At two o'clock every Saturday, Johnny Ringo dies outside of our tasting room. Welcome to Arizona wine. Where cattle once roamed grows rows of grapevines. In hay barns there are French oak barrels and stainless steel tanks. And, in a rugged mountain mining town folks swirl wine in Riedel glassware under the watchful gaze of what appears to be a statue of the the Hindu God Ganesha. In a state known for high noon, cactus, and the most masgestic hole in the ground you have ever seen, wine is begining to assert its presence. Not that it is new here. Spanish missionaries where making wine here before Father Junipero Serra spread his mustard seeds up California's coast. We had a nice little industry going here until Prohibition nearly rubbed it out (thanks Uncle Sam!). But, like Lord Darrell Duppa naming a burgeoning city Phoenix because it rose form the ashes of an ancient settlement, Arizona wine is on the rise.
The modern industry took root some 25 years ago, just a few wild men bucking convetion. Wine, in Arizona? Get a sraitjacket and the Thorazine! As a new generation of wine makers and growers step up to the task, we find people slower to jab us with the needle. Considering studies showing a correlation between red wine and lower instances of mental illness I should think so. Right now there is acreage in all three growing regions being prepared for new plantings, most due to be planted in the next month. Architects from established wine regions are making the trips down dusty roads to help plan the construction of new wineries. Winemaking students from Oregon to Australia are sending resumes for internships. Critics are starting to put sections in their magazines and books for Arizona that are no longer named "Other". Arizona wine is growing. It is an exciting time.
But what about poor Johnny Ringo? Who actually died on the other side of Willcox's valley not too far from some modern vineyards. Does this growth mean that stories of men worse and better than he get overlooked as an Arizona Cabernet finds a warm and cozy place in the heart of some critic? I think not. We aren't the wine equivlant of carpetbaggers re-writing the history of our region. For God's sake, Gernonimo and Cochise rode on the same lands that would become my vineyard, and an Earp brother was killed across the street from our tasting room (for real). We get to have our own identity, not try to be someone or somewhere else. It will be interesting to see what that identity develops into. I, for one, am throughly looking forward to seeing it.
Cheers!
