In 1987 I bought thirty acres too steep for anyone's tractor and figured that was exactly why nobody else wanted them. I was thirty-one, broke, and certain a hillside that hard would grow something honest.
The driveway switchbacks twice before the house comes into view, and most people arrived a little carsick and laughing about it. We sat everyone at the same scarred oak table, and half asked to come back before they'd finished the glass.
The Hillside Parcel — thirty months in barrel, unfined, unfiltered, unhurried. Everything I know, in one wine.
1989, my third crush: the tractor buried itself to the axle on the hill, so we hand-carried every bin down, forty yards at a stretch, past midnight. Nobody complained once — that was the night I finally belonged to that hill.
Not the name on the label — names retire same as I am. I'd like the hillside remembered for proving patience beats power, one stubborn row at a time.
