The ice wine is a big hit several weeks later, at an after-hours tasting in February, when Chris and I are joined by Michaela, Jay Leshinsky, head of the College’s organic garden, and Andy McCabe ’85, owner of Vergennes Wine. The whites, reds and roses are paired with local cheese, and for a while the discussion turns to Vermont terroir and the “local pour” movement. McCabe, erudite, smoky-voiced, and sporting a blazer with flannel and sneakers, steals the show. “At the end of the day,” he says, “terroir is all about rocks. How they acidify the soil, how they retain heat. In this loamy, fertile soil, you’re not going to have terroir in the traditional sense.” Clay may lend a hint of cinnamon, and limestone comes off as mandarin orange. But, McCabe says, without the stress of growing in rocky soil, Vermont wines will turn out exactly how you expect: clean and pure.

Chris mentions that two decades of strawberries occupied the soil before the vines went in, and wonders aloud if this gives the wine particular notes. Michaela suggests that if they really want to bring out the berry undertones they might water the soil with strawberry liquor.

We taste the three whites in which Chris has been tweaking sugar levels. McCabe leans back in the rolling office chair he’s been given and calls the dry version “a bit mean spirited.” “It’s like a Fauve painting, where the color goes outside the lines,” he says. He points to the sweeter white. “Whereas this is more contained; it’s happier.” He likens it to Renoir’s “Boating Party”—very marketable.

The ice wine arrives last. It comes in a dark, elegant bottle, half the traditional size, accompanied by a strong blue cheese. It’s one of the few remaining from Granstom’s first vintage. McCabe tastes it, and pauses philosophically. He says that the acidity in the grape drives the fruit out of complacency, and tells Granstom he could get twice the price he’s asking for it.

A visitor from Italy said the same thing a few weeks ago, Granstrom says. “He tried all the wines and said some nice things. And then he got to the ice wine. He said, ‘You hold onto that for a few years, and you’ll be a rich man.’” Perhaps like finding himself in the wine business at all, Granstrom seems a little bemused by the thought of imminent success. “Ice wine isn’t really where my heart is,” he says, with a trace of a sigh, “but it may be our niche. Winter comes early here.”

If the idea of a burgeoning Vermont wine industry seems unlikely, consider that in 1933 the state didn’t have any ski lifts, either. Jim Luby, at the University of Minnesota, said that while New England will never match the output of, say, Napa Valley, it will produce a different style of wine, and some of it will be very good. “California also grows carrots,” he mused, “so should Vermont not bother with carrots, either?” And local pour movements may mean that the environmentally conscious won’t have to choose between tee totaling and the size of their carbon footprint.

What’s more, Granstrom’s wine, still in its earliest vintages, isn’t just kitsch—it’s good. Even Andy McCabe, who sees a lot of wine, said his skepticism has been assuaged since Lincoln Peak rolled out its first wines last summer.

Kicking around the retail space one afternoon, warm light filling the windows and public radio murmuring away in the corner, Granstrom tells me that he doesn’t spend a lot of time being introspective but that so far everything is going well. When he says this he seems to be referring as much to his four decades as a farmer as he is to the vineyard.

And winemaking presents him with a new outlet for his curiosity. “One thing you have to realize,” he says, “is that we’re way out on the cutting edge.” He pauses, considering the idea. “And, you know, that’s not even the right metaphor. We’re, like, out on thin ice.” He seems to relish the thrill of arriving at middle age to find himself still toeing the ice’s edge. Spend enough time with him, though, and you get the distinct sense that even if he were bottling vinegar Chris Granstrom would be enjoying himself. He still gets to watch things grow everyday, still gets to work with his hands, still gets to play outside.

Kevin Charles Redmon ’10 is an editorial intern at The Atlantic magazine.

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