Each time Laura pulls the cart up to a fan, she jumps out and opens the switch box. With a flashlight aimed at the control panel, she yanks a knob, disengaging the clutch, and flips what is called the “Murphy switch.” The fan blades growl into motion. When Laura reaches the last fan, she flips the Murphy switch, braces herself for the roar but hears only a click. She tries again. Click. Nothing. The switch is notoriously fickle. The temperature continues to fall.

Back at the house, she calls Dan, who lives down the road. He is the owner of Rogue Valley Equipment, an agricultural supply store, and is always willing to help, even at odd hours. As she looks nervously at the thermometer, she hopes he’ll have a solution.

A few minutes later, they drive out to the fan and Dan hops out of the cart and walks up to the control panel. Before opening up his toolbox, he disengages the fan’s clutch and tests the Murphy switch: a deafening roar.

The Murphy switch, Laura thinks to herself, as in “Murphy’s Law.” The fan’s blades whir into the morning air.

As they drive back through the vineyard at 4:30 a.m., frost forms in crystalline patches in the grass and covers the roof of the neighbor’s house in a thin white sheet. The spring buds go unharmed, but the risk of unseasonable frosts will remain until June—just another reality of growing grapes in the Rogue Valley.

If anything has tarnished the romance of grape growing for Kurt and Laura, it has been the unexpected events of the past two years. As air travel dwindled after September 11th, Kurt—like many other United Airlines pilots—was forced to take a fifty-percent pay cut. At the same time, their two boys are reaching college-age and need help with tuition. Suddenly, they no longer have the luxury of viewing the vineyard as part of a romantic lifestyle. It is crucial that the grapes bring in enough income to offset their expenses and maybe even enough to cover their retirement. But times have changed since they first moved to the valley. It has become increasingly difficult to sell their grapes—even to long-time buyers like Ted Gerber. One reason is increased competition; more people have crowded into the valley with their own vineyard dreams, turning the Rogue into the fastest growing vineyard region in Oregon. And, although Gerber is still loyal to his partnership with Kurt and Laura, he is cutting back on his wine production, particularly merlot. This will leave Kurt and Laura with seven tons of unsold grapes. Other, less established growers are looking at even larger losses. Romance has turned into worry.

This “grape glut” may be a first for the Rogue Valley, but it is nothing new to the industry. History shows overproduction to be part of a natural and inevitable cycle that has afflicted all wine regions. Rogue Valley growers are merely being initiated into the less romantic side of this ancient industry. What makes it hard to swallow is this peculiarity: Since 1991—around the time that Kurt and Laura planted their vineyard—Oregon’s statewide wine sales have shot up 331 percent. By all measures, the Oregon wine industry is booming.

North/South

In moments of self-pity, Ted Gerber calls the Rogue Valley the “fly over region” because it seems that so many wine writers bypass the area on their way to the Willamette Valley just to the north. If a notable critic would stop and write a favorable review of the region’s wines for a widely read publication, it could be a major break for the growers. Another key to success would be Old World recognition. Despite achievements of American winemakers in their own right, the measure of New World wine quality is still how it stands up to the products of Europe, France in particular. In this regard, Rogue Valley wine has no clout; it has never won an international contest, has never been mistaken for French wine in a blind tasting, and has never had a European investor.

Plagued by this obscurity, a jealous tension has begun to mount among Rogue growers as they watch the valley just to the north, the Willamette, bask in international attention. They feel over-shadowed by the Willamette’s widely publicized success story that began with a man named David Lett, whose vineyard has produced some of the best pinot noir in the world. Before Lett planted his vineyard in the Willamette in the 1970’s, it was believed that the pinot noir grape—called the “heartbreak grape” for its fickle, difficult-to-grow nature--could only be grown well on the misty steppes and benches of Burgundy. But, when Lett’s wine challenged the best of Burgundy’s pinots in the “Olympiades du Vin Mondiale,” one of the most prestigious international contests, the wine world turned its collective head toward the rainy Willamette Valley.