
Ecstatic
that a winery I wanted to visit agreed to give
me a tour on a moment’s notice, I took flight
in a rented Chevy Cavalier, beelining it for
Ventura Highway. I possessed directions that
made me more than a little uneasy, but also an
overpowering optimism that this pit stop en route
to Big Sur was an ideal start to my California
trip.
I
had flown in the night before from Chicago via
Phoenix, an adventure in its own right. As I
intended to get in some camping, I was flying
with a day pack stuffed impossibly tight; attached
to it (by a carabineer, of course, to show everyone
how serious an outdoorsman I was) was my trusty,
sun-faded first aid kit. After checking in these
items, I suddenly began suffering my first bout
of airport paranoia, trembling with the fear
that something was hiding somewhere in the dozens
of folds and pockets of the first aid kit—an
eight-year-old prescription or other incriminating
object. Or worse yet, if airport security were
to actually try to empty the day pack,
they were sure to find my all-important Leatherman
folding pocket knife. Just what I need, I thought,
to spend my vacation behind bars explaining to
the new Gestapo thought police that I really
was going camping, hence the reason for such
oddities as waterproof matches, surgical blades,
and a snake-bite kit. But after a couple of beers
at the bar and another chapter of A Confederacy
of Dunces, I freely boarded the plane (after
being told that I, among a few others, was “selected”
for an additional security search…gee, what an
honor).
The relatively open stretches
of the endless southern Californian highways constituted
quite a contrast to the stuffiness of the airport.
Beckmen Vineyards is located in Los Olivos in Santa
Barbara County, a scenic, serene, and slightly
mountainous area only recently gaining respect
for its wines. In addition to grapes, Beckmen grows
pears, olives, apples, and a host of other agricultural
goods on their land.
But
I was there for the fabulous wines they craft.
They pride themselves on producing Rhone varieties—that
is, grapes grown in the Rhone River Valley in
the south of France. These grape varieties are Grenache and Syrah, most
notably, for red wines, and Grenache blanc,
Rousanne, and Viognier for white.
They might sound unfamiliar owing to their relative
obscurity in California as a whole, but the Santa
Barbara Vintner’s Association boasts numerous
esteemed Rhone-inspired wineries.
In
fact, Beckmen is going to stop making Chardonnay,
ripping out these vines and replacing them with
more Rhone grapes (what else?). Upon hearing
this, I was surprised and disappointed. I’d had
a couple of vintages of their Chardonnay and
it was always well-made, and it was a veritable
bargain for the $15 price tag. But my initial
reaction quickly evolved into respect for the
decision: They were abandoning something they
did well because they saw Chardonnay as “passé”
and sought to pioneer their own, new way. (If
this point isn’t hitting home, imagine Wendy’s
taking French fries off the menu and substituting
egg rolls: It might work, it might not, but the
fries were a sure thing.)
Despite
Beckmen’s emphasis on Rhone wines, my favorite
is their Cabernet, which is a Bordeaux grape.
I shared this with my tour guide Anna, who had
taken me to the tasting room. “There are only
three of us here today, otherwise you’d get the
full tour,” she apologized.
“Not
to worry, I have many a mile to drive yet today,”
l responded, avoiding the more rudely honest
reply of “Once you’ve seen one {winery, dark
barrel-filled cellar, or spotless stainless steel
fermenter}, you’ve seen them all”. A drive around
the property would certainly prove fruitful,
with the picturesque surroundings. I added, “This
is the first American winery I have visited,
so I’m glad you had me, considering the short
notice.”
From
this remark, Anna took the lead in our conversation,
asking me where else I’d visited wineries (Spain,
Chile, and Argentina), how I came to know Beckmen
(the wine store where I worked), what else I
hoped to do while vacationing here (camping),
and so on. Her skill at managing the tasting
room showed as she set up a spit-bucket (it was 10:30
in the morning), the bottles to try, a vineyard
map, and a packet containing tasting notes, winemaking
information, and pricing. As she finished setting
up, she rolled right into a brief history of
the property, her personal favorites, and Beckmen’s
plans for the future.
I
personally think tasting notes make for boring
reading, so for the most part I’ll spare you
mine. Suffice to say that Beckmen excels at growing
different—even obscure—grape varieties. They
were the first winery in California to bottle
a wine made entirely from the Grenache blanc grape.
Anna’s favorite white was the neatly nuanced
Rousanne, and an excellent fruity-but-dry Grenache
rosé ensued. A fantastic blend, called “Cuvee
la Bec”, followed; finishing the list were a
pair of Syrahs and Cabernets.
“The
consistently high quality Cabs are undeniably
what inspired me to call you up,” I told her.
She confidently (and correctly, I soon found
out) informed me that the next vintages will
be even better. The previous vintages, she detailed,
contained a small percent of grapes they purchased,
but from here on out it’s all estate-grown grapes
only. My skepticism was quickly washed away upon
tasting the next vintage. And to think not too
long ago, people laughed at the idea of trying
to grow Cabernet in SANTA BARBARA.
Our exchange began digressing
a bit, signaling that it was about time to finish
our business. She made me promise to email her
any article I wrote about my time in California,
whether or not I mentioned Beckmen. “I will, and
you will be,” I assured her. I poked around their
tasting room, not only scanning their wares for
a souvenir but also contemplating my wine purchases.
I grabbed an understated t-shirt to go with one
bottle of “Purisima vineyard” Cab, one of the Grenache
blanc, and one of the Grenache rosé. To go with
them Anna gave me a map of area wineries (the spirit
is much more towards mutual support than competition
between local wineries).
I
was momentarily tempted to visit another winery,
but I was itching to start my trek to Big Sur,
and I DEFINITELY wanted to have some daylight
by which to drive Highway 1 along the Pacific
coast for the first time. My timing was right
on, and the epic drive along Highway 1 constituted
a perfect segue into the outdoors part
of my trip to explore more of this Golden State.
Only one bottle survived the
rest of my trip, and this was only by chance. The
Cab I drank in Big Sur the same night I bought
it, mere yards from the Pacific Ocean, popping
the cork as the sun set. The Grenache blanc died
a deliciously slow death the following night at
a campsite called Bother’s Gap, as I pondered the
mysterious histories of a myriad stars.
But
mere minutes before I was about to pair the Grenache
rosé with some trail mix and smoked-gouda-stuffed
pita bread toasted over the campfire, I heard
heavy yet soft footsteps behind me. I immediately
thought, “You know, that sounds just like what
a bear would sound like walking through the woods,
or say, through this very campsite, at this very
moment.” I turned, and my suspicions were confirmed:
A big stinky black bear was dropping by to see
what was for dinner.
“Well now,” I thought, “I NEED
TO ACT PROPERLY.” So I stuck two 3-foot-long branches
in the fire, put the food back in the cooler, and
put the cooler back inside the campsite’s bear
box. I returned to my campfire, keeping it between
It and Me. I leaned over and started blowing on
the coals, figuring the fire was the ONE THING
persuading the bear to move along, despite the
enticing aroma of People Food. I then stood up,
with my arms fully extended, holding my sorry excuses
for torches as high as possible. The bear didn’t
so much as move. I expected at this point that
the bear would keel over, laughing hysterically
at how comic my defensive actions must have looked.
Instead, after it studied me for a couple of minutes,
an eternity of uncertainty for me, it crawled slowly
along. Much to my surprise, my ursine companion
did not return, and I went to bed hungry.
Believe
it or not, I actually slept well that night.
The memories of the bear encounter, winery tour,
and California sunsets wouldn’t flood me again
until my last bottle of Beckmen wine flowed after
I returned to my safe and sound Chicago home.
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