There isn’t another wine like this on the planet.
Not in the valley.
Not in the world.
1 of 1

A Honyocker is—let me tell you. It’s a word my grandma used to holler when we were being wild in the way that only kids with dirt under their nails and scraped-up elbows know how to be. Wrestling in the grass until someone cried uncle. Laughing during prayer in church and getting the stink eye. Doing burnouts in the driveway with bald tires and bad ideas. Black eyes, stolen hats, water balloon wars, and firecrackers in mailboxes. “Quit it, you little Honyockers!” she’d yell—not angry, just exasperated in the most loving way. And if she was laughing when she said it? You knew you were doing life right. You weren’t in trouble. You were seen.

I didn’t even know it wasn’t a real word until I was well into adulthood. And by that time, we’d already named a wine after it—so that settles that. It’s real now.

I come from a long line of Honyockers. People who didn’t follow rules because they were too busy making stories. My folks? They’d pile into a Jeep, ford a river, lob water balloons through open windows, and swear to the heavens that not a single beer was consumed. They weren’t outlaws. The laws just hadn’t caught up to their sense of humor yet. And me? I carried that torch into my teen years—eggs, fire extinguishers, BB guns, and nights where we came home with our shirts torn and our knees bleeding. My parents? They mostly laughed, said “You’re lucky that wasn’t worse,” and went back to bed. If no one went to jail, the night was a success.

That’s the spirit of this wine.

Because Honyocker 2022 was never supposed to exist. It’s a wine made out of the same logic we were raised on: If something good is out there, don’t let it go to waste. Don’t leave fruit on the vine just because you ran out of room. Figure it out. That’s how we ended up pressing a white grape and two reds together—Grenache Blanc, Syrah, and Mourvèdre—because the tanks were full and the harvest wasn’t over. It wasn’t by design. It was by necessity. And maybe that’s why it worked.

We didn’t blend this because we thought it would sell. We didn’t consult a spreadsheet or follow a trend. We did it because we had good fruit, good instincts, and a family name that doesn't believe in walking away. It was a problem. We solved it. Then we tasted it—and realized we’d made something better than any plan could’ve produced.

It doesn’t exist anywhere else.
Go ahead. Look.
A Grenache Blanc, Syrah, Mourvèdre blend? I’ll wait.

You can’t find it. Because no one else is dumb enough—or free enough—to try it. That’s what makes it great.

The label says everything you need to know. That’s my 1971 Pinzgauer on the front. A former military beast turned into a wine wagon and surfboard mule. It’s not some stylized product shot—it’s just a picture of a real day, hauling a real board, with real dust on the tires. A Saarloos plate bolted on the back. A Big Lar sticker right where it belongs. That image isn’t branding. It’s documentation. Proof that life happens off-road.

That’s not just a truck on the label. That’s a 1971 Pinzgauer—a Swiss military transport vehicle designed to haul troops through snow, mud, and God’s worst ideas. It wasn’t built for comfort. It was built to survive. Six wheels. Air-cooled. No frills. All grit. Ours has seen more vineyard rows than battlefields, more backroads than highways. And hanging out the rear? A twelve-foot longboard, sun-faded and salt-bitten, jammed in like it belongs there—because it does. There’s dust on the tires, old coffee in the cup holder, and probably a pair of busted sunglasses in the glovebox. A Big Lar sticker rides proudly on the tailgate, and a SARLOOS license plate is bolted on like a family crest.

This isn’t a lifestyle shot. It’s documentation. It’s evidence.

That Pinzgauer is a Honyocker.

It doesn’t belong in any one category. It’s not a beach car. It’s not a farm truck. It’s not a showpiece. It’s something in between. A wild mutt of a machine—born for battle, raised in vineyards, now moonlighting as a wine runner and memory hauler. It’s the kind of rig you drive when you don’t care what people think, but you do care that the work gets done—and the board makes it to the water before sunset.

And that’s exactly what this wine is too.

Honyocker 2022.
Built tough. Made by accident.
Refined by nothing but time and intention.
Too wild for a mold. Too good to forget.

And this wine? It tastes like that.
Bright. Dusty. Sharp in the right places. Easy where it matters.
Citrus blossom and early peach on the nose—like a roadside orchard after a long drive.
A little sagebrush, a little dry grass. Then Syrah shows up and brings a pocketknife and a grin. Red fruit, like raspberry and blood orange. Mourvèdre walks in behind them—slow and grounded—with something earthy and serious that keeps it all from floating away.

It’s not sweet. It’s not heavy.
It doesn’t punch. It leans in.
And it’s got that pep.
Not sparkle. Not shine.
Pep—like something’s about to happen.

This wine doesn’t shout. It hangs around.
Like that one friend who never says much but knows exactly when to throw in the line that everyone remembers.
It doesn’t rush. It rolls.
It tastes like a summer day that got out of hand in all the right ways.

We’ve made a lot of wine.
Beautiful wine.
Thoughtful, elegant, rule-following wine.

But this one? This one’s for the misfits.
The joyful delinquents.
The curtain climbers and rule benders.
The people who would rather live a good story than read one.

And that’s why Honyocker 2022 matters.
It’s not the wine we set out to make.
It’s the wine that showed up when we didn’t back down.
It’s proof that sometimes the best things happen when you run out of time, space, and reason—but you still have your name, your boots, and your gut.

So here’s to the wild ones.
To the troublemakers who never lost their hearts.
To the mistake that became a masterpiece.
To the wine that tastes like a memory.

Honyocker 2022.
Drink it.
Remember.
Tell the story.
And whatever you do—don’t apologize for having a little too much fun.

TASTING NOTES – HONYOCKER 2022
Grenache Blanc • Syrah • Mourvèdre
Windmill Ranch + El Camino Real
Santa Ynez Valley

The first thing you’ll notice isn’t the taste.
It’s the way the wine feels.
Like the screen door slamming shut behind you as you head out barefoot into summer.
It’s light, but not soft. Bright, but not thin.
It doesn’t knock—it strolls in, drops its bag on the floor, and says, “What’s for dinner?”

On the nose:
Citrus blossom and early peach skin.
Imagine a dusty lemon tree after a hot day, with a peach pit stuck in the screen door.
There’s wildflower honey in there too, but not sweet—real. Like bees made it in a shack behind your grandpa’s barn.
And way in the back? A whisper of white sage and something green and alive—like a tomato vine right after you water it.

On the tongue:
The Grenache Blanc leads with grace—a little chalk, a little sunlight.
Then Syrah shows up, bringing the red fruit swagger:
raspberry, pomegranate, even a little red rope licorice.
But not candy—just the memory of it, from when your hands were dirty and your heart was clean.
Then Mourvèdre slides in late, holding it all together like the older cousin who’s done this before.
Earthy, grounded, a little leathery—but still smiling.

The texture is the best part.
It dances.
It flickers across your tongue like the light of a campfire hitting a dusty pickup.
Not heavy. Not sharp. Just right.
There’s acid like a good comeback, tannin like a firm handshake,
and a finish that’s somehow both clean and mischievous—
like it might talk you into one more glass.

Pair it with:
A picnic that ran too long.
A sunset you didn’t plan for.
A memory you’re not ready to let go of.
Barbecue, tacos, cold fried chicken, salty conversation, and the kind of people you’d bail out of jail and invite to dinner.

Honyocker 2022.
It doesn’t beg for your attention.
It just earns it.
And if you let it, it might just become your new favorite mistake.