Red Mountain,” Otis said to Ledbetter.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” the mediocre journalist said. He wore khakis and loafers. A thin scarf wrapped around his neck.
“Have you tried any Red Mountain wines?”
