The Granger Effect in Washington Wine Country

Recently my wife Donna and I returned from a tour of the Yakima Valley Wine Country. We were accompanied by my brother Mike and his wife Diana, who were visiting from Palm Desert, California, home of the great dry wines. Wines like Barrendale Beaujolais, Chateau de Cactus Chardonnay, and Scorched Vine Shiraz I mean, we’re talking dry.

But, all seriousness aside, three things stood out during our journey through the Yakima Valley.

First, there really is a Washington Wine Country! While we had approached this trip with the unspoken assumption that it would be a great excuse to engage in the egregious yet elegant consumption of wine, we soon discovered that there are a plethora (a word which came to me in a vision following my 67th tasting of Merlot) of excellent vineyards and wineries right here in our own back yard. (Well, I suppose that might be “front yard” if you’re looking south towards California’s famed—yet soon to be eclipsed!—Napa Valley.)

Here are a few of my favorite discoveries: Merlots from Bridgman, Silver Lake, and Hogue (and you thought I was kidding about the 67 tastings); Pinot Noir from Columbia Crest; Kiona’s Lemberger; a treat called Capizimo (a mixture of Cabernet, Pinot Noir, Zinfandel, and Merlot, hence the name) from Wineglass Cellars; Black Muscat from a charming new little winery named Piety Flats; and a rogue white wine called Viognier produced by Tefft Cellars. This reporter, as you may have gathered by now, is not much of a white wine aficionado. But the Viognier snuck up on me and picked my palate’s pocket like a Democrat at tax time. Besides, all four of us liked Tefft Cellars the best. Great wines. Cool logo (it’s a heron, of course).

Suggestions for the merriest of wining expeditions: First, go to a major winery (like Columbia Crest) which offers guided tours showing how wine is made. Then, seek out the smaller wineries. Often you’ll find the owner/operator right there behind the counter pouring for the tastings. And he or she will be more than happy to tell how and why they stomped their way into the wine business. You’ll get to know a lot of good folks, and occasionally learn some things about yourself.

Which brings me to the second thing that stood out about our wine-ward sojourn.

It never ceases to amaze me that Mike, Diana, Donna and I have such a great time together. I mean, who’da thunk it? Mike is the oldest of we three Thuney brothers, with me being the youngest. A nine-year gulf separates the two of us, so we had little to do with each other growing up.

Even as adults, we went our separate ways socially, politically, and philosophically: Mike the quintessential conservative, hard-working Republican family man; me the crusading liberal, plying various trades, often lost at sea. Yet now, in our allegedly mature years, connected by the strange tides of life, we share many of the same observations and convictions (except for stuff like gay rights and marriage – I still have to work on Mike a bit there).

And, as we sat together at the end of our visit to the Wine Country smoking cigars and sipping (you guessed it) Merlot, regaling my 21-year-old daughter Rachel with worldly “wisdom,” it struck me for the 7,453rd time what a rare and precious combination family and friendship can be. Sort of like Cabmerlot. That’s a wine joke.

As for Donna and Diana? Well, one is in banking, the other recently retired from the mortgage game. You might call them well grounded. Nevertheless, both are “blessed” with husbands who, although intellectual geniuses, genteel humanitarians, and wine connoisseurs in their own right, might be oddly misconstrued as pompous, arrogant blowhards with a penchant for getting lost in towns like Toppenish, Sunnyside, and Zillah.

Which calls to mind stand-out point number three . . .

As the director of a study group (CONTACT – the Center for Ontological Action) which examines things paranormal, existential, and metaphysical, my next course of action will be to assemble a team of crack investigators to locate the legendary yet chimerical town of Granger, Washington.

Throughout the Yakima Valley, whenever Mike and I got “lost” (yeah, like that could ever happen!), mysterious signs pointed to “Granger Five Miles Ahead,” “Granger, Turn Left Here,” “Granger, Right at Fork in Road,” “Thank You for Visiting Granger.” Yet we never found Granger. Imitating the Sirens of ancient Greece, Granger beckoned us suggestively off course. Like a Republican foreign policy, Granger never actually appeared, merely led us astray.

Granger mocked Mike and I, made us a laughingstock among the backseat-driving womenfolk. But not for long! Soon enough, we found our way out of the Yakima Valley to Ellensburg, then on through Seattle to Port Townsend. Whereupon we got lost looking for an Italian restaurant. It was the Granger Effect all over again, I tellya!

Oh well, once Donna and Diana safely guided us to Lanza’s, there was plenty of Merlot to be had with our delicious spaghetti. Dry, yet zesty. The wine, I mean. §