he forklift speeds a huge plastic tote to the crusher, twirls the five-by-five-by-five-foot tote like a toy, and dumps the finest Merlot grapes into the gleaming stainless steel maw of the crushing machine. Whirring gears separate the stems from the grapes, which bounce down the sorting table.

 

Now it's up to me and seven others to remove any stray stems, or "jacks"; underripe berries; insects; rocks; or other impurities that could mar the rich taste and elegant fragrance of Betz Family Winery's blends. I rivet my attention on the grapes gliding past on the sorting belt on their way to the crusher, not wanting to let anything contaminate the wine. My fingers fly through the fruit, trying to keep up.

 

It's my first day volunteering at Betz, located in Woodinville, a forty-five-minute drive from downtown Seattle. As a wine writer, I've finagled my way onto the volunteer list at Betz, a list so exclusive it's rumored someone has to die before a slot opens. I find in casual conversation the others are anything but contract laborers; they run restaurants, luxury hotels, IT departments for IBM and Microsoft. They've carved time out of their busy schedules to learn about wine from the legendary Bob Betz, one of a handful of Masters of Wine in the United States. Bob takes an occasional break from the million other things he's doing to sort grapes and answer questions.

 

It's a sunny October morning with temperatures in the mid-seventies. The weather is warm but not hot, perfect for wine making. I wear shorts, hiking boots, and a blue Italia T-shirt, hoping Bob will appreciate the international flare and functionality of my wardrobe. Bob doesn't seem to notice. He is everywhere at once, helping with the sorting, answering the phone, greeting people who drive up, explaining procedures to the workers.

 

The winery buzzes with activity this morning. Forklifts whisk totes back and forth across the concrete driveway. Workers bustle back and forth, washing bins, measuring sulfur, inoculating already crushed and sorted grapes with yeast. Everyone seems to have a spring in their step as they go about doing their work.

 

Crush is an exciting, exhausting time when winemakers rush to process all of their fruit during a short window. Normally, it's a six-week window at Betz. This year, because of the cool spring and hot summer, the window has narrowed to four weeks. Production is frenetic but not frenzied or chaotic, because Bob is at the helm. An energetic man in his sixties, he projects confidence and competence. As a Master of Wine, he's a walking, talking encyclopedia of the subject, but he never comes across as condescending; he reveals his knowledge in the careful, exacting treatment of the fruit at every stage of the process. This is precisely what I'm hoping to learn from him. He oversees the harvest not as a tyrannical boss but as an enthusiastic detail freak, getting everyone caught up in the excitement of the crush.

 

Today he's always in motion, a blur in a work shirt, black pile vest, jeans, and hiking shoes. Though his hair and beard are gray, his brown eyes radiate energy. He seems as excited as the fruit flies buzzing around him.

 

Though he doesn't mention it, a lot of pressure is on him to bring in the fruit correctly and to treat it with utmost care. His business depends on getting things right every year; hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake. He doesn't have a huge corporation backing him; he is always walking a financial tight rope. So beneath the calm exterior, Bob possesses a steely resolve. So much of wine making boils down to one's knowledge, care, and appetite for plain hard work. Bob has all this in abundance.

 

When I ask too many questions, he erupts, "I can't talk right now!" And he runs off. A few minutes later, he returns and answers, despite the pressures of the crush. I don't want to be a pest, but I'm dying to learn more about his approach to wine making.

 

His winery is located on a hill above the green fields of Woodinville, the unofficial capital of the Washington wine industry. Betz sources his grapes from eastern Washington and trucks them in for processing. The winery is small by Woodinville standards, putting out 3,400 cases of wine a year. Just down the road his former employer, Château Ste. Michelle, produces 3.3 million cases of wine a year. What Betz lacks in quantity it makes up for in quality, consistently scoring among the top wineries in the world.

 

Most important, it produces a beautifully balanced wine with great fruit and lively acidity, more Old-World than New World in its style, which is exactly the signature I'm looking for in my own wine making. Traveling regularly to Europe, I've come to appreciate the balance and subtlety of Continental wines that are made to pair with meals rather than to earn monster scores from wine critics. I have no illusions about competing with Betz in wine making, but I'm hoping to pick up some of his secrets. It would be hard to find a better mentor anywhere.

 

Unlike the large neoclassical buildings and manicured lawns that surround Château Ste. Michelle, Betz Family Winery is intimate. The brown stucco entranceway frames huge carved wooden doors, reminiscent of those in Tuscany, giving the place a feel of warmth and personality, just like its wines. Yet when I step inside, it's all business: cement floors, steel fermenting tanks, white-washed walls, and plastic bins full of fermenting wine. When a worker bustles by carrying a beaker, I press against the wall to get out of the way. Everyone seems on task today.

 

Bob takes a break to give me the safety lecture (translated: "Stay out of the way; don't get injured") and leads me over to a bin of Merlot. "Good acidity and nice bright flavors," he says. "We like the seeds to be brown and the pulp surrounding them to easily slip away—signs of ripened fruit. There are all kinds of things we're looking for."

 

I listen carefully, trying to pick up everything I can. Bob leads me over to the sorting line, where we start the culling.

 

Ken, a muscular volunteer in khaki pants, rubber boots, and bare chest, pushes a big red button, and the sorter hums to life. Bob steps up to the sorter and explains how to cull the underripe or overripe berries, leaves, stems, stink bugs—anything that would mar the purity of the fruit. He picks through the grapes, his hands working quickly.

 

"This fruit is very clean," he says. "There are very few leaves." His hands shuttle back and forth across the sorting table as if they have minds of their own. I can tell he's been an educator as his explanations are lucid, pointed, and colorful. "Wine making is about pleasure," he says. "That's my philosophy."

 

I want to ask him what he means by that, but he dashes off to another task. Save that question for another day. The belt passes in front of us. Everyone seems to know what they"re doing except me. I'm the rookie, the newbie. I hang back, watching what everyone else is doing before I jump in. Even though I know a lot about wine, I have a lot to learn about Betz's process.

 

 

Nicholas O'Connell, M.F.A, Ph.D., is the author of Crush: My Year as an Apprentice Winemaker (Potomac Books, 2025), The Storms of Denali (University of Alaska Press, 2012), On Sacred Ground: The Spirit of Place in Pacific Northwest Literature (U.W. Press, 2003), At the Field's End: Interviews with 22 Pacific Northwest Writers (U.W. Press, 1998), Contemporary Ecofiction (Charles Scribner's, 1996) and Beyond Risk: Conversations with Climbers (Mountaineers, 1993). He contributes to Newsweek, Gourmet, Saveur, Outside, GO, National Geographic Adventure, Condé Nast Traveler, Food & Wine, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Sierra, The Wine Spectator, Commonweal, Image, Rock + Ice and many other places. He is the publisher/editor of The Writer's Workshop Review and the founder of the creative writing program ( http://www.thewritersworkshop.net).