Leaping Seconds

Portland's in the rear view mirror and the Willamette Valley was in our sights.

You can't very well be a wine lover and come to Oregon without heading to the Willamette, dammit. Nor can you go to an 11 a.m. winery tour without breakfast in your belly.

Fortunately, we spotted the Babica Hen Cafe in Dundee promising local, passionate and from scratch, all pretty much standard in this state. Yeast waffles were as light as advertised but it was the blueberry jam (and butter, lots of butter) that made the waffle. Okay and the thick-cut local bacon.

We were greeted at Domaine Serene by a knowledgeable man whose first question was music to my ears: "Breakfast Rose?" Don't mind if I do sip a lovely Rose of Pinot Noir while you talk about tanks and stamp collections (his, not mine).

Carrying water while we sipped wine, he toured us through the high-priced set-up which included five stories of tank rooms, bottling facilities, production rooms and a separate "mad scientists" office where top secret tasting and blending decisions were made.

My girl parts were gratified to hear that some of the mad scientists were of the female persuasion.

Our guide took particular delight in getting me to identify and say "bung hole" once we arrived in a barrel room, admitting that he usually picks on a mild-mannered woman in a tour group (we were two, so he was limited to me) and has her say it for the pleasure of hearing her say something she doesn't intend to.

Bung hole, bung hole, there I said it repeatedly.

Wines aside, the highlights were the life sized sculpture of a woolly mammoth and discovering a tiny bird resting on the floor of a porch in the sun. He not only allowed me to walk around him but photograph him repeatedly.

But I can't really say winery (or wines) aside because this place was incredible with various ages of vineyards surrounding the family estate and tasting room, all with extensive gardens everywhere.

I'll give Oregon that, they're no slackers in the garden department. Roses, lilies, true geraniums, balloon flowers and daisies seem to be in every plantable plot.

Ditto Sokol Blosser, with its rough hewn pine tasting room and porches spanning both sides. After tasting through their offerings, we bought glasses of "Evolution" Sparkling and took them to a shady porch to sip while marveling at the vista of vineyards and solar collectors, mountains in the background.

Our lunch destination had come by way of a suggestion from the woman who'd tasted us through at Clear Creek Distillery, who'd insisted we stop at Red Hills Market, a pizza/sandwich joint, beer/wine shop and specialty market.

We got there after 2, but so did lots of other wine tourists, including the adorable older guy in front of me in line who made a strong case for trying the chocolate-covered macaroons.  First there was a sandwich of Italian salami, arugula and Provolone on a crusty roll with a Crater Lake root beer, enjoyed while taking in the hustle and bustle of the hip little store and its non-stop parade of all ages of hungry people.

The amusing guy who'd toured us through the first winery had boasted of once making it to 12 wineries in one day, a personal best. Yes, he admitted that it had been necessary to have his girlfriend collect him at the end of the day, but, still. Twelve?

Our goal was three, the final one being Argyle, known for their bubbles and, at least according to staff and the letters on the wall, a popular choice at White House dinners for some years now.

One of us chose the bubbles tasting (hello, have you met me?) and the other the Pinot Noir tasting, making for quite the contrast as we tasted the offerings of both. The tasting room was small and quaint and looked all but closed behind a construction fence because the new and improved tasting room out back is about to open in a month.

So we'll always have Argyle version 1.0 as a fond memory.

A short drive put us in McMinville where the quirky Hotel Oregon welcomed us with music show posters framed on the walls, named rooms (we're in 418, the Wine Pioneers room, meaning four sketches of of pioneering Oregon winemakers drawn on the wall along with quotes from them on another) and a rooftop bar.

After dinner at a local Mexican joint with highly dramatic Mexican music playing, we climbed five flights to the roof only to find three levels of decking and a superb view of the sun going down behind the mountains.

Impressive as a good West coast sunset is, the absolute coolest part for this east coast girl is the amount of daylight. Even at 10 p.m., the sky is still a medium blue and stars are just showing themselves.

Tonight was the big night where Jupiter and Venus were converging, so we admired that, eventually learning from a nearby guest that it was Regulus hovering just above the bright convergence of the two planets.

We'd quasi-met the man with the superior astronomy app when he'd first shown up because I'd been struck by the Washington Redskins jersey he'd been wearing. In Oregon. Forgetting societal niceties, I'd unabashedly asked him where he was from when I'd seen that shirt.

Answer: Grandpa had grown up in D.C. and this guy had spent two years in North Carolina. Ah, that explains that.

The rooftop proved to be a lovely place to sip tequila and admire the night sky and the bar's kitschy outdoor light fixtures, all of which seemed to pay homage to the Jetsons. That's not as surprising at it seems because McMinnville hosts an annual UFO Festival every year.

I know this because not only does the hotel boast old posters about it, but we also saw a "No parking" sign from the UFO festival laying on the ground,  a testament to the concessions made for Martians and the like.

Tonight, fireworks went off a few blocks away as we sipped on the deck, a reminder that June is all but gone and July just over one of the mountains.

No humidity, such late daylight and today's Leap Second. I like the Willamette, dammit.