Five
The Quiet Work of Hybrids
By Frank A. FigueroaFive
By Frank A. Figueroa
Growing grapes here starts with an honest look at the weather. Humidity, fungal pressure, and the height of the ground decide what can hold from one season to the next. Some vines simply take these conditions better than others. French-American hybrids were bred for difficulties of this kind, and in this part of Georgia they have a real place in the vineyard.
They are not a lesser choice. Many of them resist the diseases that like a humid summer. They ripen more reliably when the season turns, and they can give clean fruit if they are farmed with care. That reliability matters. It lets a grower spend the year farming, rather than only fighting a vine that does not belong. Planting a hybrid is a matching of grape to place.
A few have proved themselves. Chambourcin is one of the more reliable reds. Kept to a sensible yield and handled carefully, it can give color, a moderate structure, and a clear sense of the site. It does not pretend to be another grape. Traminette, an aromatic white with Gewürztraminer in its parentage, often surprises people with its lift. Made dry, or only slightly off-dry, it shows floral and citrus notes that suit the cooler sites. Vidal Blanc, Seyval Blanc, and in some places Norton, turn up often enough to belong in the account.
The wider wine world still looks past them. Familiar European names are easier to recognize, and they carry an older prestige. A hybrid, even when it is well farmed and well made, stays in a quieter category. That is habit, and a market that has long valued certain names more than others. It is not a verdict on the glass.
The better hybrid wines here come from the same work that makes good wine anywhere. Site still matters. So does the canopy, for air and light. So do restrained yields, and the day of the pick. The variety is different. The standard of farming is not. A hybrid does not lower the skill it takes to grow the fruit and make the wine.
Hybrids are how some of these growers keep a vine on a slope the climate would otherwise refuse. The next note is the medals some of these wines have earned, and what those marks actually mean.
In this series
The work in these mountains is easy to miss if you pass through quickly. The season is short, the air is wet, and the better bottles keep a brightness the nights make possible.
The high country is larger than the appellation that carries its name. Neighboring sites share the same mountain character. They simply fall past a line drawn for a label.
In these mountains, elevation is not a side note. It is one of the things that makes the wine.
Every vineyard in this high country began with a decision to farm the slope as it is.
Most people who visit a tasting room here eventually notice the medals. A medal is a judgment of one bottle, on one day.
The high country does not hurry. Food, hospitality, and the pace of the day belong to it as much as the vines do.