Down a long dusty road, through miles of hills and oak trees, I made my way. The Garmin Chick told me to turn here and there, and I assure you, I wouldn’t have made it there or back without her. Thank goodness she knew where we were going. The California drought has left everything a burnt brown with rain needed in the worst way.
Dust. Gravel. Washboard roads. Rusted barbed wire fences. I drove up a drive, arriving at two barns in the middle of a vineyard. No fancy tasting room. Just roll up doors on two weathered buildings. Feeling familiar to me, we entered a door marked “Tasting Room”.
Inside were the workings of a real winery. Forklift. Spider webs. Grape crusher. Large stainless fermentation tanks. Cute plastic 1/2 ton grape bins, larger than the ones we saw the day before. No vat of dry ice or anything else so ridiculous. A real farm. On the other side of the dimly lit barn on a homemade bar, sat six bottles of wine. Behind the bar stood a 70-Something man, obviously invested in his business. Totally committed to everything about HIS business.
Dave Caparone. Owner and operator of Caparone Vineyard and Winery. Simply Caparone online. Another couple was just finishing a tasting. Visitors from Arizona, we exchanged small talk about desert life while they completed their purchase. Now, it was our turn.
No tasting fee. No fluff. No t-shirts or other trinkets for sale. Just six bottles of wine in a dusty barn. Either you like them or you don’t. It didn’t seem to matter much to him whether you did or didn’t. Proudly, he stood behind them. He liked them. That’s all that really mattered.
As stated yesterday, I’m not a wine drinker. Never was. Didn’t think I ever would be. But, in this little barn, with this very quiet farmer and winemaker, I repeatedly found myself wanting another taste. Six amazing wines that were unfined and unfiltered. Made from very old Italian varietals he grew on his ranch with his own two hands.
Mr. Caparone explained that in the late 70’s, he started playing around with wines. He planted vineyards. He and his son did all the work themselves, other than pruning and harvest. Slowly his wine started selling. An old broken down forklift was replaced with a better one. This was his ranch. His winery. In those bottles of wine, his life.
To say that these were the best wines I’ve ever tasted in my life would be a true statement. Remember, I don’t like the stuff, having little experience in the finer side of wine tasting. All six varietals were different, one to the next. Each one told their own little story. In just a sip, I could taste the hours that went into tractor driving, worry, physical work, and sweat. Just he and his son made them all. Year after year, it was their hard work. Not any sort of privilege involved with that. I assure you, few would do the jobs a farmer does. I know.
It was hard to learn much about this man behind the bar. No nonsense, for sure. A quiet gentleman. If you are ever lucky enough to meet him, you’ll understand. He could have told me any story he wanted and I would’ve believed him. But, he didn’t tell any tales.
“Ah, a farm girl. Do you drive tractor?” He had me at that. Yes. I drive tractor and forklift, too. I know how to sucker a vine, pick up pruned thick wood, and check degrees of brix (sugar content of an aqueous solution) in anticipation of harvest. Many parts of my farm experiences overlapped with his. Yes. A farm girl forever.
I left with some of his wine. I can’t wait to enjoy a bottle on a winter’s day. It will take me back to a most perfect autumn at the coast.