Seventeen
Trinity
G rapevines roll out in neat rows before me, coating the hillsides in shades of green against the backdrop of Black Bear Lake. Greyson’s boots crunch on the gravel as he leads us into the world beyond the visitor’s center. I inhale deeply—the barely sweet tang of the tiny, ripening fruit mingling with earthy undertones—and exchange a glance with Liz, who mirrors my wide-eyed wonder.
“Right here,” Greyson says, stopping beside a row of pinot grigio vines, “is where it all began for my family.” He gestures to the gnarled trunks, their roots deep and intricate. “Eight generations back, my ancestors settled here as gold miners and fur trappers, and they built this ranch and farm to sustain them. And farm they did, for three generations.”
I trail a hand over the leaves, feeling the sun-warmed skin of a grape between my fingers. It’s as if I can touch the past, the struggles and triumphs soaked into the soil beneath my feet.
“The vines in this area are the original to land,” Greyson explains. “They were planted for personal enjoyment. I don’t think my ancestors ever envisioned what this is today.”
“Wow,” Liz murmurs.
We stroll deeper into the greenery, the clusters of grapes hanging heavy and inviting. The air is laced with the promise of fermentation, of transformation from simple fruit to complex elixir.
“Most folks think of cabernet sauvignon and merlot when it comes to BC’s reds,” Greyson says, plucking a leaf and twirling it between his fingers. “But there’s a quiet revolution happening. Malbec is not as famous, but it’s on the rise.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he confirms. “It may not have the name recognition yet, but trust me, the time is coming.”
I make a mental note to explore more malbec wines.
As we wander through the rows, I’m caught up in the romance of it all—the legacy, the land, and the lure of an undiscovered favorite waiting to be uncorked.
“These malbec grapes,” Greyson says, pausing to gesture to the delicate clusters, “have their roots in French soil. They’re flourishing here, against all odds.”
I reach out, brushing my fingers along early green fruit, surprised by its size—such power in such a tiny package.
“Sensitive little things, aren’t they?” Liz comments.
“Very,” Greyson confirms. “Frost, rot, pests—they can devastate a crop. And grapes need the long, warm growing season we get here in BC to truly shine.” He plucks one from the vine, holding it up to the light. Its skin is almost translucent.
“High altitudes are their friend,” he continues, tossing the grape into his mouth. “This is our first crop to harvest, and they become the star of a single-varietal wine.”
“Seems like they’ve found their second home,” I muse. I’m fascinated by these finicky fruits and the tenacity required to coax them into full-bodied reds.
“Exactly,” Greyson says, leading us down another row. “British Columbia has the perfect mix for malbec—the soil, the weather patterns, even the slope of the land. All these factors contribute to the quality of the wine.”
“Like a recipe,” Liz adds.
Greyson smiles. “Right. You need all the ingredients to be just so. Our climate gives the grapes enough sun, but not too much. The lake regulates temperature, and the altitude…” He stops, pointing up to where the vineyard climbs the hillside. “It’s high enough to make a difference without stressing the vines.”
“Seems like a delicate balance,” I say.
“Winemaking is part art, part science,” Greyson agrees. “But when you get it right, it’s magic.”
We look out across the land as Greyson explains that the grapes for white wines need much more heat, so they have land on the east side of the lake where they grow those varietals.
“You sound like you wish you worked the vineyard rather than being a doctor,” I note.
Greyson shrugs. “I appreciate the room in my life for both. I grew up here, but always knew I wanted to become a doctor. I love the vineyard and all that we do…” He looks over his shoulder and leans in close. “But I love being able to leave and not worry about fire season, early frosts, the lack of rain, too much rain, and all the other things that kept my father and now Tarryn up at night.”
“And you enjoy your job,” I add. “That helps too.”
Greyson grins. “Let’s head this way.” He gestures toward the barns, and we head that way. “Here’s where the transformation begins.” Greyson points out the containers. “First, we destem the grapes. Then we crush them gently to break the skins without damaging the seeds. That’s where the magic starts—the juice.”
“When do you pick your grapes?” Liz asks .
“In the fall,” he explains. “The grape harvest starts in late August but finishes in October. It just depends on the grape. Whites are late summer. Reds go into the fall.”
We look at the shiny machinery, ready and waiting for fruit.
“Can’t wait to see—and taste—the final product,” Liz says.
“Patience,” Greyson says with a wink. “That’s another key ingredient in good winemaking.”
“Good thing patience is one of my virtues,” Liz quips, and I chuckle.
“Mine, not so much,” I admit. Though today, surrounded by the beauty of the vineyards and the promise of what’s to come, I’m content to wait, to savor each moment. After all, if the journey of these grapes teaches anything, it’s that some things are worth waiting for.
“In the old days,” Greyson explains, “they used to step on the grapes with bare feet. It was called grape stomping or grape-treading. We offer that at the crush celebration.”
Liz’s eyes widen, and she gives me an excited look.
“We host that as a fundraiser every year after all the grapes are picked. You’ll have to come,” Greyson says.
“Count me in,” Liz agrees.
“Sounds…squishy,” I comment, picturing the sticky juice staining our feet.
“Very,” Greyson confirms with a chuckle. “But these days, most winemakers, including us, use machines to destem and crush the grapes.”
“Less romantic, but I bet it’s more hygienic,” Liz remarks, and we all share a laugh.
“Exactly.” Greyson nods. “And now, for fermentation and aging.” He walks us over to a row of large aluminum tanks that glint under the overhead lights. “After crushing, we add yeast, which turns the natural sugars in the grape juice into alcohol.”
“Science in action…” I lean closer to the tanks, the faintest hi nt of yeast in the air.
“For malbec, especially, reassembly is often essential,” Greyson continues. “It’s all about extracting the good stuff from the grape skins to give the wine its rich color and flavor.”
“Reassembly?” Liz queries.
“Think of it as a mixing process,” Greyson explains. “It ensures the juice stays in contact with the skins. That’s where so much of a wine’s character comes from.”
“Like steeping tea to get the perfect flavor,” I suggest.
Greyson nods approvingly. “Exactly like that,” he says, and I feel a surge of pride.
“Can’t wait to see what kind of ‘tea’ you’ve brewed up here,” Liz jokes.
Greyson rolls his eyes, and we follow him to the next area.
“Here we are,” he announces, his voice echoing slightly off the high ceiling. He moves to a stainless-steel vat and gestures toward a pump attached to its side. “To finish reassembly, this pump draws the liquid from the bottom and showers it over the top layer of skins and seeds.”
We stare up at the vat doing its job.
“We’re enriching the wine. Initially, we do this twice daily,” Greyson continues, leading us around the vat to show the even distribution of color. “As fermentation progresses, the frequency decreases. We need less intervention and more nature taking its course.”
The fermentation vats give way to a dark, cool area with rows of oak barrels, and the air fills with a heady blend of wood and wine. Greyson’s boots echo on the stone floor as he leads us to the heart of the aging room.
“Here,” he gestures grandly, “is where our wine takes its final form before meeting your glass.”
I scan the burnished rows, each barrel stenciled with dates and notes in looping script.
“Oak barrels,” Greyson explains, his fingers brushing the nearest cask, “play a critical role in shaping the final character of our malbec. We’ve shifted this phase to stainless-steel barrels for many of our white wines.”
He taps the barrel, and it sounds a solid, promising thud. “Think of them as a finishing school for the wine,” he says. “After the tumultuous fermenting phase, this is where our malbec learns sophistication.”
“Is that why wine connoisseurs always talk about oaky flavors?” Liz asks.
“Yes!” Greyson nods. “These barrels introduce subtle flavors and aromas. They allow just enough oxygen to interact with the wine, softening it and giving it a smoother finish.”
“The balancing act continues,” I say.
“Always,” Greyson affirms. “It’s about enhancing, not masking. The true art is in the subtlety.”
As we walk down the row, Greyson stops beside a barrel marked with a harvest date from four years ago.
“I thought you said this was the first harvest year for the malbec?” Liz asks.
“It is,” Greyson replies, pointing to a small notation on the card. “This mark tells you it’s our pinot variety.” He gestures toward another row, then to the barrel beside it. “And this one is a pinot gris. Those grapes come from our land on the other side of the lake, where the sun exposure is different. The whites thrive in that microclimate.”
Nearby, a man stands next to a small tractor equipped with a massive two-pronged fork.
“Chris is here to do his job,” Greyson says. “Let’s step back and watch.”
Chris starts up the tractor and moves toward a group of barrels. With careful precision, he slides the fork beneath one and lifts it, rotating the barrel as he transfers it to a different stack.
“Every barrel in this cave is turned every other week,” Greyson explains.
I take in the sheer number of barrels stretching into the dimly lit depths of the cave. “That’s a lot of work,” I murmur .
“But it’s all worth it in the end,” Greyson assures us as he leads us to the tasting room. He beckons us to a high counter, where empty glasses await. With a practiced hand, he selects a bottle, peels away the foil, and uncorks it with a satisfying pop. The deep, rich aroma of merlot unfolds as he pours.
“Try this,” he invites, pushing a glass toward each of us. “Tell me what you find.”
I lift my glass, the ruby liquid swirling with promise. I take a sip, hold it on my tongue, and search for something beyond the obvious.
Liz beats me to the punch. “Cherry! There’s definitely cherry here.”
“Good palate,” Greyson praises before turning his gaze to me, expectant.
“Chocolate,” I venture after another sip, the dark and sweet notes dancing together.
“Nice catch,” Greyson says with an approving nod. Those earlier hints of spice now have context, their complexity revealed.
He pulls a card from behind the counter, glancing down at the list printed on it. “You’re both right,” he confirms. “Those are two signature notes among others. But wine tasting is as much about personal experience as it is about flavor profiles.”
I can’t help but feel a little victorious, having impressed our knowledgeable host. A small smile plays across his lips as if he’s pleased by our engagement, or maybe it’s just the wine talking. I swirl the wine in my glass, watching it coat the sides like silk. The bouquet of aromas hits me again, this time with a new layer of complexity.
Greyson’s eyes are keen as they watch our reactions, his own glass untouched. “BC’s wines have a bright future,” he muses, gazing out the window toward the sprawling vines. “It’s all about capturing the essence of this land, the specific conditions that nurture these grapes.”
I nod, understanding now how every element from soil to sky leaves its fingerprint on the wine .
“Every year tells a new story,” Greyson adds. “And we’re just beginning to scratch the surface of what’s possible here.”
He turns and lifts his glass high.
“Cheers,” we chorus, our glasses chiming together in toast.
Greyson smiles broadly, and his eyes linger on mine as he sips.