“CONFUSION HILL.”
CALIFORNIA, OREGON, WASHINGTON, WYOMING, COLORADO, AND NEBRASKA
November was approaching. I’d been on the road five and a half weeks, driven across fourteen states and spent more than a hundred hours behind the wheel of Carl Vehicle. During that time I had learned many things, but one fact was most prominent in my mind: that no song was in heavier rotation on SiriusXM than “Carry on Wayward Son.”
“Wayward Son” is, of course, the first Top 40 hit by the band that was so exciting they had to name it after Kansas. By my rough count, I had heard that song thirty-seven times since pulling out of Venice, California. And I wanted to hate it, I really did. I wanted to think it was a mediocre pseudo-philosophical piece of lowest common denominator bullshit. But somehow, I had the opposite reaction. Every time I heard it, I loved that goddamn piece of shit a tiny bit more. And that made me hate myself. But it was okay, because when I was listening to that song I didn’t give a shit about anything.
The first time I heard the Stupid Fucking Song That I Love was just after I’d stopped at a peculiar roadside attraction in the Redwood Forest called Confusion Hill. It’s so named because of its most popular attraction, the “gravity house,” a structure built in such a way as to create tilt-induced optical illusions. I was coming off a weeklong wine bender in Napa and Sonoma, so I stayed the hell away and instead paid a visit to the charmingly low-rent gift shop where I picked up a kickass wooden train whistle along with a bright yellow T-shirt that reads CONFUSION HILL: HOME OF THE RARE, ELUSIVE CHIPALOPE.
It was perfect. I was Confusion Hill. And it felt good to admit it. I had no earthly idea what I should be doing with my life. I didn’t know how to feel about my brother’s death. Or Elizabeth or all the other terrible things that seem to just happen. And all the wonderful events that seem to just happen. As far as I can tell, life doesn’t make a whit of goddamn sense. And that’s actually fine. It’s just no one told me. Or maybe that’s something you have to figure out on your own. So yes, suddenly I knew myself. I was Confusion Hill. If you visit, watch out for the chipalope.
The chipalope may sound like a dessert item at a Baskin-Robbins, but it’s actually a mythical creature, part antelope and part chipmunk. According to legend, it’s soft and furry, with a large fluffy tail and a perfect little set of antlers. John, the burly and bearded man who manned the register at the gift shop, swore he’d seen numerous chipalopes thereabouts over the years. He also told me he could read the future using dominoes, and he tried to gauge my interest in becoming a member of the Church of All Worlds, a neo-pagan religion inspired by Robert A. Heinlein’s science fiction novel Stranger in a Strange Land. I told John I’d heard of it before, though I couldn’t recall the specifics.
“I reckon you probably heard of it cuz a’ Charles Manson,” John said.
Ah, yes, that was it. Stranger in a Strange Land. A book from the early ’60s about a Martian raised on Earth. Apparently some people thought it had influenced Manson’s worldview. As did Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, the Beatles’ White Album, and several of the more nightmarish passages from the Book of Revelations—the stuff about the Four Horsemen and the locusts and such. Don’t try to pin Charlie down, man!
Yeah, that Manson sure had a knack for co-opting the creative efforts of others for his own twisted means. Still, I’d argue that he gave “Helter Skelter”—which was written about an amusement park ride; or the coming breakdown of our society, mirroring the fall of the Roman Empire; or coming off drugs; or just wanting to write a “loud, dirty” song that would become one of the inspirations for the punk rock movement, man, it must have sucked to be the Beatles—a serious Q-rating boost. I mean, without Charlie, would we even remember the Beatles anymore? Yes. Yes we would. Charles Manson is a psychopathically delusional idiot. I, on the other hand, am merely a delusional idiot.
“People are always bringing up the Manson connection,” John said ruefully. “He was a bit of an extremist.”
“Little bit,” I concurred. And that Hitler guy probably took things a little too far, huh? And Stalin? What a grump!
“The truth is, the Church of All Worlds is a very peaceful organization. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to tell you more about it.”
Thanks, John, but I’d rather have a rabid chipalope burrow up my ass.
“I’m all good on the spiritual front at the moment,” I said. “More than I can handle, if you want to know the truth. But thank you, man, for even thinking I might be someone worth saving. For now, I’ll just take the T-shirt, the whistle, and, uh, maybe one of those orange Gatorades please. You take American Express?”
The next time I heard the friggin’ Kansas song, I’d just pulled into the parking lot of the Sokol Blosser Winery in Dayton, Oregon, in the heart of the Willamette Valley, where they make some of the best Pinot Noir in the world. When I parked, the song had just begun, so of course you know what I did. I sat there and listened to the whole goofy crap-ass tune before I got out of my car. Then I went inside, got shit-hammered, and wrote in my notepad “This is some of the best goddamn Pinot Noir in the world.” You will discover that I cuss a lot when I’ve been drinking.
The next night, I heard it again when I drove to Dundee and met Jeff Knapp and Eileen Wong of Sokol Blosser at Stumpy’s, one of the more godforsaken dive bars on God’s green earth. Stumpy’s bills itself as the “most bodacious bar in the world.” A strong claim, but I’d learned to take things at face value when you’re far from home. It also bears noting that Eileen and Jeff are both fine human beings, and I am a better person for having spent time with them. We played pool, talked politics, and did $3 pudding shots. Yes, I said shots. Of pudding. Spiked with vodka. For three bucks. America, I am you, and I consume you.
I heard “Wayward Son” again the day I visited Sleight of Hand Cellars in Walla Walla, Washington. I got besnockered there too (are you sensing a theme?), this time with owner Jerry Solomon and winemaker Trey Busch. Both men of valor. They make a delightful red blend, “The Conjurer,” which features Neil Patrick Harris’s likeness on the label. Turns out Neil Patrick, in addition to being a singer, actor, dancer, and extraterrestrial from a planet orbiting Sirius (at least, I assume so), is also a magician of some merit. And he’s a big fan of Sleight of Hand’s wines. So Jerry and Trey, being savvy businessmen, called up this very famous guy one day and asked if they could slap his face onto a wine label. And Neil Patrick Harris apparently told them “slap the fuck away!” (I’m paraphrasing here.) The note in my pad from that day is “get Neil Patrick Harris’s phone number from Trey.” Neil Patrick, if you’re reading this, call me. I’d love to interview you for this book. Also, can I borrow your time machine?
Before he started making award-winning wine, Trey was in the armed forces. He also had a successful career as a buyer in the fashion industry and is one of the world’s leading authorities on Pearl Jam. Given our similarly peripatetic lives, I figured Trey and I would become immediate blood brothers. I’m not sure that actually happened. But if it ever does, I’m totally getting Neil Patrick Harris’s number and calling him up to talk about wine and magic and gaybies and what it’s like to live 2.6 parsecs from home. And goddamnit if I didn’t hear “Wayward Son” again on my cab ride back to my hotel from Sleight of Hand cellars. And the guy didn’t even have satellite radio.
By this point, the observant reader may have concluded that I’ve been drinking while penning this chapter. Congratu-fucking-lations, Enfucklopedia Brown!
MY FAVORITE WASHINGTON STATE WINES
By Trey Busch, Sleight of Hand Cellars head winemaker
DUNHAM CELLARS CAB SAUVIGNON
“This is the wine that first showed me how spectacular wines from Washington State could be. It inspired me to pursue a career in the wine industry. Thank you, Eric Dunham.”
CAYUSE VINEYARDS “EN CHAMBERLIN” SYRAH
“Everything that I love about wines from the rocky region of Walla Walla is encapsulated in this awesome, funky, meaty bottle of Syrah. And the guy who made it is French, so it can’t be bad, right?”
WOODWARD CANYON OLD VINES CABERNET SAUVIGNON
“[Woodward Canyon owner/director of production] Rick Small is The Man when it comes to making Cabernet you can age for years and years. This wine is the epitome of that expertise. It’s the Dan Dunn of Walla Walla.” (This is either a completely undeserved compliment of me, or a massive swipe at Woodward Canyon.)
MARK RYAN WINERY “THE DISSIDENT”
“Killer blend, but let’s be honest, I love this wine because it’s named after a Pearl Jam song . . . just like my winery.”
THE UNDERGROUND WINE PROJECT “IDLE HANDS” SYRAH
“Make no mistake, this is the next cult wine of Washington State. Tremendous, tremendous juice. On top of that, it has the most badass label I’ve ever seen.”
WHEN I MET CHARLES SMITH at his expansive tasting room on South Spokane Street in Walla Walla, the first thing he said was “I hope you’re ready to do some drinking tonight.” And I’ll admit, my first thought was, Dude, you were Food & Wine’s 2009 Winemaker of the Year. I drink for a living and am at the nadir of my emotional life. You sure you want to go there? But shit. The oenophilic orgy that followed knocked me on my ass.
I should have seen it coming. Anyone who makes an excellent Riesling, names it Kung Fu Girl, and only charges $11 for it is clearly answering to a higher power. (You taking notes, Manson?) Smith’s wine empire—which he built from the ground up—consists of several brands, including K Vintners, Charles Smith Wines, Charles & Charles (a partnership with winemaker Charles Bieler), Sixto, Wines of Substance, and Secco Italian Bubbles.
Charles and I come from similar backgrounds. The broken kind. We grew up poor, never knowing where our next meal, let alone next sip of wine was coming from. So neither of us is the spit bucket type.
We drank through Smith’s entire portfolio at the tasting room. There wasn’t a bad wine in the bunch. There were several, however, that were marvelous. The rich black cherry and tobacco notes of the Boom Boom! Syrah. A delicious Cabernet/Syrah blend called “The Creator,” flush with bold flavors of roasted herbs, black olive tapenade, cocoa, and black tea. The 2012 Chateau Smith Cabernet Sauvignon.
As we neared the end his list, I was feeling chummy enough with Charles to mention his striking resemblance to former Van Halen front man Sammy Hagar. Charles said it wasn’t proper to talk about Sammy without drinking some mezcal, so we made our way to his nineteenth-century farmhouse where he launched his first wine label, K Vintners, back in 2001. After a shot of Sombra mezcal and a little weed (which is totally legal in the Evergreen State—whatever, book cops!), we headed down to his ridiculously well stocked wine cellar.
“Pick anything you want,” he said, as I surveyed rows and rows of rare and aged wines that would give Robert Parker one of those boners from the Cialis commercials that lasts seventy-two hours and requires medical attention. It was like that moment in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when Gene Wilder lets the kids into the room where everything is made of candy.
“If there were some terrible catastrophe here and you could only save one of these bottles, which one would it be?” I asked.
“The biggest one. I’m thirsty.” He was resting his hand upon an Imperial bottle—an Imperial bottle is also known as a Methuselah and contains the equivalent of two Jeroboams, or eight standard 750 ml bottles of wine—of some decades-old Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It felt like a dare. A quintuple dog dare. I just couldn’t do it. Generosity is one thing. Getting someone to uncork a bottle worth several thousand dollars is another.
I told Charles I’d rather get some variety and since he knew his own cellar best, he should choose. He grabbed three far more portable bottles of Bordeaux to take with us to dinner. They were, as follows . . .
1964 Chateau Pichon Lalande
1966 Chateau Figeac
1982 Chateau Cantemerle
So let’s just say that dinner—at a wonderful little Walla Walla eatery called Brasserie Four—was special. And by special, I mean that Charles Smith and I drank some of the best wine anyone’s ever poured down their gullet.
The talk ranged from Smith’s Horatio Alger-esque rise from barely employed rock band manager to the top of the wine world food chain to the fact that Gary Leon Ridgway—the notorious Green River Killer—was interned nearby at the Washington State Penitentiary. This led to a long discussion of serial killers. Smith was particularly fascinated by Elizabeth Bathory, a.k.a. “the Blood Countess,” who tortured and killed hundreds of girls in the late 1500s. (I’m more an Albert Fish man myself. What he lacked in numbers, he made up for in style.) Other topics touched upon included ’80s synth pop, Danish women’s hands, and the ins and outs of various schools of street fighting. Did I mention that marijuana is legal in Washington?
After dinner, though it was an absolutely terrible idea in retrospect, we tottered down the street to the Green Lantern. Take one guess what my drunk ass put on the jukebox. It’s by Kansas.
I CARRIED ON MY WAYWARD way through Idaho and Montana. While driving through Yellowstone National Park, I saw a huge bison taking a leisurely stroll along the side of the road. Bison are a breathtaking thing to witness up close. Or at least the guy in the SUV in front of me thought so, because he got out of the vehicle, walked right up to the giant beast with a camera, and started snapping photos like he was Terry Richardson. I say this because the bison wasn’t wearing any clothes and seemed a little uncomfortable with the whole thing.
Now, I’ll admit that my understanding of the behavioral patterns of the American buffalo is limited. But even I know that cozying up to one in the wild is a startlingly stupid idea. Even if it did happen to bear a resemblance to Kate Upton. (It did not.) Fortunately, this particular bison had either already reached its tourist-pulverizing quota for the day, or was a vegan, or just couldn’t be bothered to gore anyone just now, and kept on lumbering down the road.
Turns out, buffalo aren’t all that bright. Indeed, centuries ago, North American Indians used to hunt and kill the big dumb furry creatures en masse by herding them over cliffs. Such death-by-gravity sites became known as buffalo jumps. And so did the only winery in Cody, Wyoming. What’s that? You’ve never heard of the Buffalo Jump Winery? Well that only makes sense. It’s in goddamn Wyoming!
Buffalo Jump Winery is operated in the “Rodeo Capital of the World” by the husband-and-wife team of Beckie Tilden and Scott Wagner. Their selection of wines is better than one might expect, primarily because they source their grapes from California, Oregon, and Washington. (I would have to wait a while before sampling any 100 percent Wyoming-made vino.) One of only four wineries in Wyoming, Buffalo Jump produces about three thousand cases a year, almost all of which are sold and consumed in our nation’s least populous state.
“Wyoming is a beer and shots state,” Scott Wagner told me, “so we have to be careful not to be snooty about wine around here.” He wasn’t kidding either—the cheese plate they gave me to accompany their 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve was devoid of Époisses de Bourgogne. And the hardship of having to use a plastic knife to spread Brie on a crumbly cracker gave me a real appreciation of how difficult life must have been for the settlers back in Wild West times.
Wyoming is also home to what is believed to be the world’s most successful—and only—cowboy chocolatier. His name is Tim Kellogg, and he makes these exquisite chocolates in his shop in Meeteetse, a don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it town on Highway 20 between Where the Fuck Am I? and Goddamn, Isn’t It Colorado Yet? The only reason I even knew to look out for the cowboy chocolatier is that Scott and Beckie at Buffalo Jump had raved about the guy. And with good reason—those chocolates are even better than Stumpy’s pudding shots.
I gotta admit that when I pulled into the place I was actually a little disappointed that my theme song wasn’t playing. I was visiting a cowboy chocolatier in Wyoming for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get much more wayward than that. I decided that perhaps the curse was broken. Then, no more than three minutes after pulling out onto the highway again, there it was, that familiar a cappella vocal intro. Goddamnit, Kansas, you’re my only friend.
I cruised east to Cheyenne, then merged onto 85 North and drove that seventy miles to an itty-bitty outpost in Goshen County called Huntley, which is spittin’ distance from the Nebraska border. For the record, many Wyomingites take considerable pleasure in hocking loogies at their neighbors to the east. The last time a census was taken, in 2010, the population of Huntley was 30. There’s a winery in Huntley called Table Mountain. As I mentioned earlier, Wyoming only has but four wineries. So I figured I had to stop and see the place if I was in the neighborhood.
The Zimmerer family farm was established in 1926. Four generations have worked the soil, grown crops, and kept the place solvent through some tough times (the Great Depression, the Reagan administration, dubstep). Over the past ninety years, the Zimmerer farm has seen sugar beets, beans, alfalfa, corn, and cattle.
In 2001, young Patrick Zimmerer completed his senior thesis project at the University of Wyoming on establishing vineyards in the Equality State. As part of what he described as a “research project gone wild,” Patrick convinced his family to plant a small vineyard. A mere three hundred vines. A few years later, he and his sister entered a business plan for a winery into competition at the university and won $10,000. The “Home of the Wyo Wine” was born.
Bear in mind that growing grapes in southeast Wyoming is a gotdamn sumbitch. But despite the myriad challenges—among them selecting varietals that stand a fighting chance and convincing sentient human beings to drink Wyoming-made wine—Table Mountain Vineyards has only expanded over the last decade and a half. They now have nearly ten acres planted with ten thousand vines yielding cold-hardy hybrid grapes capable of standing up to Mother Nature on even her worst bad-hair days. We’re talking subzero temperatures in winter, scorching heat in the dog days, relentless high winds, and unpredictable precipitation. The hybrids they grow there include:
Frontenac
Like many hybrids (and at least one ex-girlfriend), Frontenac is the result of the extensive crossbreeding research done by scientists at the University of Minnesota. It’s primarily used in dry reds, Rosé, and port.
Frontenac Gris
The white version of Frontenac. Doesn’t get pulled over by the cops as much.
Valiant
Blue grapes traditionally used to make jams and jellies. Pat Zimmerer is using it in wine because he’s an ornery cuss.
Marcheal Foch
A French hybrid, believed to be a cross of Goldriesling (itself an intraspecific cross of Riesling and Courtiller Musqué) with a Vitis riparia–Vitis rupestris cross. In other words, fucking confusing.
Elvira
Medium-sized green berries created by mixing Vitis labrusca with a big-breasted Mistress of the Dark.
Marquette
Also developed at the University of Minnesota, it’s a cross between two other hybrids, MN 1094 and Ravat 262. Not to be confused with Coldplay, which is a cross between Radiohead and Kenny G.
Farming is a tough business, especially for a family competing with conglomerates. But when the big boys came through offering cash for their land, the Zimmerers held out. Because this is Wyoming, dammit. Their state mammal is the bison, their state reptile is the horned toad, and their state fish is the cutthroat trout. Pat planted vines in a place where most folks had never had a glass of wine before. And now, if you stop by his tasting room on any given weekend, you’ll find some straight-up working cowboys in there sipping on Rosé. They’re not just in business, they’re making history.
I, on the other hand, was making a different sort of history as the guy who had lied about himself and his abilities to more U.S. winemakers than any other. The miles and winery visits had begun to seriously pile up, and as they did, so did my anxiety about my ability and/or continued desire to transform myself into the leading authority on wine in America. At every stop along the way, I’d tell anyone who’d listen about my ambitious plan for achieving complete oenophilic omnipotence, and virtually everyone had the same basic reaction—what I was doing was amazing! And I was an extraordinary human being for doing it.
Man, it felt good when they said that. At first, anyway. Usually after they said that, though, they’d go on to say a bunch of stuff about phenolics and racking and other tedious winemakery gobbledygook that made my eyes glaze over . . . especially after I’d been driving for six hours and had thrown back a couple glasses of whatever it is they were pouring.
It was only an hour’s drive from Huntley, Wyoming, to my next destination—Sonoma-based winemaker Sam Sebastiani’s vacation home in Bayard, Nebraska—but boy did I ever do a hell of a lot of soul-searching out there on US 26 East. What the hell are phenolics anyway? I honestly didn’t have a clue. What I did know was that anyone who actually knew anything about wine could probably tell you what a goddamn phenol is. Yet after nearly two months of driving all over the United States, supposedly doing serious wine research, I could not. Phenolics obviously played an important role in winemaking because I’d heard numerous winemakers mention them. I just hadn’t bothered to ask out of . . . out of what? Embarrassment? Laziness? Indifference? What the fuck had I actually been doing out there that whole time besides driving, jerking off, feeling sorry for myself, and getting wasted? (Usually in that order.)
Halfway through my trip, my grasp on the fundamentals of wine production remained tenuous at best. Not only was I in the dark about phenolics, I also knew dick about fining, residual sugar, degorgement, malo-lactic fermentation, brix, and pH levels. And don’t get me started on how uninformed I was about racking. I’d learned precisely one thing about racking—that it had nothing to do with boobs. And that implying that it does will get you a nice, crisp smack in the face.
Still, here I was, halfway across the country. It was a little late to ask for a do-over. Unfortunately it was also too late in the game to start querying folks about the fundamentals. It reminded me of that awful moment of every school year when I realized I had screwed up so badly that the best I could hope for if I busted my ass all day and night was a C+.
Impostor syndrome is the condition where successful people are convinced that deep down they are frauds who don’t deserve the triumphs they have earned. I was beginning to think I suffered from Reverse Impostor syndrome—I knew I was completely full of shit, yet I felt I deserved complimentary stays at vineyards and fancy dinners and happily accepted people’s praise when I told them my aim was to become the leading expert on American wine.
As I drove into Bayard, the truth hit me hard: I had set myself a preposterous goal. And I’d encountered toddlers at some of the vineyards who knew more about grapes than I ever will. But my date with destiny at Pebble Beach loomed in the distance nonetheless. As did the deadline for this book. So I made a decision. I knew how to fix this. It was time for complete commitment. Enough with the halfhearted approach to becoming America’s leading wine expert. If I wanted that C+, I was going to have to man up. I would become an expert all right. In fact, I would become the leading expert. I would become the leading expert on talking about becoming a wine expert. This was something I knew I could accomplish. Because I was already doing an incredible job of it. Welcome to life on Confusion Hill.