Jerome, Arizona — Where My Perspective Shifted

I had been looking forward to exploring wines in the Verde Valley—but it didn’t take long for that excitement to shift. Within the first tasting, I realized what I thought I understood didn’t quite line up with what was in front of me. I had gone in assuming the wines I’d be tasting in the Verde Valley were grown there. Our first stop was Cabal Cellars in Jerome, where I quickly learned their grapes actually come from the Willcox AVA—where most of Arizona’s wine grapes are grown. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Part of me was impressed. Another part of me felt slightly off.

An Experience Worth Remembering

That evening, we had dinner reservations at the Asylum Restaurant inside the Jerome Grand Hotel. The weather was perfect, so we sat outside on the patio as everything around us started to slow down. Jerome has a way of doing that—quieting everything just enough for you to notice it. I ordered the bacon-wrapped filet. My husband had the lamb. It wasn’t the kind of meal you rush through. Not because you’re trying to savor it—but because it doesn’t let you. Everything about it felt deliberate.

The texture, the temperature, the way the flavors settled in and stayed there just a little longer than expected. The wine list fit right into it—local selections that made sense with what was on the plate. Nothing felt forced. It all came together in a way that didn’t need to be explained. This was the kind of experience that stays with you without asking for it.

A Sudden Shift in Reality

Later that evening, we settled into our Airbnb. Music played softly in the background as we started our hydration phase, preparing for a full day of tasting ahead. I found an old photo album in the living room—one that documented the history of the house—and got completely pulled into it. I started matching the photos to marks on the walls, like I had stumbled into a quiet little scavenger hunt. We were having a good time, and then something shifted. Not gradually. Not subtly. One moment I was fully there—present, aware, completely in it.

The next… I wasn’t.

I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t dreaming.

I just wasn’t there in the same way anymore. I still can’t explain it. Some people might call it something paranormal. Others might say it was some kind of dreamlike state. I don’t really subscribe to any of these.

The only way I can describe it is this—it felt like going from full consciousness straight into REM sleep… without ever actually falling asleep.

The Longest Night

Not long after, my husband went to bed. I stayed behind in the living room, completely awake in my own skin, unable to shut it off. Eventually, I made my way to bed—but sleep never came. I just laid there.

Watching the hours pass. Watching the sun come up. By morning, I hadn’t slept at all. The smell of coffee filled the air, and the day started whether I was ready for it or not. We had a full schedule ahead of us, and I had no idea how I was going to get through it on zero sleep. At that point, I wasn’t trying to figure it out anymore. I was just trying to move forward.

Wine Tasting — Without a Sense of Taste

Our first tasting that day was at a place people had been raving about. I was genuinely looking forward to it.

We ordered a flight and a cheese board, and almost immediately, something felt off. Although we were sitting at the same table, it felt like we were having two completely different experiences. “Why is it so bland?” I asked. “Bland is definitely not the word I would use,” he said. That’s when it hit me.

Nothing was registering. No aroma. No flavor. No structure. Every sip felt like water. I had completely botched my own tasting, all because of sleep deprivation.

Losing My Confidence

By the end of the second day, I felt completely off. We weren’t aligned in our tastings, and I found myself leaning more on his reactions than my own. It didn’t sit right. I had notes, observations, things I had written down—but none of it felt grounded without my own sense of smell to back it up. It started to shake my confidence more than I expected. Not just in that moment, but in how I approached everything. I wasn’t sure what I could trust anymore, and that made it hard to move forward the way I normally would.

Trying to Recreate What I Couldn’t Feel

I left the Verde Valley feeling like I couldn’t fully trust what I had experienced. So I leaned into what I did have—my notes, my documentation, and a level of trust in his palate. I thought maybe I could recreate the region through scent, building something from memory instead of direct experience.

I also went back to the bottles we had brought home, hoping I could find something there that I had missed. But trying to use a few bottles to define an entire region didn’t feel right either. It gave me pieces—but not the full picture.

I started working with essential oils, trying to piece it together based on what I had written down and what he had described. It came out decent, but it still wasn’t right. It didn’t feel grounded in anything real. In the end, I shifted direction. I created something different—a red wine-based fragrance layered with white sage, inspired more by the experience than the wine itself. We named it after one of the prominent spirits of the Jerome Grand Hotel.

How I Approach Wine Adventures

Working in the wine industry, I’ve noticed a lot of people try to visit as many wineries as possible in a single trip. I understand the appeal, but I’ve never approached it that way. I have a sensitive—and admittedly picky—palate, and my descriptions rarely come out technical. They tend to land more like memories. You’re far more likely to hear me say something like, “Uncle Joe’s house, 1988—smells like his garage on euchre night,” than anything about leather or tobacco.

Because of that, I approach wine tasting a little differently:

• I research wineries ahead of time and focus on varietals I’ve never tried—or ones I don’t typically go for

• I limit tastings to two locations per day

• I build in time for food, water, and a reset

• I always bring snacks and plenty of water

• I stay close to my final destination, preferably within walking distance

  
  

Wine isn’t something I rush. It’s something I move through.

Where Everything Changed

The wines of Willcox pulled me in deeper than I expected. I started volunteering during harvest season, and it felt like I had stepped into something I had been circling for a while without fully realizing it. I was tasting grapes straight off the vine, sampling fresh juice from different varietals, and seeing the process up close for the first time. It wasn’t just something I was observing anymore—I was in it. There was something about that shift that stayed with me. It felt natural. Familiar, even. For the first time, I started to recognize what I had been trying to understand. It wasn’t just in the glass. It was in the vines.

A Different Kind of Study

I was eventually offered a position as a tasting room manager in Willcox, where I spent several years surrounded by the vines every day. It was one of the most formative periods of my life—not because of what I was taught, but because of what I started to notice on my own.

At first, I thought I was chasing the same things everyone talks about—aroma, flavor, technique. But the more time I spent in it, the more I realized there was something else there. Something quieter, but consistent. Something I couldn’t explain, but couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just the grapes. It wasn’t just the wine, and it wasn’t anything I had been taught. It was something I had to learn by being in it—paying attention to what most people move past.

Once I noticed it, I couldn’t unsee it.

Everything started to make sense, but it left me with even more questions...